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No writer of the age was more the theme of
panegyric by his friends, and of censure by his
enemies, than Coleridge. It has been the custom of
the former to injure him by extravagant praise, and
of the latter to pour upon his head much unmerited
abuse. Coleridge has left so much undone which
his talents and genius would have enabled him to
effect, and has done on the whole so little, that he
has given his foes apparent foundation for some
of their vituperation. His natural character, how-
ever, was indolent; he was far more ambitious
of excelling in conversation, and of pouring out
his wild philosophical theories — of discoursing
about

Fix'd fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute —

the mysteries of Kant, and the dreams of meta-
physical vanity, than " in building the lofty
rhyme." His poems, however, which have been
recently collected, form several volumes ; — and the
beauty of some of his pieces so amply redeems
the extravagance of others, that there can be but
one regret respecting him, namely, that he should
have preferred the shortlived perishing applause
bestowed upon his conversation, to the lasting
renown attending successful poetical efforts. Not
but that Coleridge may lay claim to the praise due
to a successful worship of the muses ; for as long
as the English language endures, his " Genevieve"
and " Ancient Mariner" will be read : but he has
been content to do far less than his abilities clearly
demonstrate him able to effect.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge was born at Ottery
Saint Mary, a town of Devonshire, in 1773. His
father, the Rev. John Coleridge, was vicar there,
having been previously a schoolmaster at South
Molton. He is said to have been a person of con-
siderable learning, and to have published several
essays in fugitive publications. He assisted Dr.
Kennicot in collating his manuscripts for a
Hebrew bible, and, among other things, wrote
a dissertation on the " Aoyoj." He was also
the author of an excellent Latin grammar. He
died in 1782, at the age of sixty-two, much
regretted, leaving a considerable family, of
which nearly all the members are since de-
ceased.

Coleridge was educated at Christ's Hospital-
school, London. The smallness of his father's
living and large family rendered the strictest
economy necessary. At this excellent seminary
he was soon discovered to be a boy of talent, ec-
centric but acute. According to his own state-
ment, the master, the Rev. J. Eowycr, was a severe

disciplinarian after the inane practice of Englisn
grammar-school modes, but was fond of encour-
aging genius, even in the lads he flagellated most
unmercifully. He taught with assiduity, and di-
rected the taste of youth to the beauties of the
better classical authors, and to comparisons of one
with another. " He habituated me," says Cole
ridge, " to compare Lucretius, Terence, and above
all the chaste poems of Catullus, not only with the
Roman poets of the so called silver and brazen
ages, but with even those of the Augustan era;
and, on grounds of plain sense and universal logic,
to see and assert the superiority of the former, in
the truth and nativeness both of their thoughts and
diction. At the same time that we were studying
the Greek tragic poets, he made us read Shak-
speare and Milton as lessons ; and they were the
lessons too which required most time and trouble
to bring up, so as to escape his censure. I learned
from him that poetry, even that of the loftiest, and
seemingly that of the wildest odes, had a logic of
its own, as severe as that of science, and more
difficult; because more subtle and complex, and
dependent on more and more fugitive causes. In
our English compositions (at least for the last
three years of our school education) he showed no
mercy to phrase, image, or metaphor, unsupported
by a sound sense, or where the same sense might
have been conveyed with equal force and dignity
in plainer words. Lute, harp, and lyre, muse
muses, and inspirations — Pegasus, Parnassus and
Hippocrene, were all an abomination to him. In
fancy, I can almost hear him now exclaiming —
4 Harp ! harp ! lyre ! pen and ink, boy, you mean '
muse, boy, muse ! your nurse's daughter, you
mean ! Pierian spring ! O ay ! the cloister pump,
I suppose.' " In his " Literary Life," Coleridge
has gone into the conduct of his master at great
length ; and, compared to the majority of peda
gogues who ruled in grammar-schools at that time,
he seems to have been a singular and most honor-
able exception among them. He sent his pupils to
the university excellent Greek and Latin scholars,
with some knowledge of Hebrew, and a consider-
able insight into the construction and beauties of
their vernacular language and its most distin-
guished writers — a rare addition to their classical
acquirements in such foundations.

It was owing to a present made to Coleridge of
Bowles' sonnets by a school-fellow (the late Dr
Middleton) while a boy of 17, that he was drawn
away from theological controversy and wild meta-
physics to the charms of poetry. He transcribed
these sonnets no less than forty times in eighteen

5

VI

MEMOIR OF SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

I

months, in order to make presents of them to his
friends ; and about the same period he wrote his
Ode to Chatterton. "Nothing else," he says,
" pleased me ; history and particular facts lost all
interest in my mind." Poetry had become in-
sipid ; all his ideas were directed to his favorite
theological subjects and mysticisms, until Bowles*
sonnets, and an acquaintance with a very agreeable
family, recalled him to more pleasant paths, com-
bined with perhaps far more of rational pursuits.

When eighteen years of age, Coleridge removed
to Jesus College, Cambridge. It does not appear
that he obtained or even struggled for academic
honors. From excess of animal spirits, he was
rather a noisy youth, whose general conduct was
better than that of many of his fellow-collegians,
• and as good as most : his follies were more remark-
able only as being those of a more remarkable
personage ; and if he could be accused of a vice, it
must be sought for in the little attention he was
inclined to pay to the dictates of sobriety. It is
known that he assisted a friend in composing an
essay on English poetry while at that University ;
that he was not unmindful of the muses himself
while there ; and that he regretted the loss of the
leisure and quiet he had found within its precincts.

In the month of November, 1793, while laboring
under a paroxysm of despair, brought on by the
combined effects of pecuniary difficulties and love
of a young lady, sister of a school-fellow, he set
off for London with a party of collegians, and
passed a short time there in joyous conviviality.
On his return to Cambridge, he remained but a
few days, and then abandoned it for ever. He
again directed his steps towards the metropolis,
and there, after indulging somewhat freely in the
pleasures of the bottle, and wandering about the
various streets and squares in a state of mind
nearly approaching to frenzy, he finished by enlist-
ing in the 15th dragoons, under the name of Clum-
berbacht. Here he continued some time, the
wonder of his comrades, and a subject of mystery
' and curiosity to his officers. While engaged in
watching a sick comrade, which he did night and
day, he is said to have got involved in a dispute
with the regimental surgeon ; but the disciple of
Esculapius had no chance with the follower of
the muses ; he was astounded and put to flight by
the profound erudition and astonishing eloquence
of his antagonist. His friends at length found
him out, and procured his discharge.

In 1794, Coleridge published a small volume of
poems, which were much praised by the critics of
the time, though it appears they abounded in ob-
scurities and epithets too common with young
writers. He also published, in the same year,
while residing at Bristol, " The Fall of Robes-
pierre, an Historic Drama," which displayed con-
siderable talent. It was written in conjunction
with Southey ; and what is remarkable in this

composition is, that they began it at 7 o'clock one
evening, finished it the next day by 12 o'clock
noon, and the day after, it was printed and pub-
lished. The language is vigorous, and the speeches
are well put together and correctly versified. —
Coleridge also, in the winter of that year, delivered
a course of lectures on the French revolution, at
Bristol.

On leaving the University, Coleridge was fu.
of enthusiasm in the cause of freedom, and occu
pied with the idea of the regeneration of mankind
He found ardent coadjutors in the same enthusi
astic undertaking in Robert Lovell and Robeij
Southey, the present courtly laureate. This youth
ful triumvirate proposed schemes for regenerating
the world, even before their educations were com-
pleted ; and dreamed of happy lives in aboriginal
forests, republics on the Mississippi, and a newly,
dreamed philanthropy. In order to carry their
ideas into effect they began operations at Bristol,
and were received with considerable applause by
several inhabitants of that commercial city, which,
however remarkable for traffic, has been frequently
styled the Boeotia of the west of England. Here
in 1795, Coleridge published two pamphlets, one
called " Consciones ad Populum, or addresses to
the people ;" the other, " A protest against certain
bills (then pending) for suppressing seditious
meetings."

The charm of the political regeneration of na
tions, though thus warped for a moment, was not
broken. Coleridge, Lovell and Southey, finding
the old world would not be reformed after theix
mode, determined to try and found a new one, h\
which all was to be liberty and happiness. The
deep woods of America were to be the site of this
new golden region. There all the evils of Eu-
ropean society were to be remedied, property was
to be in common, and every man a legislator. The
name of " Pantisocracy" was bestowed upon the
favored scheme, while yet it existed only in imagi-
nation. Unborn ages of human happiness present-
ed themselves before the triad of philosophical
founders of Utopian empires, while they were
dreaming of human perfectibility: — a harmless
dream at least, and an aspiration after better things
than life's realities, which is the best that can be
said for it. In the midst of these plans of vast
import, the three philosophers fell in love with
three sisters of Bristol, named Fricker (one of
them, afterwards Mrs. Lovell, an actress of the
Bristol theatre, another a mantua-maker, and the
third kept a day-school), and all their visions of
immortal freedom faded into thin air. They mar
ried, and occupied themselves with the increase
of the corrupt race of the old world, instead of
peopling the new. Thus, unhappily for America
and mankind, failed the scheme of the Pantisoc-
racy, on which at one time so much of human
happiness and political regeneration was ov its

6

JUN 5 1*0/

MEMOIR OF SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

vn

founders believed to depend. None have revived
the phantasy since ; but Coleridge has lived to
sober down his early extravagant views of political
freedom into something like a disavowal of having
held them ; but he has never changed into a foe
of the generous principles of human freedom,
which he ever espoused; while Southey has be-
come the enemy of political and religious freedom,
the supporter and advocate of arbitrary measures
m church and state, and the vituperator of all who
support the recorded principles of his early years.

About this time, and with the same object,
namely, to spread the principles of true liberty,
Coleridge began a weekly paper called " The
Watchman," which only reached its ninth num-
ber, though the editor set out on his travels to pro-
cure subscribers among the friends of the doc-
trines he espoused, and visited Birmingham,
Manchester, Derby, Nottingham, and Sheffield,
for the purpose. The failure of this paper was a
severe mortification to the projector. No ground
was gained on the score of liberty, though about
the same time his self-love was flattered by the
success of a volume of poems, which he repub-
lished, with some communications from his friends
Lamb and Lloyd.

Coleridge married Miss Sarah Fricker in the
autumn of 1795, and in the following year his
eldest son, Hartley, was born. Two more sons,
Berkley and Derwent, were the fruits of this union.
In 1797, he resided at Nether Stowey, a village
near Bridgewater, in Somersetshire, and wrote
there in the spring, at the desire of Sheridan, a
tragedy, which was, in 1813, brought out under
the title of " Remorse :" the name it originally
bore was Osorio. There were some circumstances
in this business that led to a suspicion of Sheridan's
not having acted with any great regard to truth
or feeling. During his residence here, Coleridge
was in the habit of preaching every Sunday at the
Unitarian Chapel in Taunton, and was greatly
respected by the better class of his neighbors. He
enjoyed the friendship of Wordsworth, who lived
at Ailfoxden, about two miles from Stowey, and
was occasionally visited by Charles Lamb, John
Thelwall, and other congenial spirits. "The
Brook," a poem that he planned about this period,
was never completed.

Coleridge had married before he possessed the
means of supporting a family, and he depended
principally for subsistence, at Stowey, upon his
literary labors, the remuneration for which could
be but scanty. At length, in 1798, the kind patron-
age of the late Thomas Wedgwood, Esq., who
granted him a pension of 100Z. a-year, enabled
him to plan a visit to Germany ; to which country
he proceeded with Wordsworth, and studied the
language at Ratzeburg, and then went to Gottin-
gen. He there attended the lectures of Blurnen-

bach on natural history and physiology, and the
lectures of Eichhorn on the New Testament ; and
from professor Tychven he learned the Gothic
grammar. He read the Minnesinger and the
verses of Hans Sachs, the Nuremberg cobbler, but
his time was principally devoted to literature ana
philosophy. At the end of his " Biographia Liter
aria," Coleridge has published some letters, which
relate to his sojourn in Germany. He sailed, Sep-
tember 16th, 1798, and on the 19th landed at Ham-
burgh. It was on the 20th of the same month
that he says he was introduced to the brother of
the great poet Klopstock, to professor Ebeling,
and ultimately to the poet himself. He had an
impression of awe on his spirits when he set out
to visit the German Milton, whose humble house
stood about a quarter of a mile from the city gate.
He was much disappointed in the countenance of
Klopstock, which was inexpressive, and without
peculiarity in any of the features. Klopstock was
lively and courteous; talked of Milton and Glover,
and preferred the verse of the latter to the ormer,
— a very curious mistake, but natural enough in a
foreigner. He spoke with indignation o* the Eng-
lish translations of his Messiah. He said his first
ode was fifty years older than his last, and hoped
Coleridge would revenge him on Englishmen by
translating his Messiah.

On his return from Germany, Coleridge went to
reside at Keswick, in Cumberland. He had made
a great addition to his stock of knowledge, and he
seems to have spared no pains to store up what
was either useful or speculative. He had become
master of most of the early German writers, or
rather of the state of early German literature. He
dived deeply into the mystical stream of Teutonic
philosophy. There the predilections of his earlier
years no doubt came upon him in aid of his
researches into a labyrinth which no human clue
will ever unravel ; or which . were one found ca-
pable of so doing, would reveal a mighty nothing.
Long, he says, while meditating in England, had
his heart been with Paul and John, and his head
with Spinoza. He then became convinced of the
doctrine of St. Paul, and from an anti trinitarian
became a believer in the Trinity, and in Chris-
tianity as commonly received ; or, to use his own
word, found a " re-conversion." Yet, for all his
arguments on the subject, he had better have
retained his early creed, and saved the time wasted
in travelling back to exactly the same point where
he set out, for he finds that faith necessary at last
which he had been taught, in his church, was
necessary at his first outset in li'fc. His arguments,
pro and con, not being of use to any of the com
munity, and the exclusive property of their owner,
he had ordy to look back upon his laborious trifling,
as Grotius did upon his own toils, when death was
upon him. Metaphysics are most unprofitable

V1K

MEMOIR OF SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

Jiings , as political economists say, their labors
are of the most ;' unproductive class" in the com-
munity of thinkers.

The next step of our poet in a life which seems
to have had no settled object, but to have been
steered compassless along, was to undertake the
political and literary departments of the Morning
Post newspaper, and in the duties of this situation
he was engaged in the spring of 1802. No man
was less fitted for a popular writer ; and, in com-
mon with his early connexions, Coleridge seems
to have had no fixed political principles that the
public could understand, though he perhaps was
able to reconcile in his own bosom all that others
might imagine contradictory, and no doubt he did
so conscientiously. His style and manner of
writing, the learning and depth of his disquisitions
for ever came into play, and rendered him unin-
telligible, or, what is equally fatal, unreadable to
the mass. It was singular, too, that he disclosed
in his biography so strongly his unsettled political
principles, which showed that he had not studied
politics as he had studied poetry, Kant, and the-
ology The public of each party looks upon a
political writer as a sort of champion round whom
it rallies, and feels it impossible to follow the
changeable leader, or applaud the addresses of him
who is inconsistent or wavering in principles : it
will not back out any but the firm unflinching
partisan. In truth, what an ill compliment do
men pay to their own judgment, when they run
counter to, and shift about from points they have
declared in indelible ink are founded on truth and
reason irrefutable and eternal ! They must either
have been superficial smatterers in what they first
promulgated, and have appeared prematurely in
print, or they must be tinctured with something
like the hue of uncrimsoned apostasy. The mem-
bers of what is called the "Lake School" have
been more or less strongly marked with this re-
Drehensible change of political creed, but Coleridge
the least of them. In truth he got nothing by any
change he ventured upon, and, what is more, he
expected nothing ; the wrorld is therefore bound to
say of him what cannot be said of his friends, if it
be true, that it believes most cordially in his sin-
cerity— and that his obliquity in politics was
caused by his superficial knowledge of them, and
nis devotion of his high mental powers to different
questions. Notwithstanding this, those who will
not make a candid allowance for him, have ex-
pressed wonder how the author of the " Consciones
ad Populum," and the " Watchman," the friend
of freedom, and one of the founders of the Pantis-
ocracy, could afterwards regard the drivelling and
chicanery of the pettifogging minister, Perceval,
its glorious in British political history, and he
nimself is the " best and wisest" of ministers !
Although Coleridge avowed his belief that he
was not calculated for a popular writer, he en-

deavored to show that his own writings in tha
Morning Post were greatly influential on the pub-
lic mind. Coleridge himself confessed that h»«
Morning Post essays, though written in defence
or furtherance of the measures of the government,
added nothing to his fortune or reputation. How
should they have been effective, when their writer,
who not long before addressed the people, and
echoed from his compositions the principles of free,
dom and the rights of the people, now wrote with
scorn of " mob-sycophants," and of the " half-wit-
ted vulgar?" It is a consolation to know that our
author himself lamented the waste of his manhood
and intellect in this way. What might he not
have given to the world that is enduring and ad-
mirable, in the room of these misplaced political
lucubrations ! Who that has read his better works
will not subscribe to this truth ?

His translation of Schiller's Wallenstein may be
denominated a free one, and is finely executed
It is impossible to give in the English language a
more effective idea of the work of the great Ger-
man dramatist. This version was made from a
copy which the author himself afterwards revised
and altered, and the translator subsequently re-
published his version in a more correct form, with
the additional passages and alterations of Schiller.
This translation will long remain as the mort
effective which has been achieved of the works
of the German dramatists in the British tongue.

The censure which has been cast upon our poet
for not writing more which is worthy of his repu-
tation, has been met by his enumeration of what
he has done in all ways and times ; and, in
truth, he wrote a vast deal which passed un-
noticed, upon fleeting politics, and in newspaper
columns, literary as well as political. To the
world these last go for nothing, though the author
calculated the thought and labor they cost him at
full value. He conceded something, however, to
the prevailing idea respecting him, when he said,
" On my own account, I may perhaps have had
sufficient reason to lament my deficiency in self-
control, and the neglect of concentrating my pow-
ers to the realization of some permanent work. But
to verse, rather than to prose, if to either, belongs
' the voice of mourning,' for
Keen pangs of love awakening as a babe
Turbulent, with an outcry in the heart,
And fears self-will'd that shunn'd the eye of hope,
And hope that scarce could know itself from fear;
Sense of past youth, and manhood come in vain,
And genius given and knowledge won in vain,
And all which I had cull'd in wood-walks wild,
And all which patient toil had rear'd, and all
Commune with thee had open'd out — but flowers
Strew'd on my corpse, and borne upon my bier,
In the same coffin, for the self-same grave!

S. T. C."

In another part of his works, Coleridge says
speaking of what in poetry he had written, " as to
myself, I have published so little, anu that littlo

6

MEMOIR OF SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

IX

of so little importance, as to make it almost ludi-
crous to mention my name at all." It is evident,
therefore, that a sense of what he might have done
for fame, and of the little he had done, was felt
by the poet ; and yet, the little he did produce has
among it gems of the purest lustre, the brilliancy
of which time will not deaden until the universal
voice of nature be heard no longer, and poetry
perish beneath the dull load of life's hackneyed
realities.

The poem of " Christabel," Coleridge says, was
composed in consequence of an agreement with
Mr. Wordsworth, that they should mutually pro-
duce specimens of poetry which should contain
" the power of exciting the sympathy of the reader,
by a faithful adherence to the truth of nature, and
the power of giving the interest of novelty by
the modifying colors of imagination. The sudden
charm, which accidents of light and shade, which
moon-light or sun-set diffused over a known and
familiar landscape, appeared to represent the prac-
ticability of combining both." Further he ob-
serves on this thought, " that a series of poems
might be composed of two sorts. In the one, the
incidents and agents were to be, in part at least,
supernatural ; and the excellence to be aimed at
was to consist in the interesting of the affections
by the dramatic truth of such emotions as would
naturally accompany such situations, supposing
them real, etc. For the second class, subjects
were to be chosen from ordinary life." Thus, it
appears, originated the poems of the "Ancient
Mariner," and "Christabel," by Coleridge, and
the " Lyrical Ballads" of Wordsworth.

Perhaps there is no English writer living who
understood better than Coleridge the elements of
poetry, and the way in which they may be best
combined to produce certain impressions. His
definitions of the merits and differences in style
and poetic genius, between the earliest and latest
writers of his country, are superior to those which
any one else has it in his power to make ; for, in
truth, he long and deeply meditated upon them,
and no one can be dissatisfied by the reasons he
gives, and the examples he furnishes, to bear out
his theories and opinions. These things he did
as well or better in conversation than in writing.
His conversational powers were indeed unrivalled,
and it is to be feared that to excel in these, he
sacrificed what was more durable ; and that he
resigned, for the pleasure of gratifying an attentive
listening circle, and pleasing thereby his self-love
by its applause, much that would have delighted
the world. His flow of words, delivery, and va-
riety of information were so great, and he found
it so captivating to enchain his auditors to the car
oc his triumphant eloquence, that he sacrificed to
t'lis gratification what might have sufficed to
confer upon him a celebrity a thousand times
more to be coveted by a spirit akin to his own.

It is equally creditable to the taste and judgmen
of Coleridge, that he was one of the first to point
out, with temper and sound reasoning, the fallacy
of a great portion of Wordsworth's poetic theory
namely, that which relates to low life. Words-
worth contended that a proper poetic diction is a
language taken from the mouths of men in gene-
ral, in their natural conversation under the influ-
ence of natural feelings. Coleridge wisely asserted,
that philosophers are the authors of the best parts
of language, not clowns ; and that Milton's Ian.
guage is more that of real life than the language
of a cottager. This subject he has most ably
treated in chapter 17 of his Biographic Literaria.
Two years after he had abandoned the Morning
Post, he set off for Malta, where he most unex-
pectedly arrived on a visit to his friend Dr. Stodart,
then king's advocate in that island, and was in-
troduced by him to the Governor, Sir Alexander
Ball, who appointed him his secretary. He re-
mained in the island fulfilling the duties of his
situation, for which he seems to have been but
indifferently qualified, a very short period. One
advantage, however, he derived from his official
employ : that of the pension granted by Govern-
ment to those who have served in similar situa-
tions. On his way home he visited Italy ; entered
Rome, and examined its host of ancient and mod-
ern curiosities, and added fresh matter for thought
to his rapidly accumulating store of ideas. Of
this visit he gives several anecdotes ; among them
one respecting the horns of Moses on Michael
Angelo's celebrated statue of that lawgiver, in
tended to elucidate the character of Frenchmen
Coleridge was all his life a hater of France and
Frenchmen, arising from his belief in their being
completely destitute of moral or poetical feeling.
A Prussian, who was with him while looking upon
the statue, observed that a Frenchman was the only
animal, " in the human shape, that by no possi-
bility can lift itself up to religion or poetry." A
foolish and untrue remark on the countrymen of
Fenelon and Pascal, of Massillon and Corneille-
Just then, however, two French officers of rank
happened to enter the church, and the Goth from
the Elbe remarked that, the first things they would
notice would be the "horns and beard" (upon which
the Prussian and Coleridge had just been rearing
theories and quoting history), and that the associ-
ations the Frenchmen would connect with them
would be those of a he-goat and a cuckold." It
happened that the Prus-Goth was right : the off!
cers did pass some such joke upon the figure.
Hence, by inference, would the poet have his
readers deduce the character of a people, whose
literature, science, and civilization are perhaps
only not the very first in the world.

Another instance of his fixed and absurd dislike
of every thing French, occurred during the de-
livery of a course of Lectures on Poetrv, at tho

9

MEMOIR OF SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

Royal Institution, in the spring of 1808 ; in one
of which he astonished his auditory by thanking
his Maker, in the most serious manner, for so or-
dering events, that he was totally ignorant of a
single word of "that frightful jargon, the French
language !" And yet, notwithstanding this public
avowal of his entire ignorance of the language,
Mr. Coleridge is said to have been in the habit,
while conversing with his friends, of expressing
the utmost contempt for the literature of that
country !

In the years 1809-10, Mr. Coleridge issued
from Grasmere a weekly essay, stamped to be
sent by the general post, called " The Friend."
This paper lasted for twenty-seven numbers, and
was then abruptly discontinued ; but the papers
have since been collected and enlarged in three
small volumes.

In the year 1812, Mr. Coleridge, being in Lon-
don, edited, and contributed several very interest-
ing articles to, Mr. Southey's " Omniana," in two
small volumes. In the year 1816, appeared the
Biographical Sketches of his Literary Life and
Opinions, and his newspaper Poems re-collected
under the title of " Sibylline Leaves."

About this time he wrote the prospectus of
" The Encyclopaedia Metropolitana," still in the
course of publication, and was intended to be its
editor ; but this final mistake was early discovered
and rectified.

In the year 1816 likewise was published by
Mr. Murray, at the recommendation of Lord By-
ron, who had generously befriended the brother
(or rather the father) poet, the wondrous ballad
tale of " Christabel." The author tells us in his
preface that the first part of it was written in his
great poetic year, 1797, at Stowey; the second
part, after his return from Germany, in 1800, at
Keswick : the conclusion yet remains to be writ-
ten ! The poet says, indeed, in this preface, "As
in my very first conception of the tale, I had the
wnole present to my mind, I trust that I shall yet
be able to embody in verse the three parts yet to
come " We do not pretend to contradict a poet's
dreams; but we believe that Mr. Coleridge never
communicated to mortal man, woman, or child,
how this story of witchcraft was to end. The
poem is, perhaps, more interesting as a fragment.
For sixteen years we remember it used to be re-
cited and transcribed by admiring disciples, till
at length it was printed, and at least half the
charm of the poet was broken by the counterspell
of that rival magician, Faust. In 1818 was pub-
lished the drama of Zapolya. In 1825, "Aids
to Reflection, in the Formation of a Manly Char-
acter, on the several grounds of Prudence, Mo-

rality and Religion ; illustrated by select passages
from our older Divines, especially from A^ch-
bishop Leighton." This is for the most part a
compilation of extracts from the works of the
Archbishop.

To conclude the catalogue of Mr. Coleridge's
works, in 1830 was issued a small volume " On
the Constitution of the Church and State, accord-
ing to the idea of each, with Aids towards a right
Judgment on the late Catholic Bill."

In the year 1828, the whole of his poetical
works, including the dramas of Wallcnstein
(which had been long out of print), Remorse, and
Zapolya, were collected in three elegant volumes
by Mr. Pickering.

The latter years of Mr. Coleridge's life were
made easy by a domestication with his friend Mr.
Gillman, the surgeon of Highgate Grove, and foi
some years, the poet deservedly received an an-
nuity from his Majesty of £ 100 per annum, as
an Academician of the Royal Society of Litera-
ture. But these few most honorable pensions to
worn-out veterans in literature were discontinued
by the late ministry. Mr. Coleridge contributed
one or two erudite papers to the transactions of
this Society. In the summer of 1828, Mr. Cole-
ridge made the tour of Holland, Flanders, and up
the Rhine as far as Bergen. For some years be-
fore his death, he was afflicted with great bodily
pain ; and was on one occasion heard to say, thai
for thirteen months he had from this cause walked
up and down his chamber seventeen hours each
day. He died on the 25th of July, 1834, having
previously written the following epitaph for him-
self:

" Stop, Christian passer-by ! stop, child of God !
And read with gentle breast. Beneath this sod
A poet lies, or that which once seem'd he —
Oh, lift a thought in prayer for S. T. C. !
That he, who, many a year, with toil of breath,
Found death in life, may here find life in death !
Mercy for praise — to be forgiven for fame,
He ask'd and hoped through Christ. Do thou the
same."

This is perfection — worthy of the author of
the best essay on epitaphs in the English lan-
guage. He was buried in Highgate Church He
has left three children, namely, Hartley, Derwent,
and Sara. The first has published a volume of
poems, of which it is enough to say that they are
worthy of Mr. Wordsworth's verses addressed to
him at " six years old." The second son is in
holy orders, and is married and settled in the
west of England ; and the poet's daughter is
united to her learned and lively cousin, Mr. Henry
Nelson Coleridge, the author of " Six Months in
the West Indies." This young lady had the good
10

MEMOIR OF SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

XI

fortune to be educated in the noble library on the
banks of the Cumberland Greta, where she as-
sisted her accomplished uncle in translating from
the old French the history of the Chevalier Bay-
ard, and from the Latin the account of the Abi-
pones, or Equestrian Indians of South America,
by the Jesuit Martin Dobrizhoffer ; joth of which
Works were published by Mr. Murray.
" But of his native speech, because well nigh
Disuse in him forgetfulness had wrought,
In Latin be coiui-osed his history,
A garrulous but a lively tale, and fraught
With matter of delight and food for thought ;
And if he could, in Merlin's glass, have seen
By whom his tomes to speak our tongue were taught,
The old man would have been as pleased (I ween)
As when he won the ear of that great empress
queen."

Southey's Tale of Paraguay.

The following brief sketches of Coleridge 's char-
acter are selected from among the numerous
notices which appeared in various reviews and
periodicals at the time of his decease.

"As a great poet, and a still greater philoso-
pher, the world has hardly yet done justice to the
genius of Coleridge. It was in truth of an order
not to be ippreciated in a brief space. A far
longer life than that of Coleridge shall not suffice
to bring to maturity the harvest of a renown like
his. The ripening of his mind, with all its golden
fruitage, is but the seed-time of his glory. The
close and consummation of his labors (grievous
to those that knew him, and even to those that
knew him not,) is the mere commencement of
his eternity of fame. As a poet, Coleridge was
unquestionably great ; as a moralist, a theologian,
and a philosopher, of the very highest class, he
was utterly unapproachable. And here, gentle
reader, let me be plainly understood as speaking
not merely of the present, but the past. Nay,
more. Seeing that the earth herself is now past
her prime, and gives various indications of her
beginning to ' grow grey in years,' it would, per-
haps, savour more of probability than presump-
tion, if I were likewise to include the future. It
is thus that, looking both to what is, and to what
has been, we seem to feel it, like a truth intuitive,
that we shall never have another Shakspeare in
the drama, nor a second Milton in the regions of
sublimer song. As a poet, Coleridge has done
enough to show how much more he might and
could have done, if he had so thought fit. It was
truly said of him, by an excellent critic and ac-
complished judge, 'Let the dullest clod that ever
vegetated, provided only he be alive and hears, be
shut up in a room with Coleridge, or in a wood,

and subjected for a few minutes to the ethereal
influence of that wonderful man's monologue, and
he will begin to believe himself a poet. The bar-
ren wilderness may not blossom like the rose ; but
it will seem, or rather feel to do so, under the lus-
tre of an imagination exhaustless as the sun.'

"At the house of the attached friend, under
whose roof this illustrious man spent the latter
years of his life, it was the custom to have a con-
versazione every Thursday evening. Here Cole-
ridge was the centre and admiration of the circle
that gathered round him. He could not be other-
wise than aware of the intellectual homage of
which he was the object ; yet there he sate, talk-
ing and looking all sweet and simple and divine
things, the very personification of meekness and
humility. Now he spoke of passing occurrences,
or of surrounding objects, — the flowers on the ta-
ble, or the dog on the hearth ; and enlarged in
most familiar wise on the beauty of the one, the
attachment, the almost moral nature of the other,
and the wonders that were involved in each. And
now, soaring upward with amazing majesty, into
those sublimer regions in which his soul de-
lighted, and abstracting himself from the things,
of time and sense, the strength of his wing soon*
carried him out of sight. And here, even in these
his eagle flights, although the eye in gazing after
him was dazzled and blinded, ye* c\e.r and aaon
a sunbeam would make its way through the loop-
holes of the mind, giving it to discern that beau-
tiful amalgamation of heart and spirit, that eould
equally raise him above his fellow-men, or bring
him down again to the softest level of humanity.
' It is easy,' says the critic before alluded to, — 'it
is easy to talk — not very difficult to speechify —
hard to speak; but to 'discourse' is a gift rarely
bestowed by Heaven on mortal man. Coleridge
has it in perfection. While he is discoursing, the
world loses all its common-places, and you and
your wife imagine yourselves Adam and Eve,
listening to the affable archangel Raphael in the
garden of Eden. You would no more dream of
wishing him to be mute for awhile, than you
would a river, that 'imposes silence with a stilly
sound.' Whether you understand two consecu
tive sentences, we shall not stop too curiously to
enquire; but you do something hotter — you feel
the whole, just like any other divine music. And
'tis your own fault if you do not " a wiser and a
better man arise to-morrow's morn." '

The Metropolitan.

An elaborate and admirable critique on Cole-
ridge's "Poetical Works," in "The Quarterly
Review, No. C1IL," written just before Ins death,
opens as follows :

2 11

XI 1

MEMOIR OF SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

" Idolized by many, and used without scruple
by more, the poet of ' ChristabeF and the ' An-
cient Mariner' is but little truly known in that
common literary world, which, without the pre-
rogative of conferring fame hereafter, can most
surely give or prevent popularity for the present.
In that circle he commonly passes for a man of
genius who has written some very beautiful
verses, but whose original powers, whatever they
were, have been long since lost or confounded in
the pursuit of metaphysic dreams. We ourselves
venture to think very differently of Mr. Coleridge,
both as a poet and a philosopher, although we are
well enough aware that nothing which we can
Bay will, as matters now stand, much advance his
chance of becoming a fashionable author. In-
deed, as we rather believe, we should earn small
thanks from him for our happiest exertions in
such a cause ; for certainly, of all the men of let-
ters whom it has been our fortune to know, wc
never met any one who was so utterly regardless
of the reputation of the mere author as Mr. Cole-
ridge— one so lavish and indiscriminate in the
exhibition of his own intellectual wealth, before
any and every person, no matter who — one so
reckless who might reap wThere he had most pro-
digally sown and watered. * God knows,' — as we
once heard him exclaim upon the subject of his
unpublished system of philosophy, — ' God knows,
I have no author's vanity about it. I should be
absolutely glad if I could hear that the thing had
been done before me.' It is somewhere told of
Virgil, that he took more pleasure in the good
verses of Varius and Horace than in his own.
We would not answer for that ; but the story has
always occurred to us, when we have seen Mr.
Coleridge criticising and amending the work of a
contemporary author with much more zeal and
hilarity than we ever perceived him to display
about any thing of his own. Perhaps our readers
may have heard repeated a saying of Mr. Words-
worth, that many men of this age had done won-
derful things, as Davy, Scott, Cuvier, &c. ; but
that Coleridge was the only wonderful man he
ever knew. Something, of course, must be al-
lowed in this as in all other such cases of anti-
(nesis ; but we believe the fact really to be, that
tne greater part of those who have occasionally

visited Mr. Coleridge have left him with a feeling
akin to the judgment indicated in the above re-
mark. They admire the man more than hia
works, or they forget the works in the absorbing
impression made by the living author. And no
wonder. Those who remember him in his more
vigorous days can bear witness to the peculiarity
and transcendent power of his conversational elo-
quence. It was unlike any thing that could be
heard elsewhere ; the kind was different, the de-
gree was different ; the manner was different.
The boundless range of scientific knowledge, the
brilliancy and exquisite nicety of illustration, the
deep and ready reasoning, the strangeness and
immensity of bookish lore, were not all ; the dra-
matic story, the joke, the pun, the festivity, must
be added ; and with these the clerical-looking
dress, the thick waving silver hair, the youthful
colored cheek, the indefinable mouth and lips, the
quick yet steady and penetrating greenish-grey
eye, the slow and continuous enunciation, and the
everlasting music of his tones, — all went to make
up the image and to constitute the living presenci
of the man."

In a note at the conclusion of the number oi
"The Quarterly Review" from which the pre
ceding passage has been taken, Mr. Coleridge'*
decease is thus mentioned :

" It is with deep regret that we announce the
death of Mr. Coleridge. When the foregoing ar-
ticle on his poetry was printed, he was weak in
body, but exhibited no obvious symptoms of sa
near a dissolution. The fatal change was sudden
and decisive ; and six days before his death he
knew, assuredly, that his hour was come. His
few worldly affairs had been long settled ; and,
after many tedious adieus, he expressed a wish
that he might be as little interrupted as possible.
His sufferings were severe and constant till within
thirty-six hours of his end; but they had no
power to affect the deep tranquillity of his mind,
or the wonted sweetness of his address. His
prayer from the beginning was, that God would
not withdraw his Spirit ; and that by the way in
which he would bear the last struggle, he might
be able to evince the sincerity of his faith in
Christ. If ever man did so, Coleridge did."

12

THE

POETICAL WORKS

OP

Q>

ePiT^

Q

13

€<mttuw.

memoir of Samuel taylor coleridge

Page

juvenile poems

Genevieve

Sonnet, to the Autumnal Moon

Time, Real and Imaginary, an Allegory . .

Monody on the death of Chatterton ....

Songs of the Pixies

The Raven, a Christmas Tale, told by a
School-boy to his little Brothers and Sisters

Absence : a Farewell Ode on quitting School
for Jesus College, Cambridge

Lines on an Autumnal Evening

The Rose

The Kiss

To a Young Ass — its Mother being tethered
near it

Domestic Peace

The Sigh

Epitaph on an Infant

Lines written at the King's Arms, Ross . .

Lines to a beautiful Spring in a Village . .

Lines on a Friend, who died of a frenzy fe-
ver induced by calumnious reports . . .

To a Young Lady, with a Poem on the French
Revolution

Sonnet. " My heart has thanked thee, Bowles !

for those soft strains"

As late I lay in slumber's shadowy

rale'1

" Though roused by that dark vizir,

Riot rude'

" When British Freedom for a hap-
pier land"

" It was some spirit, Sheridan ! that

breathed"

" O what a loud and fearful shriek

was there"

" As when far off the warbled strains

are heard"

" Thou gentle look, that didst my

soul beguile"

" Pale roamer through the night !

thou poor forlorn !"

" Sweet Mercy ! how my very heart

has bled"

Thou bleeaest, my poor heart ! and

thy distress'1

To the Author of the

Robbers'

Lines composed while climbing the left as-
cent of Brockley Coomb, Somersetshire,
May, 1795

Lines, in the manner of Spenser

imitated from Ossian

The Complaint of Ninathoma . . . ,
Lines, imitated from the Welsh

to an infant

in answer to a Letter from Bristol . .

to a Friend, in answer to a melancholy

Letter

Page
Religious Musings; a Desultory Poem . . 13
The Destiny of Nations ; a Vision 17

SIBYLLINE LEAVES :—

I. POEMS OCCASIONED BY POLITICAL EVENTS, OR

FEELINGS CONNECTED WITH THEM.

Ode to the Departing Year 21

France; an Ode 23

Fears in Solitude; written in April, 1798,

during the alarm of an Invasion 24

Fire, Famine, and Slaughter; a War Eclogue 26
Recantation — illustrated in the Story of the

Mad Ox 27

II. LOVE POEMS.

Introduction to the tale of the Dark Ladie 28
Lewti, or the Circassian Love Chaunt ... 29
The Picture, or the Lover's Resolution . . 30
The Night Scene ; a Dramatic Fragment . 31
To an Unfortunate Woman, whom the Au-
thor had known in the days of her inno-
cence 32

To an Unfortunate Woman at the Theatre 33

Lines, composed in a Concert-room ib,

The Keepsake ib

To a Lady, with Falconer's " Shipwreck" . 34
To a Young Lady, on her Recovery from a

Fever ib

Something childish, but very natural^— writ-
ten in Germany ib.

Home-sick — written in Germany ib.

Answer to a Child's Question ib.

The Visionary Hope .... 35

The Happy Husband ; a Fragment ib

Recollections of Love ib.

On Revisiting the Sea-shore after long ab-
sence .... ib.

The Composition of a Kiss 36

III. MEDITATIVE POEMS.

Hymn before Sun-rise, in the Vale of Cha-
mouny ib.

Lines written in the Album at Elbingerode,
in the Hartz Forest 37

On observing a Blossom on the 1st of Feb-
ruary, 1796 ih

The Eolian Harp — composed at Clevedon,
Somersetshire ib.

Reflections on having left a Place of Retire-
ment 38

To the Rev. Geo. Coleridge of Ottery St.
Mary, Devon — with some Poems .... 39

Inscription for a Fountain on a Heath ... ib.

A Tombless Epitaph 39

This Lime-tree Bower my Prison 40

To a Friend, who had declared his intention
of writing no more Poetry ib.

To a Gentleman — composed on the night
after his Recitation of a Poem on the
Growth of an Individual Mind ... .41
15

XVI

CONTENTS.

fc Page

The Nightingale ; a Conversation Poem . . 42

Frost at Midnight 43

To a Friend, together with an unfinished

Poem ib.

The Hour when we shall meet again ... 44

Lines to Joseph Cottle ib.

IV ODES AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

The Three Graves ; a Fragment of a Sex-
ton's Tale . . ib.

Dejection; an Ode 48

Ode to Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire 49

Ode to Tranquillity 50

To a Young Friend, on his proposing to do-
mesticate with the Author ib.

Lines to W. L. Esq., while he sang to Pur-
cell's Music 51

Addressed to a Young Man of Fortune,
who abandoned himself to an indolent
and causeless Melancholy ib.

Sonnet to the River Otter ib.

composed on a Journey homeward ;

the Author having received intelligence

of the Birth of a Son, Sept. 20, 1796 . . ib.

Sonnet — To a Friend, who asked how I felt
when the Nurse first presented my In-
fant to me 52

The Virgin's Cradle Hymn ib.

On the Christening of a Friend's Child . . ib.

Epitaph on an Infant ib.

Melancholy ; a Fragment ib.

Tell's Birth-place — imitated from Stolberg 53

A Christmas Carol ib.

Human Life, on the Denial of Immortality ib.

The Visit of the Gods — imitated from
Schiller 54

Elegy — imitated from Akenside's blank
verse Inscriptions ib.

Kubla Khan ; or a Vision in a Dream . . . ib.

The Pains of Sleep 55

Appendix.

Apologetic Preface to " Fire, Famine, and

Slaughter ib.

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 60

CHRISTABEL 66

REMORSE ; a Tragedy, in Five Acts 73

ZAPOLYA; a Christmas Tale.

Part I. the prelude, entitled " the
usurper's fortune" 96

Part II. the sequel, entitled
usurper's fate"

Pagi
.102

THE PICCOLOMINI, OR THE FIRST PART
OF WALLENSTEIN ; a Drama, trans-
lated from the German of Schiller . . 121

THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN; a Tra-
gedy, in Five Acts 168

THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE ; an Historic

Drama 203

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS .—

prose in rhyme ; OR epigrams, moralities,
and things without a name.

Love 212

Duty surviving Self-love, the only Sure
Friend of Declining Life; a Soliloquy . 21 S

Phantom or Fact ? a Dialogue in Verse . . ib.

Work without Hope ib.

Youth and Age ib.

A Day-dream 214

To a Lady, offended by a sportive observa-
tion that women have no souls .... ib.

« I have heard of reasons manifold" .... ib.

Lines suggested by the Last Words of Be-
rengarius ib.

The Devil's Thoughts ib.

Constancy to an Ideal Object 215

The Suicide's Argument, and Nature's An-
swer ' ib

The Blossoming of the Solitary Date-tree ;
a Lament 216

Fancy in Nubibus, or the Poet in the
Clouds ib

The Two Founts ; Stanzas addressed to a
Lady on her recovery, with unblemished
looks, from a severe attack of pain . . ib.

What is Life ? 217

The Exchange ib.

Sonnet, composed by the Sea-side, October,
1817 ib.

Epigrams ib.

The Wanderings of Cain 218

Allegoric Vision 220

• The Improvisatore, or " John Anderson, my

jo, John" 222

The Garden of Boccaccio 224

16

THE

POETICAL WORKS

OF

BvfotniU IJacins*

PREFACE.

Compositions resembling those here collected are
not unfrequently condemned for their querulous
Egotism. But Egotism is to be condemned then only
when it offends against time and place, as in a His-
tory or an Epic Poem. To censure it in a Monody
or Sonnet is almost as absurd as to dislike a circle
for being round. Why then write Sonnets or Mono-
dies ? Because they give me pleasure when perhaps
nothing else could. After the more violent emotions
of Sorrow, the mind demands amusement, and can
find it in employment alone : but, full of its late suf-
ferings, it can endure no employment not in some
measure connected with them. Forcibly to turn
away our attention to general subjects is a painful
and most often an unavailing effort.

Eut O ! how grateful to a wounded heart
The tale of Misery to impart —
From others' eyes bid artless sorrows flow,
And raise esteem upon the base of Woe !

Skaw.

The communicativeness of our Nature leads us to
describe our own sorrows ; in the endeavor to de-
scribe them, intellectual activity is exerted ; and
from intellectual activity there results a pleasure,
which is gradually associated, and mingles as a cor-
rective, with the painful subject of the description.
" True ! " (it may be answered) " but how are the
Public interested in your sorrows or your Descrip-
tion ? " We are for ever attributing personal Unities
to imaginary Aggregates. What is the Public, but a
lerm for a number of scattered individuals ? of whom
as many will be interested in these sorrows, as have
experienced the same or similar.

Holy be the lay
Which mourning soothes the mourner on his way.

If I could judge of others by myself, I should not
hesitate to affirm, that the most interesting passages
are those in which the Author develops his own
feelings ? The sweet voice of Cona* never sounds
so sweetly, as when it speaks of itself; and I should
almost suspect that man of an unkindly heart, who
could read the opening of the third book of the Para-
dise Lost without peculiar emotion. By a Law of our
Nature, he, who labors under a strong feeling, is

Ossian.
B2

impelled to seek for sympathy ; but a Poet's feelings
are all strong. Quicquid amet valde amat. Akenside
therefore speaks with philosophical accuracy when
he classes Love and Poetry, as producing the same
effects :

Love and the wish of Poets when their tongue
Would teach to others' bosoms, what so charms
Their own.

Pleasures of Imagination.

There is one species of Egotism which is truly
disgusting ; not that which leads us to communicate
our feelings to others but that which would reduce
the feelings of others to an identity with our own.
The Atheist, who exclaims " pshaw ! " when he
glances his eye on the praises of Deity, is an Egotist :
an old man, when he speaks contemptuously of Love-
verses, is an Egotist: and the sleek Favorites of
Fortune are Egotists, when they condemn all " mel-
ancholy, discontented " verses. Surely, it would be
candid not merely to ask whether the poem pleases
ourselves, but to consider whether or no there may
not be others, to whom it is well calculated to give
an innocent pleasure.

I shall only add, that each of my readers will, I
hope, remember, that these Poems on various sub-
jects, which he reads at one time and under the in-
fluence of one set of feelings, were written at differ-
ent times and prompted by very different feelings ;
and therefore that the supposed inferiority of one
Poem to another may sometimes be owing to the
temper of mind in which he happens to peruse it.

My poems have been rightly charged with a pro
fusion of double-epithets, and a general turgidness
I have pruned the double-epithets with no sparing
hand ; and used my best efforts to tame the swell
and glitter both of thought and diction.* This latter

* Without any feeling of anger, I may yet be allowed to
express some degree of surprise, that after having run the
critical gauntlet for a certain class of faults, which I had, viz.
a too ornate and elaborately poetic diction, and nothing hav-
ing come before the judgment-seat of the Reviewers during
the long interval, I should for at least seventeen years, quarter
after quarter, have been placed by them in the foremost rank
of" the proscribed, and made to abide the brunt of abuse and
ridicule for faults directly opposite, viz. bald and prosaic lan-
guage, and an affected simplicity both of matter and manner
— faults which assuredly did not enter into the character ol
my compositions. — Literary Life, i 51. Published 1817

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

fault however had insinuated itself into my Religious
Musings with such intricacy of union, that some-
times I have omitted to disentangle the weed from
the fear of snapping the flower. A third and heavier
accusation has been brought against me, that of ob-
scurity ; but not, I think, with equal justice. An
Author is obscure, when his conceptions are dim
and imperfect, and his language incorrect, or unap-
propriate, or involved. A poem that abounds in
allusions, like the Bard of Gray, or one that imper-
sonates high and abstract truths, like Collins's Ode
on the poetical character, claims not to be popular —
but should be acquitted of obscurity. The deficiency
is in the Reader. But this is a charge which every
poet, whose imagination is warm and rapid, must
expect from his contemporaries. .Milton did not
escape it ; and it was adduced with virulence against
Gray and Collins. We now hear no more of it :
not that their poems are better understood at present,
than they were at their first publication ; but their
fame is established ; and a critic would accuse him-
self of frigidity or inattention, who should profess
not to understand them. But a living writer is yet
subjudice ; and if wTe cannot follow his conceptions
or enter into his feelings, it is more consoling to our
pride to consider him as lost beneath, than as soaring
above us. If any man expect from my poems the
same easiness of style which he admires in a drink-
ing-song, for him I have not written. Inlelligibilia,
non intellectum adfero.

I expect neither profit nor general fame by my
writings ; and I consider myself as having been
amply repaid without either. Poetry has been to me
its own " exceeding great reward : " it has soothed
my afflictions ; it has multiplied and refined my en-
joyments ; it has endeared solitude : and it has given
me the habit of wishing to discover the Good and
(he Beautiful in all that meets and surrounds me.

S. T. C.

JUYENILE POEMS,

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

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,

Fair, as the bosom of the swan

That rises graceful o'er the wave,

I 've seen your breast with pity heave,

And the? ef ore love I you, sweet Genevieve !

SONNET.

TO THE AUTUMNAL MOON.

Mild Splendor of the various-vested Night!
Mother of wildly-working visions ! hail !
I watch thy gliding, while with watery light
Thy weak eye glimmers through a fleecy veil

And when thou lovest thy pale orb to shroud
Behind the gather'd blackness lost on high ;
And when thou dartest from the wind-rent cloud
Thy placid lightning o'er the awaken'd sky
Ah such is Hope ' as changeful and as fair?)
Now dimly peering on the wistful sight ;
Now hid behind the dragon-wing'd Despair ■
But soon emerging in her radiant might,
She o'er the sorrow-clouded breast of Care
Sails, like a meteor kindling in its flight.

TIME, REAL AND IMAGINARY.

AN ALLEGORY.

On the wide level of a mountain's head
(I knew not where, but 't was some faery place
Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails outspread,
Two lovely children run an endless race,

A sister and a brother !

This far outstript the other ;
Yet ever runs she with reverted face,
And looks and listens for the boy behind :

For he, alas ! is blind !
O'er rough and smooth with even step he pass'd,
And knows not whether he be first or last.

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF
CHATTERTON.

0 what a wonder seems the fear of death,
Seeing how gladly we all sink to sleep,
Babes, Children, Youths and Men,

Night following night for threescore years and ter
But doubly strange, where life is but a breath
To sigh and pant with, up Want's rugged steep.

Away, Grim Phantom ! Scorpion King, away

Reserve thy terrors and thy stings display

For coward Wealth and Guilt in robes of state

Lo ! by the grave I stand of one, for whom

A prodigal Nature and a niggard Doom

{That all bestowing, this withholding all)

Made each chance knell from distant spire or doma

Sound like a seeking Mother's anxious call,

Return, poor Child ! Home, weary Truant, home !

Thee, Chatterton ! these unblest stones protect
From want, and the bleak freezings of neglect.
Too long before the vexing Storm-blast driven,
Here hast thou found repose ! beneath this sod !
Thou ! O vain word ! thou dwell'st not with the clod
Amid the shining Host of the Forgiven
Thou at the throne of Mercy and thy God
The triumph of redeeming Love dost hymn
(Believe it, O my soul !) to harps of Seraphim.

Yet oft, perforce ('tis suffering Nature's call,)

1 weep, that heaven-born Genius sc shall fall ;
And oft, in Fancy's saddest hour, my soul
Averted shudders at the poison'd bowl.

Now groans my sickening heart, as still I view

Thy corse of livid hue ;
Now indignation checks the feeble sigh,
Or flashes through the tear that glistens in mine eve

JUVENILE POEMS.

Is this the land of song-ennobled line ?

Is this the land, where Genius ne'er in vain

Pour'd forth his lofty strain ?
Ah me ! yet Spenser, gentlest bard divine,
Beneath chill Disappointment's shade
His weary limbs in lonely anguish laid.

And o'er her darling dead

Pity hopeless hung her head,
While " 'mid the pelting of that merciless storm,"
unit to the cold earth Otway's famish'd form !

Sublime of thought, and confident of fame,

From vales where Avon winds, the Minstrel* came.

Light-hearted youth ! aye, as he hastes along,

He meditates the future song,
How dauntless iElla fray'd the Dacian foe ;

And while the numbers flowing strong

In eddies whirl, in surges throng,
Exulting in the spirits' genial throe,
In tides of power his life-blood seems to flow.

And now his cheeks with deeper ardors flame,
His eyes have glorious meanings, that declare
More than the light of outward day shines there,
A holier triumph and a sterner aim !
Wings grow within him ; and he soars above
Or Bard's, or Minstrel's lay of war or love-
Friend to the friendless, to the Sufferer health,
He hears the widow's prayer, the good man's praise ;
To scenes of bliss transmutes his fancied wealth,
And young and old shall now see happy days.
On many a waste he bids trim gardens rise,
Gives the blue sky to many a prisoner's eyes;
And now in wrath he grasps the patriot steel,
And her own iron rod he makes Oppression feel.

Sweet Flower of Hope ! free Nature's genial child !
That didst so fair disclose thy early bloom,
Filling the wide air with a rich perfume !
For thee in vain all heavenly aspects smiled ;
From the hard world brief respite could they win —
The frost nipp'd sharp without, the canker prey'd

within !
Ah ' where are fled the charms of vernal Grace,
And Joy's wild gleams that lighten'd o'er thy face ?
Youth of tumultuous soul, and haggard eye !
Thy wasted form, thy hurried steps, I view,
On thy wan forehead starts the lethal dew,
And oh ! the anguish of that shuddering sigh !

Such were the struggles of the gloomy hour,

When Care, of wither'd brow,
Prepar'd the poison's death-cold power.
Already to thy lips was raised the bowl,
When near thee stood Affection meek
(Her bosom bare, and wildly pale her cheek,)
Thy sullen gaze she bade thee roll
On scenes that well might melt thy soul ;
Thy native cot she flash d upon thy view,
Chy native cot, where still, at close of day,
- eace smiling sate, and listen'd to thy lay ;
Thy Sister's shrieks she bade thee hear,
And mark thy Mother's thrilling tear ;

See, see her breast's convulsive throe,
Her silent agony of woe !
Ah ! dash the poison'd chalice from thy hand !
\nd thou hadst dash'd it, at her soft command,

Avon, a river near Bristol; the birth-place oi' Chatterton.

But that Despair and Indignation rose
And told again the story of thy woes ; .
Told the keen insult of the unfeeling heart ,
The dread dependence on the low-born mind ,
Told every pang, with which thy soul must smart,
Neglect, and grinning Scorn, and Want combined !
Recoiling quick, thou bad'st the friend of pain
Roll the black tide of Death through every freezing.

Ye woods ! that wave o'er Avon's rocky steep,
To Fancy's ear sweet is your murmuring deep !
For here she loves the cypress wreath to weave,
Watching, with wistful eye, the saddening tints of eve
Here, far from men, amid this pathless grove,
In solemn thought the Minstrel wont to rove,
Like star-beam on the slow sequester'd tide
Lone-glittering, through the high tree branching wide
And here, in Inspiration's eager hour,
When most the big soul feels the mastering power,
These wilds, these caverns roaming o'er,
Round which the screaming sea-gul's soar,
With wild unequal steps he pass'd along,
Oft pouring on the winds a broken song :
Anon, upon some rough rock's fearful brow
Would pause abrupt — and gaze upon the wave*
below.

Poor Chatterton ! he sorrows for thy fate

Who would have praised and loved thee, ere Xfn

late.
Poor Chatterton ! farewell ! of darkest hues
This chaplet cast I on thy unshaped tomb ;
But dare no longer on the sad theme muse,
Lest kindred woes persuade a kindred doom :
For oh ! big gall-drops, shook from Folly's wing.
Have blacken'd the fair promise of my spring ;
And the stern Fate transpierced with viewless dart
The last pale Hope that shivei'd at my heart!

Hence, gloomy thoughts ! no more my soul sha2

dwell
On joys that were ! No more endure to »veigh
The shame and anguish of the evil day,
Wisely forgetful ! O'er the ocean swell
Sublime of Hope I seek the cottaged dell,
Where Virtue calm with careless siep may stray
And, dancing to the moon-light roundelay,
The wizard Passions weave a holy spell !

O Chatterton ! that thou wert yet alive !
Sure thou wouldst spread the canvas to the gale
And love Avith us the tinkling team to drive
O'er peaceful Freedom's undivided dale ;
And we, at sober eve, would round thee throng,
Hanging, enraptured, on thy stately song !
And greet with smiles the young-eyed Poesy
All deftly mask'd, as hoar Antiquity.

Alas vain Phantasies ' the fleeting brood
Of Woe self-solaced in her dreamy mood !
Yet will I love to follow the sweet drean,
Where Susquehannah pours his untamed slreaii
And on some hill, whose forest-frowning side
Waves o'er the murmurs of his calmer tide
Will raise a solemn Cenotaph to thee,
Sweet Harper of time-shrouded Minstrelsy !
And there, soothed sadly by the dirgefnl vxtmt
Muse on the sore ills I had left behind

3 ,y

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

SONGS OF THE PIXIES.

The Pixies; in the superstition of Devonshire, are a race of
beings invisibly small, and harmless or friendly to man. At a
small distance from a village in that county, half-way up a
wood-covered hill, is an excavation called the Pixies' Parlor.
The roots of old trees form its ceiling ; and on its sides are
innumerable ciphers, among which the author discovered his
own cipher and those of his brothers, cut by the hand of their
childhood. At the foot of the hill flows the river Otter.

To this place the Author conducted a party of young Ladies,
during the Summer months of the year 1793 ; one of whom,
of stature elegantly small, and of complexion colorless yet
clear, was proclaimed the Faery Queen. On which occasion
the fc 'owing irregular Ode was written.

Whom the untaught Shepherds call

Pixies in their madrigal,
Fancy's children, here we dwell :

Welcome, Ladies ! to our cell.
Here the wren of softest note

Builds its nest and warbles well ;
Here the blackbird strains his throat ;

Welcome, Ladies ! to our cell.

II.

When fades the moon all shadowy-pale,
And scuds the cloud before the gale,
Ere Mom with living gems bedight
Purples the East with streaky light,
We sip the furze-flower's fragrant dews
Clad in robes of rainbow hues :
Or sport amid the rosy gleam,
Soothed by the distant-tinkling team,
While lusty Labor scouting sorrow
Bids the Dame a glad good-morrow,
Who jogs the accustom'd road along,
And paces cheery to her cheering song.

III.

But not our filmy pinion
We scorch amid the blaze of day,
When Noontide's fiery-tressed minion
Flashes the fervid ray.
Aye from the sultry heat
We to the cave retreat
O'ercanopied by huge roots intertwined
With wildest texture, blacken'd o'er with age :
Hound them their mantle green the ivies bind,
Beneath whose foliage pale,
Fann'd by the unfrequent gale,
We shield us from the Tyrant's mid-day rage.

IV.

Thither, while the murmuring throng
Of wild-bees hum their drowsy song,
By Indolence and Fancy brought,
A youthful Bard, " unknown to Fame,"
VVooes the Queen of Solemn Thought,
And heaves the gentle misery of a sigh,
Gazing with tearful eye,
As round our sandy grot appear
Many a rudely-sculptured name
To pensive Memory dear !
Weaving gay dreams of sunny-tinctured hue,
We glance before his view :

O'er his hush'd soul our soothing witcheries shed
And twine our faery garlands round his nead.

V.

When Evening's dusky car,

Crown'd with her dewy star,
Steals o'er the fading sky in shadowy flight

On leaves of aspen trees

We tremble to the breeze,
Veil'd from the grosser ken of mortal sight

Or, haply, at the visionary hour,
Along our wildly-bower'd sequester'd walk,
We listen to the enamour'd rustic's talk ;
Heave with the heavings of the maiden's breast,
Where young-eyed Loves have built the;r turtle

nest;
Or guide of soul-subduing power
The electric flash, that from the melting eye
Darts the fond question and the soft reply.

VI.

Or through the mystic ringlets of the vale
We flash our faery feet in gamesome prank ,
Or, silent-sandall'd, pay our defter court
Circling the Spirit of the Western Gale,
Where wearied with his flower-caressing sport
Supine he slumbers on a violet bank ;
Then with quaint music hymn the parting gleam
By lonely Otter's sleep-persuading stream ;
Or where his waves with loud unquiet song
Dash'd o'er the rocky channel froih along
Or where, Ins silver waters smoothed to rest,
The tall tree's shadow sleeps upon his breast.

VII. ;

Hence, thou lingerer, Light !
Eve saddens into Night.
Mother of wildly-working dreams ! we view
The sombre hours, that round thee stand
With downcast eyes (a duteous band!)
Their dark robes dripping with the heavy dew
Sorceress of the ebon throne !
Thy power the Pixies own,
When round thy raven brow
Heaven's lucent roses glow,
And clouds, in watery colors drest,
Float in light drapery o'er thy sable vest :
What time the pale moon sheds a softer day,
Mellowing the woods beneath its pensive beam •
For :mid the quivering light 't is ours to play,
Aye dancing to the cadence of the stream.

VIII.
Welcome, Ladies ! to the cell
Where the blameless Pixies dwell :
But thou, sweet Nymph ! proclaim'd our Faery
Queen,
With what obeisance meet
Thy presence shall we greet ?
For lo ! attendant on thy steps are seen
Graceful Ease in artless stole,
And white-robed Purity of soul,
With Honor's softer mien ;
Mirth of the loosely-flowing hair,
And meek-eyed Pity eloquently fair, .

Wnose tearful cheeks are lovely to the view
As snow-drop wet with dew.
14

JUVENILE POEMS.

IX.

Unboastful maid ! though now the Lily pale

Transparent grace thy beauties meek ;
Yet ere again along the empurpling vale,
.The purpling vale and elfin-haunted grove,
Young Zephyr his fresh flowers profusely throws,

We '11 tinge with livelier hues thy cheek ; ^y
And haply, from the nectar-breathing Rose
Extract a blush for love !

THE RAVEN.

A CHRISTMAS TALE, TOLD BY A SCHOOL-BOY TO HIS
LITTLE BROTHERS AND SISTERS.

Underneath a huge oak tree
There was, of swine, a huge company,
That grunted as they crunch'd the mast :
For that was ripe, and fell full fast.
Then they trotted away, for the wind grew high :
One acorn they left, and no more might you spy.
Next came a raven, that liked not such folly :
He belong'd, they did say, to the witch Melancholy !
Blacker was he man blackest jet,
Flew low in the rain, and his leathers not wet
He pick'd up the acorn and buried it straight
By the side of a river both deep and great.
Where then did the Raven go ?
He went high and low,
Over hill, over dale, did the black Raven go.
Many Autumns, many Springs
Travell'd he with wandering wings :
Many Summers, many Winters —
I can't tell half^his adventures.

At length he came back, and with him a She,
And the acorn was grown to a tall oak tree.
They built them a nest in the topmost bough,
And young ones they had, and were happy enow.
But soon came a woodman in leathern guise,
His brow, like a pent-house, hung over his eyes.
He 'd an ax in his hand, not a word he spoke,
But with many a hem ! and a sturdy stroke,
At length he brought down the poor Raven's own

oak.
His young ones were kill'd ; for they could not

depart,
And their mother did die of a broken heart.

The boughs from the trunk the woodman did sever ;
And they floated it down on the course of the river.
They saw'd it in planks, and its bark they did strip,
And with this tree and others they made a good ship.
The ship it was launch'd ; but in sight of the land
Such a storm there did rise as no ship could with-
stand.
It bulged on a rock, and the waves rush'd in fast :
The olt' Raven flew round and round, and caw'd to
the blast.

He heard the last shriek of the perishing souls —
See ! see ! o'er the topmast the mad water rolls !

Right glad was the Raven, and off he went fleet,
And Death riding home on a cloud he did meet,
And he thank'd him again and again for this treat :

They had taken his all, and Revenge was sweet !

ABSENCE.

A FAREWELL ODE ON QUITTING SCHOOL FOR JESUS
COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.

Where graced with many a classic spoil
Cam rolls his reverend stream along
I haste to urge the learned toil
That sternly chides my lovelorn song :
Ah me ! too mindful of the days
Illumed by Passion's orient rays,
♦ When Peace, and Cheerfulness, and Health
Enrich'd me with the best of wealth.

Ah fair delights ! that o'er my soul
On Memory's wing, like shadows fly !
Ah Flowers ! which Joy from Eden stole
While Innocence stood smiling by ! —
But cease, fond heart ! this bootless moan :
Those hours on rapid pinions flown
Shall yet return, by Absence crown 'd
And scatter lovelier roses round.

The Sun who ne'er remits his fires
On heedless eyes may pour the day :
The Moon, that oft from Heaven retires,
Endears her renovated ray.
What though she leaves the sky unblesl
To mourn awhile in murky vest ?
When she relumes her lovely light,
We bless the wanderer of the night

LINES ON AN AUTUMNAL EVENING.

0 thou, wild Fancy, check thy wing ! No more
Those thin white flakes, those purple clouds explore.
Nor there with happy spirits speed thy flight
Bathed in rich amber-glowing floods of light ;

Nor in yon gleam, where slow descends the day,

With western peasants hail the morning ray !

Ah ! rather bid the perish'd pleasures move,

A shadowy train, across the soul of Love !

O'er Disappointment's wintry desert fling

Each flower that wreathed the dewy locks of Spring,

When blushing, like a bride, from Hope's trim

bower
She leap'd, awaken'd by the pattering shower.
Now sheds the sinking Sun a deeper gleam,
Aid, lovely Sorceress ! aid thy poet's dream!
With fairy wand O bid the Maid arise,
Chaste Joyance dancing in her bright-blue eyes.
As erst when from the Muses' calm abode

1 came, with Learning's meed not unbestow'd ;
When as she twined a laurel round my brow,
And met my kiss, and half return'd my vow,
O'er all my frame shot rapid my thrill'd heart,
And every nerve confess'd th' electric dart

0 dear deceit! I see the Maiden rise,

Chaste Joyance dancing in her bright-blue eyes*
When first the lark, high soaring, swells his throat
Mocks the tired eye, and scatters the wild note,

1 trace her footsteps on the accuslom'd lawn,
I mark her glancing 'mid the gleam of dawn.
When the bent flower beneath the night-dew wyejw
And on the lake the silver lustre sleeps,

5

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

Amid the paly radiance soft and sad,
She meets my lonely path in moon-beams clad.
With her along the streamlet's brink I rove ;
With her I list the warblings of the grove ;
And seems in each low wind her voice to float,
Lone- whispering Pity in each soothing note !

Spirits of Love ! ye heard her name ! obey
The powerful spell, and to my haunt repair.
Whether on clustering pinions ye are there,
Where rich snows blossom on the myrtle trees,
Or with fond languishment around my fair
Sigh in the loose luxuriance of her hair ;
O heed the spell, and hither wing your way,
Like far-off music, voyaging the breeze !

Spirits ! to you the infant Maid was given,
Form'd by the wondrous alchemy of heaven !
No fairer maid does Love's wide empire know,
No fairer maid e'er heaved the bosom's snow.
A thousand Loves around her forehead fly ;
A thousand Loves sit melting in her eye ;
Love lights her smile — in Joy's red nectar dips
His myrtle flower, and plants it on her lips.
She speaks ! and hark that passion- warbled song —
Still, Fancy ! still that voice, those notes prolong,
As sweet as when that voice with rapturous falls
Shall wake the soften'd echoes of Heaven's halls !

O (have I sigh'd) were mine the wizard's rod,
Or mine the power of Proteus, changeful god !
A flower-entangled arbor I would seem,
To shield my Love from noontide's sultry beam :
Or bloom a Myrtle, from whose odorous boughs
My love might weave gay garlands for her brows.
When twilight stole across the fading vale,
To fan my love I'd be the Evening Gale;
Mourn in the soft folds of her swelling vest,
And flutter my faint pinions on her breast !
On Seraph wing I 'd float a Dream by night,
To soothe my Love with shadows of delight :—
Or soar aloft to be the Spangled Skies,
And gaze upon her with a thousand eyes !

As when the Savage, who his drowsy frame
Had bask'd beneath the Sun's unclouded flame,
Awakes amid the troubles of the air,
The skiey deluge, and white lightning's glare —
Aghast he scours before the tempest's sweep,
And sad recalls the sunny hour of sleep : —
So toss'd by storms along Life's wildering way,
Mine eye reverted views that cloudless day,
When by my native brook I wont to rove,
Wnile Hope with kisses nursed the Infant Love.

Dear native brook ! like Peace, so placidly
Smoothing through fertile fields thy current meek !
Dear native brook ! where first young Poesy
Siared wildly-eager in her noontide dream!
Where blameless pleasures dimple Quiet's cheek,
As water-lilies ripple thy slow stream!
Dear native haunts ! where Virtue still is gay,
Where Friendship's fix'd star sheds a mellow'd ray,
Where Love a crown of thornless Roses wears,
Where soften'd Sorrow smiles within her tears ;
And Memory, with a Vestal's chaste employ,
Unceasing feeds the lambent flame of joy!

No more your sky-larks melting from the sight
Shall thrill the attuned heart-string with delight —
No more shall deck your pensive Pleasures sweet
With wreaths of sober hue my evening seat.
Yet dear to Fancy's eye your varied scene
Of wood, hill, dale, and sparkling brook between
Yet sweet to Fancy's ear the warbled song,
That soars on Morning's wings your vales among

Scenes of my Hope ! the aching eye ye leave,
Like yon bright hues that paint the clouds of evo
Tearful and saddening with the sadden'd blaze,
Mine eye the gleam pursues with wistful gaze,
Sees shades on shades with deeper tint impend,
Till chill and damp the moonless night descend

THE ROSE.

As late each flower that sweetest blows
I pluck'd, the Garden's pride !
Within the petals of a Rose
A sleeping Love I spied.

Around his brows a beamy wreath
Of many a lucent hue ;
All purple, glow'd his cheek, beneath
Inebriate with dew.

I' softly seized the unguarded Power,
Nor scared his balmy rest;
And placed him, caged within the flower
On spotless Sara's breast.

But when unweeting of the guile
Awoke the prisoner sweet,
He struggled to escape awhile,
And stamp'd his faery feet.

Ah ! soon the soul-entrancing sight
Subdued the impatient boy !
He gazed! he Ihrill'd with deep delight
Then clapp'd his wings for joy.

" And O! he cried — " Of magic kind
What charm this Throne endear !
Some other Love let Venus find —
I '11 fix my empire here."

THE KISS.

One kiss, dear Maid ! I said and sigh'd-
Your scorn the little boon denied.
Ah why refuse the blameless bliss ?
Can danger lurk within a kiss ?

Yon viewless Wanderer of the vale,
The Spirit of the Western Gale,
At Morning's break, at Evening's closo
Inhales the sweetness of the Rose.
And hovers o'er the uninjured bloom
Sighing back the soft perfume.
Vigor to the Zephyr's wing
Her nectar-breathing kisses fling;
16

JUVENILE POEMS.

And He the glitter of the Dew
Scatters on the Rose's hue.
Bashful, lo ! she bends her head,
And darts a blush of deeper red !

Too well those lovely lips disclose
The triumphs of the opening Rose ;
O fair ! O graceful ! bid them prove
As passive to the breath of Love.
In tender accents, faint and low,
Well-pleased I hear the wbisper'd " No ! "
The whisper'd " No " — how little meant !
Sweet falsehood that endears consent !
For on those lovely lips the while
Dawns the soft-relenting smile,
And tempts with feign'd dissuasion coy
The gentle violence of Joy.

TO A YOUNG ASS.

ITS MOTHER BEING TETHERED NEAR IT.

Poor little foal of an oppressed race !

{ love the languid patience of thy face :

Vnd oft with gentle hand I give thee bread,

\nd clap thy ragged coat, and pat thy head.

Jut what thy dulled spirits hath dismay'd,

Fhat never thou dost sport along the glade ?

\nd (most unlike the nature of things young)

Fhat earthward still thy moveless head is hung ?

Do thy prophetic fears anticipate,

Meek Child of Misery ! thy future fate ?

The starving meal, and all the thousand aches

" Which patient merit of the unworthy takes ?"

Or is thy sad heart thrill'd with filial pain

To see thy wretched mother's shorten'd chain ?

And truly, very piteous is her lot —

Chain'd to a log within a narrow spot

Where the close-eaten grass is scarcely seen,

While sweet around her waves the tempting green !

Poor Ass ! thy master should have learnt to show

Pity — best taught by fellowship of woe !

For much I fear me that he lives like thee,

Half famish'd in a land of luxury !

How askingly its footsteps hither bend ?

It seems to say, " And have I then one friend ?"

Innocent Foal ! thou poor despised forlorn !

I hail thee brother — spite of the fool's scorn !

And fain would take thee with me, in the dell

Of peace and mild equality to dwell,

Where Toil shall call the charmer Health his Bride,

And Laughter tickle Plenty's ribless side !

How thou wouldst toss thy heels in gamesome play,

And frisk about, as lamb or kitten gay !

Yea ! and more musically sweet to me

Thy dissonant harsh bray of joy would be,

Than warbled melodies that soothe to rest

The aching of pale fashion's vacant breast !

DOMESTIC PEACE.

Tell me, on what holy ground
May Domestic Peace be found ?
Halcyon Daughter of the skies,
Far on fearful wines she flies.

From the pomp of sceptred state,
From the rebel's noisy hate.
In a cotlaged vale She dwells
Listening to the Sabbath bells •
Still around her steps are seen
Spotless Honor's meeker mien,
Love, tne sire of pleasing fears,
Sorrow smiling through her tears,
And, conscious of the past employ,
Memory, bosom-spring of joy

THE SIGH

When Youth his faery reign began
Ere sorrow had proclaim'd me man ;
While Peace the present hour beguiled.
And all the lovely prospect smiled ,•
Then, Mary ! 'mid my lightsome glee
I heaved the painless Sigh for thee.

And when,*along the waves of woe,
My harass'd heart was doom'd to know
The frantic burst of outrage keen,
And the slow pang that gnaws unseen ;
Then shipwreck'd on life's stormy sea,
I heaved an anguish'd Sigh for thee '

But soon reflection's power impress'd
A stiller sadness on my breast ;
And sickly hope with waning eye
Was well content to droop and die :
I yielded to the stern decree,
Yet heaved a languid Sigh for thee !

And though in distant climes to roam,
A wanderer from my native home,
I fain would soothe the sense of Care
And lull to sleep the Joys that were !
Thy Image may not banish'd be —
Still, Mary ! still I sigh for thee.
June, 1794.

EPITAPH ON AN INFANT.

Ere Sin could blight or Sorrow fade,
Death came with friendly care ;

The opening bud to Heaven convey'd,
And bade it blossom there.

LINES WRITTEN AT THE KING'S ARMS
ROSS.

FORMERLY THE HOUSE OF THE " MAN OF ROSS."

Richer than miser o'er his countless hoards,

Nobler than kings, or king-polluted lords,

Here dwelt the man of Ross! O Traveller, hear!

Departed merit claims a reverent tear.

Friend to the friendless, to the sick man health,

With generous joy he view'd his modest wealth ,

He hears the widow's heaven-brealh'd prayer ot

praise,
He mark'd the shelter'd orphan's tearful gaze,
Or where the sorrow-shrivell'd captive lay,
Pours the bright blaze of Freedom's noontide ray.
Beneath this roof if thy checr'd moments pass,
{Fill to the good man's name one grateful giasw

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

To higher zest shall Memory wake thy soul,
And Virtue mingle in the ennobled bowl.
But if, like me, through life's distressful scene,
Lonely and sad, thy pilgrimage hath been ;
And if thy breast with heart-sick anguish fraught,
Thou journeyest onward tempest-toss'd in thought ;
Here cheat thy cares ! in generous visions melt,
And dream of goodness, thou hast never felt !

LINES TO A BEAUTIFUL SPRING IN A
VILLAGE.

Once more, sweet Stream ! with slow foot wander-
ing near,
I bless thy milky waters cold and clear.
Escaped the flashing of the noontide hours
With one fresh garland of Pierian flowers
(Ere from thy zephyr-haunted brink I turn)
My languid hand shall wreath thy mossy urn.
For not through pathless grove with murmur rude
Thou soothest the sad wood-nymph, Solitude ;
Nor thine unseen in cavern depths to well,
The Hermit-fountain of some dripping cell !
Pride of the Vale ! thy useful streams supply
The scatter'd cots and peaceful hamlet nigh.
The elfin tribe around thy friendly banks
With infant uproar and soul-soothing pranks,
Released from school, their little hearts at rest,
Launch paper navies on thy waveless breast.
The rustic here at eve with pensive look
Whistling lorn ditties leans upon his crook,
Or, starting, pauses with hope-mingled dread
To list the much-loved maid's accustom'd tread :
She, vainly mindful of her dame's command,
Loiters, the long-fill'd pitcher in her hand.
Unboastful Stream ! thy fount with pebbled falls
The faded form of past delight recalls,
What time the morning sun of Hope arose,
And all was joy ; save when another's woes
A transient gloom upon my soul imprest,
Like passing clouds impictured on thy breast.
Life's current then ran sparkling to the noon,
Or silvery stole beneath the pensive Moon :
Ah ! now it works rude brakes and thorns among,
Or o'er the rough rock bursts and foams along !

LINES ON A FRIEND,

WHO DIED OF A FRENZY FEVER INDUCED BY CALUM-
NIOUS REPORTS.

Edmund! thy grave with aching eye I scan,

And inly groan for Heaven's poor outcast, — Man !

'Tis tempest all or gloom : in early youth,

If gifted with the Ithuriel lance of Truth,

We force to start amid her feign'd caress

Vice, siren-hag ! in native ugliness ;

A brother's fate will haply rouse the tear,

Apd on we go in heaviness and fear !

But if our fond hearts call to Pleasure's bower

Some pigmy Folly in a careless hour,

'"he faithless guest shall stamp the enchanted ground

And mingled forms of Misery rise around :

Heart-fretting Fear, with pallid look aghast,

That courts the future woe to hide the past ;

Remorse, the poison'd arrow in his side,

And loud lewd Mirth, to anguish close allied :

Till Frenzy, fierce-eyed child of moping pain,

Darts her hot lightning flash athwart the brain.

Rest, injured shade ! Shall Slander squatting near

Spit her cold venom in a dead Man's ear ?

'Twas thine to feel the sympathetic glow

In Merit's joy, and Poverty's meek woe ,

Thine all that cheer the moment as it flies,

The zoneless Cares, and smiling Courtesies

Nursed in thy heart the firmer Virtues grew,

And in thy heart they wither'd ! Such chill dew

Wan indolence on each young blossom shed ;

And Vanity her filmy net-work spread,

With eye that roll'd around, in asking gaze,

And tongue that traffick'd in the trade of praise.

Thy follies such ! the hard world mark'd them well

Were they more wise, the proud who never fell ?

Rest, injur'd shade ! the poor man's grateful prayer

On heavenward wing thy wounded soul shall bear

As oft at twilight gloom thy grave I pass,

And sit me down upon its recent grass,

With introverted eye I contemplate

Similitude of soul, perhaps of — Fate !

To me hath Heaven with bounteous hand assign'd

Energic Reason and a shaping mind,

The daring ken of Truth, the Patriot's part,

And Pity's sigh, that breathes the gentle heart.

Sloth-jaundic'd all ! and from my graspless hand

Drop Friendship's precious pearls, like hour-glaa

sand.
I weep, yet stoop not ! the faint anguish flows,
A dreamy pang in Morning's feverish doze.

Is this piled earth our being's passless mound 7
Tell me, cold grave ! is Death with poppies crown 'd
Tired sentinel ! 'mid fitful starts I nod,
And fain would sleep, though pillow'd on a clod !

TO A YOUNG LADY, WITH A POEM ON
THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.

Much on my early youth I love to dwell,
Ere yet I bade that friendly dome farewell,
Where first, beneath the echoing cloisters pale,
I heard of guilt and wonder'd at the tale !
Yet though the hours flew by on careless wing,
Full heavily of Sorrow would I sing.
Aye as the star of evening flung its beam
In broken radiance on the wavy stream,
My soul amid the pensive twilight gloom
Moum'd with the breeze, O Lee Boo!* o'er thy tomb
Where'er I wander'd. Pity still was near,
Breathed from the heart and glisten'd in the tear ■
No knell that toll'd, but fill'd my anxious eye,
And suffering Nature wept that one should die !t

Thus to sad sympathies I soothed my breast,
Calm, as the rainbow in the weeping West :
When slumbering Freedom roused with high disda-t
With giant fury burst her triple chain .'

* Lee Boo, the son of Abba Thule, Prince of the Pelew Isl-
ands, came over to England with Captain Wilson, died of the
small-pox, and is buried in Greenwich church-yard.— See Keatc's,
Account.

t Southey's Retrospect.

18

JUVENILE POEMS.

Fierce on her front the blasting Dog-star glow'd ;
Her banner? like a midnight meteor, flow'd ;
Amid the yelling of the storm-rent skies !
She came, and scatter'd battles from her eyes !
Then Exultation waked the patriot fire,
And swept with wilder hand the Alcasan lyre .
Red from the tyrant's wound I shook the lance,
And strode in joy the reeking plains of France !

Fallen is the oppressor, friendless, ghastly, low,
And my heart aches, though Mercy struck the blow.
With wearied thought once more I seek the shade,
Where peaceful Virtue weaves the myrtle braid.
And O! if eyes whose holy' glances roll,
Swift messengers, and eloquent of soul ;
If smiles more winning, and a gentler mien
Than the love-wilder'd Maniac's brain hath seen
Shaping celestial forms in vacant air,
If these demand the impassion'd poet's care —
If Mirth and soften'd Sense and Wit refined,
The blameless features of a lovely mind ;
Then haply shall my trembling hand assign
No fading wreath to beauty's saintly shrine.
Nor, Sara ! thou these early flowers refuse —
Ne'er lurk'd the snake beneath their simple hues ;
No purple bloom the child of nature brings
From Flattery's night-shade ; as he feels, he sings.
September, 1792.

SONNET.

Content, as random Fancies might inspire,
If his weak harp at times, or lonely lyre
He struck with desultory hand, and drew
Somo soften'd tones to Nature not untrue.

Botcles

My heart has thank'd thee, Bowles ! for those soft

strains,
Whose sadness soothes me, like the murmuring
Of wild-bees in the sunny showers of spring !
For hence not callous to the mourner's pains
Through youth's gay prime and thornless path

went :
And when the mightier throes of man began,
And drove me forth, a thought-bewilder'd man !
Their mild and manliest melancholy lent
A mingled charm, such as the pang consign'd
To slumber, though the big tear it renew'd ;
Bidding a strange mysterious Pleasure brood
Over the wavy and tumultuous mind,
As the great Spirit erst with plastic sweep
Moved on the darkness of the unform'd deep.

SONNET.

As late I lay in slumber's shadowy vale,
With wetted cheek and in a mourner's guise,

saw the sainted form of Freedom rise :
She spake! not sadder moans the autumnal gale —
" Great Son of Genius ! sweet to me thy name,
Ere m an evil hour wilh alter'd voice
Thou badst Oppression's hireling crew rejoice,
Blasting wilh wizard spell my laurell'd fame.
Yet never, Burke ! thou drank'st Corruption's bowl !
The stormy Pity and the cherish'd lure
C

Of Pomp, and proud Precipitance of soul
Wilder'd with meteor fires. Ah spirit pure '
That error's mist had left thy purged eye :
So might I clasp thee with a mother's joy !

SONNET.

Though roused by that dark Vizir, Riot rude
Have driven our Priest over the ocean swell
Though Superstition and her wolfish brood
Bay his mild radiance, impotent and fell ;
Calm in his halls of brightness he shall dwell
For lo ! Religion at his strong behest
Starts wnth mild anger from the Papal spell,
And flings to earth her tinsel-glittering vest,
Her mitred state and cumbrous pomp unholy ;
And Justice wakes to bid the Oppressor wail,
Insulting aye the wrongs of patient Folly :
And from her dark retreat by Wisdom won,
Meek Nature slowly lifts her matron veil
To smile with fondness on her gazing son !

SONNET.

When British Freedom for a happier land

Spread her broad wings, that flutter'd with affright,

Erskine ! thy voice she heard, and paused her fli&tu

Sublime of hope ! For dreadless thou didst stand

(Thy censer glowing with the hallow'd flame)

A hireless Priest before the insulted shrine,

And at her altar pour the stream divine

Of unmatched eloquence. Therefore thy name

Her sons shall venerate, and cheer thy breast

With blessings heavenward breathed. And whcr?

the doom
Of Nature bids thee die Vyond the tomb
Thy light shall shine : as s>*xik. beneath the West,
Though the great Summer Sui* eludes our gaze,
Still burns wide Heaven with his distended blaze.

SONNET.

It was some Spirit, Sheridan ! that breathed

O'er thy young mind such wildly various power !

My soul hath mark'd thee in her shaping hour,

Thy temples with Hymettian flow'rets wreaihed:

And sweet thy voice, as when o'er Laura's bier

Sad music trembled through Vauclusa's glalo;

Sweet, as at dawn the lovelorn serenade

That wafts soft dreams to Slumber's listening g*?

Now patriot rage and indignation high

Swell the full tones! And now thine eye-beam

dance
Meaning of Scorn and Wit's quaint revelry!
Writhes inly from the bosom-probing glance
The Apostate by the brainless rout adored,
As erst that elder fiend beneath great Michael's sword

SONNET.

O what a loud and fearful shriek was there,
As though a thousand souls one death-groan pourV
Ah me ! they view'd beneath a hireling's sword
Fallen Kosciusko! Through the burthen'd ai»

10

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

vAs pauses the tired Cossack's barbarous yell

Of tri imph) on the chill and midnight gale

Rises with frantic burst or sadder swell

The dirge of murder'd Hope ! while Freedom pale

Bends in such anguish o'er her destined bier,

As if from eldest time some Spirit meek

[lad gather'd in a mystic urn each tear

That ever on a Patriot's furrow'd cheek

Fit channel found; and she had drain'd the bowl

In the mere wilfulness, and sick despair of soul !

SONNET.

As when far off the warbled strains are heard
That soar on Morning's wing the vales among,
Within his cage the imprison'd matin bird
Swells the full chorus with a generous song:
fie bathes no pinion in the dewy light,
No Father's joy, no Lover's bliss he shares,
Vet still the rising radiance cheers his sight ;
His Fellows' freedom soothes the Captive's cares :
Thou, Fayette! who didst wake with startling voice
Life's better sun from that long wintry night,
Thus in thy Country's triumphs shalt rejoice,
And mock with raptures high the dungeon's might:
For lo! the morning struggles into day,
And Slavery's spectres shriek and vanish from the
ray!

SONNET.

Titou gentle Look, that didst my soul beguile,
Why hast thou left me? Still in some fond dream
Revisit my sad heart, auspicious Smile !
As falls on closing flowers the lunar beam :
What time, in sickly mood, at parting day
I lay me down and think of happier years ;
Of joys, that glimmer'd in Hope's twilight ray,
Then left me darkling in a vale of tears.
O pleasant days of Hope — for ever gone !
Could I recall you ! — But that thought is vain.
Availeth not Persuasion's sweetest tone
To lure the fleet-wing'd travellers back again:
Yet fair, though faint, their images shall gleam
Like the bright rainbow on a willowy stream.

SONNET.

Pale Roamer through the Night; thou poor Forlorn!
Remorse that man on his death-bed possess,
Who in the credulous hour of tenderness
Betray'd, then cast thee forth to Want and Scorn!
The world is pitiless: the Chaste one's pride,
Mimic of Virtue, scowls on thy distress:
Thy loves and they, that envied thee, deride :
And Vice alone will shelter wretchedness.
O! I am saa to think, that there should be
Cold-bosom'd lewd ones, who endure to place
Fcul offerings on the shrine of Misery,
And force from Famine the caress of Love ;
May He shed healing on the sore disgrace,
tie, the great Comforter that rales above !

SONNET.

Sweet Mercy ! how my very heart has bled
To see thee, poor Old Man! and thy gray hairs
Hoar with the snowy blast: while no one cares
To clothe thy shrivell'd limbs and palsied head.
My Father! throw away this tatter'd vest
That mocks thy shivering! take my garment — use
A young man's arm! I'll melt these frozen dews
That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast
My Sara too shall tend thee, like a Child :
And thou shalt talk, in our fire-side's recess,
Of purple Pride, that scowls on Wretchedness.
He did not so, the Galila?an mild,
Who met the Lazars turn'd from rich men's doors,
And call'd them Friends, and heal'd their noisorn«
Sores !

SONNET.

Thou bleedest, my poor Heart! and thy distress
Reasoning I ponder with a scornful smile,
And probe thy sore wound sternly, though the while
Swoln be mine eye and dim with heaviness.
Why didst tnou listen to Hope's whisper bland?
Or, listening, why forget the healing tale,
When Jealousy with feverish fancies pale
Jarr'd thy fine fibres with a maniac's hand ?
Faint was that Hope, and rayless! — Yet 'twas fair
And soothed with many a dream the hour of rest:
Thou shouldst have loved it most, when most oppresl
And nursed it with an agony of Care,
Even as a Mother her sweet infant heir
That wan ani sickly droops upon her breast!

SONNET.

TO THE AUTHOR OF THE " ROBBERS.

Schiller! that hour I would have wished to die,
If through the shuddering midnight I had sent
From the dark dungeon of the tower time-rent
That fearful voice, a famish'd Father's cry —
Lest in some after moment aught more mean
Might stamp me mortal ! A triumphant shout
Black Horror scream'd, and all her goblin rout
Diminish'd shrunk from the more withering scene!
Ah Bard tremendous in sublimity!
Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood
Wandering at eve with finely frenzied eye
Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood ;
Awhile with mute awe gazing I would brood:
Then weep aloud in a wild ecstasy !

LINES

COMPOSED WHILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCESTT 01
BR0CKLEY COOMB, SOMERSETSHIRE, MAY, 1795.

With many a pause and oft reverted eye
I climb the Coomb's ascent : sweet songsters neat
Warble in shade their wild-wood melody :
Far off the unvarying Cuckoo soothes my ear.
Up scour the startling stragglers of the Flock
That on green plots o'er precipices browse :
From the forced fissures of the naked rock
The Yew-tree bursts ! Beneath its dark green bougn*

20

JUVENILE POEMS.

^Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms white)
Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats,
I rest : — and now have gain'd the topmost site.
All ! what a luxury of landscape meets
My gaze ! Proud Towers, and Cots more dear to me,
Elm-shadow'd Fields, and prospect-bounding Sea !
Deep sighs my lonely heart I drop the tear :
Enchanting spot! O were my Sara here!

LINES

IN THE MANNER OF SPENSER.

0 Peacf ! that on a lilied bank dost love
To rect thine head beneath an Olive Tree,

1 would, that from the pinions of thy Dove
One quill withouten pain ypluck'd might be !
For O ! I wish my Sara's frowns to flee,

And fain to hoi* some soothing song would write,
Lest she tesent my rude discourtesy,
Who vow'd to meet her ere the morning light,
But broke my plighted word — ah! false and recreant
wight !

Last night as I my weary head did pillow
With thoughts of my dissever'd Fair engross' d,
Chill Fancy droop'd wreathing herself with willow,
As though my breast entomb'd a pining ghost.
4 From some blest couch, young Rapture's bridal

boast,
Rejected Slumber ! hither wing thy way ;
But leave me with the matin hour, at most !
As night-closed Floweret to the orient ray,
My sad heart will expand, when I the Maid survey."

But Love, who heard the silence of my thought,
Contrived a too successful wile, I ween :
And whisper'd to himself, with malice fraught —
" Too long our Slave the Damsel's smiles hath seen :
To-morrow shall he ken her alter'd mien ! "
He spake, and ambush'd lay, till on my bed
The morning shot her dewy glances keen,
When as I 'gan to lift my drowsy head —
" Now, Bard ! I '11 work thee woe ! " the laughing
Elfin said.

Sleep, softly-breathing God ! his downy wing
Was fluttering now, as quickly to depart ;
When twang'd an arrow from Love's mystic string,
With pathless wound it pierced him to the heart.
Was there some magic in the Elfin's dart ?
Or did he strike my couch with wizard lance ?
For straight so fair a Form did upwards start
(No fairer deck'd the Bowers of old Romance)
That Sleep enamour'd grew, nor moved from his
sweet trance !

My Sara came, with gentlest look divine ;

Bright shone her eye, yet tender was its beam :

I felt the pressure of her lip to mine !

Whispering we went, and Love was all our theme —

Love pure and spotless, as at first, I deem,

He sprang from Heaven ! Such joys with Sleep did

'bide,
That I the living Image of my Dream
Fondly forgot. Too late I woke, and sigh'd —
'O! how shall 1 behold mv Love at eventide !"

IMITATED FROM OSSIAN.

The stream with languid murmur creeps,

In Lumin's flowery vale :
Beneath the dew the Lily weeps,

Slow-waving to the gale.

" Cease, restless gale ! " it seems to say,
" Nor wake me with thy sighing !

The honors of my vernal day
On rapid wing are flying.

" To-morrow shall the Traveller come
Who late beheld me blooming :

His searching eye shall vainly roam
The dreary vale of Lumin."

With eager gaze and wetted cheek
My wonted haunts along,

Thus, faithful Maiden ! thou shalt seek
The Youth of simplest song.

But I along the breeze shall roll
The voice of feeble power ;

And dwell, the moon-beam of thy soul,
In Slumber's nightly hour.

THE COMPLAINT OF NINATHOMA

How long will ye round me be swelling,

O ye blue-tumbling waves of the Sea ?
Not always in Caves was my dwelling,

Nor beneath the cold blast of the Tree.
Through the high-sounding halls of Cathloma

In the steps of my beauty I stray'd ;
The Warriors beheld Ninathoma,

And they blessed the white-bosom'd Maid !

A Ghost ! by my cavern it darted !

In moon-beams the Spirit was drest —
For lovely appear the departed

When they visit the dreams of my rest !
But, disturb'd by the Tempest's commotion,

Fleet the shadowy forms of Delight —
Ah cease, thou shrill blast of the Ocean !

To howl through my Cavern by Night.

IMITATED FROM THE WELSH

If, while my passion I impart,
You deem my words untrue,

O place your hand upon my heart —
Feel how it throbs for you !

Ah no ! reject the thoughtless claim,

In pity to your lover !
That thrilling touch would aid the fltrae

It wishes to discover.

TO AN INFANT.

An cease thy tears and Sobs, my little Life '
I did but snatch away the unclasp'd Knife :
Some safer Toy will soon arrest thine eye,
And to quick Laughter change this peevish *> r '
4 21

12

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

Poor Stumbler on the rocky coast of Woe,
Tutor'd by Pain each source of Pain to know !
Alike the foodful fruit and scorching fire
Awake thy eager grasp and young desire ;
Alike the Good, the 111 offend thy sight,
And rouse the stormy sense of shrill affright !
Untaught, yet wise ! 'mid all thy brief alarms
Thou closely clingest to thy Mother's arms,
Nestling thy little face in that fond breast
Whose anxious heavings lull thee to thy rest !
Man's breathing Miniature ! thou makest me sigh —
A Babe art thou — and such a thing am I !
To anger rapid and as soon appeased,
For trifles mourning and by trifles pleased,
Break Friendship's Mirror with a techy blow,
Yet snatch what coals of fire on Pleasure's altar
glow !

O thou that rearest with celestial aim

The future Seraph in my mortal frame,

Thrice-holy Faith ! whatever thorns I meet

As on I totter with unpractised feet,

Still let rne stretch my arms and cling to thee,

Meek Nurse of Souls through their long Infancy !

LINES

WRITTEN' AT SIIURT0N BARS, NEAR BRIDGEWATER,
SEPTEMBER, 1795, IN ANSWER TO A LETTER
FROM BRISTOL.

Good verse most good, and bad verse then seems better

Received from absent friend by way of Letter.

For what so sweet can labor'd lays impart

As one rude rhyme warm from a friendly heart?

Anon.

Nor travels my meandering eye
The starry wilderness on high ;

Nor now with curious sight
I mark the glow-worm, as I pass,
Move with " green radiance " through the grass

An emerald of light.

0 ever present to my view !
My wafted spirit is with you,

And soothes your boding fears :

1 see you all oppress'd with gloom
Sit lonely in that cheerless room—

Ah me ! You are in tears !

Beloved Woman ! did you fly

Chill'd Friendship s dark disliking eye,

Or Mirth's untimelv din ?
With cruel weight these trifles press
A temper sore with tenderness,

When aches the void within.

But why with sable wand unbless'd
Should Fancy rouse within my breast

Dirn-visaged shapes of Dread ?
Untenanting its beauteous clay
My Sara's soul has wing'd its way,

And hovers round my head !

[ felt it prompt the tender Dream,
When slowlv sunk the day's last gleam ;

You roused each gentler sense
As, sighing o'er the Blossom's bloom,
Meek Evening wakes its soft perfume

With viewless influence.

And hark, my Love ! The sea-breeze moans
Through yon reft house ! O'er rolling stones

In bold ambitious sweep,
The onward-surging tides supply
The silence of the cloudless sky

With mimic thunders deep.

Dark reddening from the channell'd Isle*
(Where stands one solitary pile

Unslated by the blast)
The Watch-fire, like a sullen star
Twinkles to many a dozing Tar

Rude cradled on the mast.

Even there — beneath that light-house tower-
In the tumultuous evil hour

Ere Peace with Sara came,
Time was, I should have thought it sweet
To count the echoings of my feet,

And watch the storm-vex'd flame.

And there in black soul-jaundiced fit
A sad gloom-pamper'd Man to sit,

And listen to the roar :
When Mountain Surges bellowing deep
With an uncouth monster leap

Plunged foaming on the shore.

Then by the Lightning's blaze to mark
Some toiling tempest-shatter'd bark ,•

Her vain distress-guns hear ;
And when a second sheet of light
Flash'd o'er the blackness of the night —

To see no Vessel there !

But Fancy now more gaily sings :
Or if awhile she droop her wings,

As sky-larks 'mid the corn,
On summer fields she grounds her breast :
The oblivious Poppy o'er her nest

Nods, till returning morn.

O mark those smiling tears, that swell
The open'd Rose ! From heaven they fell,

And with the sun-beam blend.
Bless'd visitations from above,
Such are the tender woes of Love

Fostering the heart, they bend !

When stormy Midnight howling round
Beats on our roof with clattering sound,

To me your arms you 'II stretch :
Great God ! you '11 say — To us so kind,
O shelter from this loud bleak wind

The houseless, friendless wretch!

The tears that tremble down your cheek,
Shall bathe my kisses chaste and meek

* The Holmes, in the Bristol Channe\.
22

JUVENILE POEMS.

13

In Pity's dew divine ;
And from your heart the sighs that steal
Shall make your rising bosom feel

The answering swell of mine !

How oft, my Love ! with shapings sweet
I paint the moment we shall meet !

With eager speed I dart —
I seize you in the vacant air,
A.nd fancy, with a Husband's care

I press you to my heart !

'T is said, on Summer's evening hour
Flashes the golden-color'd flower

A fair electric flame :
And so shall flash my love-charged eye
When all the heart's big ecstasy

Shoots rapid through the frame !

(

TO A FRIEND IN

LINES

ANSWER TO A MELANCHOLY
LETTER.

Away, those cloudy looks, that laboring sigh,
The peevish offspring of a sickly hour !
Nor meanly thus complain of Fortune's power,
When the blind Gamester throws a luckless die.

Yon setting Sun flashes a mournful gleam
Behind those broken clouds, his stormy train :
To-morrow shall the many-color'd main
In brightness roll beneath his orient beam !

Wild, as the autumnal gust, the hand of Time
Flies o'er his mystic lyre : in shadowy dance
The alternate groups of Joy and Grief advance,
Responsive to his varying strains sublime !

Bears on its wing each hour a load of Fate ;
The swain, who, lull'd by Seine's mild murmurs, led
His wear}' oxen to their nightly shed,
To-day may rule a tempest-troubled State.

Nor shall not Fortune with a vengeful smile
Survey the sanguinary Despot's might,
And haply hurl the Pageant from his height,
Unwept to wander in some savage isle.

There, shiv'ring sad beneath the tempest's frown,
Round his tir'd limbs to wrap the purple vest ;
And mix'd with nails and beads, an equal jest !
Barter, for food, the jewels of his crown.

RELIGIOUS MUSINGS;

A DESULTORY POEM,
WRITTEN ON THE CHRISTMAS EVE OF 1794.

Tins is the time, when most divine to hear,

The voice of Adoration rouses me,

As with a Cherub's trump : and high upbome,

Yea, mingling with the Choir, I seem to view

The vision of the heavenly multitude,

Who hymn'd the song of Peace o'er Bethlehem';

fields !
Yet thou more bright than all the Angel blaze.
That harbingcr'd thy birth, Thou, Man of Woes !
C2

Despised Galilean ! For the Great
Invisible (by symbols only seen)
With a peculiar and surpassing light
Shines from the visage of the oppress'd good Man
When heedless of himself the scourged Saint
Mourns for the Oppressor. Fair the vernal Mead
Fair the high Grove, the Sea, the Sun, the Stars ,
True impress each of their creating Sire !
Yet nor high Grove, nor many-color'd Mead,
Nor the green Ocean with his thousand Isles,
Nor the starr'd Azure, nor the sovran Sun,
E 'er with such majesty of portraiture
Imaged the supreme beauty uncreate,
As thou, meek Savior ! at the fearful hour
When thy insulted Anguish wing'd the prayer
Harp'd by Archangels, when they sing of Mercy !
Which when the Almighty heard from forth his

Throne,
Diviner tight fill'd Heaven with ecstasy !
Heaven's hymnings paused and Hell her yawning

mouth
Closed a brief moment.

Lo\ ely was the death
Of Him whose life was lqjp% ! Holy with power
He on the thought-benighted sceptic beam'd
Manifest Godhead, melting into day
What floating mists of dark Idolatry
Broke and misshaped the Omnipresent Sire :
And first by Fear uncharm'd the drowned Soul.*
Till of its nobler nature it 'gan feel
Dim recollections : and thence soar'd to Hope,
Strong to believe whate'er of mystic good
The Eternal dooms for his immortal Sons.
From Hope and firmer Faith to perfect Lcve
Attracted and absorb'd : and centred thert
God only to behold, and know, and feel,
Till by exclusive Consciousness of God
All self-annihilated it shall make
God its Identity : God all in all !
We and our Father one !

And bless'd are they,
Who in this fleshly World, the elect of Heaven,
Their strong eye darting through the deeds of Men,
Adore with stedfast unpresuming gaze
Hirn Nature's Essence, Mind, and Energy !
And gazing, trembling, patiently ascend
Treading beneath their feet all visible tilings
As steps, that upward to their Father's Throne
Lead gradual — else nor glorified nor loved.
They nor Contempt embosom nor Revenge.
For they dare know of what may seem deform
The Supreme Fair sole Operant : in whose sight
All things are pure, his strong controlling Love
Alike from all educing perfect good.
Theirs too celestial courage, inly arm'd —
Dwarfing Earth's giant brood, what time they muse
On their great Father, great beyond compare !
And marching onwards view high o'er their heads
His waving Banners of Omnipotence.

"Who the Creator love, created might

Dread not : within their tents no terrors walk.

* To Nor/rov bi-npriKaciv ei$ 7roAAu)V

Dam as. de Myst. JEgyj,t.
23

14

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

For they are holy things before the Lord,

Aye unprofaned, though Earth should league with

Hell;
God's Altar grasping with an eager hand,
Fear, the wild-visaged, pale, eye-starting wretch,
Sure-refuged hears his hot pursuing fiends
Yell at vain distance. Soon refresh'd from Heaven,
He calms the throb and tempest of his heart.
His countenance settles ; a soft solemn bliss
Swims in his eye — his swimming eye upraised :
And Faith's whole armor glitters on his limbs !
And thus transfigured with a dreadless awe,
A solemn hush of soul, meek he beholds
All things of terrible seeming: yea, unmoved
Views e'en the immitigable ministers
That shower down vengeance on these latter days.
For kindling with intenser Deity
From the celestial Mercy-seat they come,
And at the renovating Wells of Love
Have fiU'd their Vials with salutary Wrath,
To sickly Nature more medicinal
Than what soft balm the weeping good man pours
Into the lone despoiled traveller's wounds !

Thus from the Elect, regenerate through faith,
Pass the dark Passions and what thirsty Cares
Drink up the spirit and the dim regards
Self-centre. Lo they vanish! or acquire
New names, new features — by supernal grace
Enrobed with light, and naturalized in Heaven.
As when a shepherd on a vernal morn
Through some thick fog creeps timorous with slow

foot,
Darkling he fixes on the immediate road
His downward eye: all else of fairest kind
Hid or deform'd. But lo ! the bursting Sun !
Touch'd by the enchantment of that sudden beam,
Straight the black vapor melteth, and in globes
Of dewy glitter gems each plant and tree ;
On every leaf, on every blade it hangs !
Dance glad the new-born intermingling rays,
And wide around the landscape streams with glory!

There is one Mind, one omnipresent Mind,

Omhific. His most holy name is Love.

Truth of subliming import ! with the which

Who feeds and saturates his constant soul,

He from his small particular orbit flies

With bless'd outstarting ! From Himself he flies,

Stands in the Sun, and with no partial gaze

Views all creation ; and he loves it all,

And blesses it, and calls it very good !

This is indeed to dwell with the Most High !

Cherubs and rapture-trembling Seraphim

Can press no nearer to the Almighty's Throne.

But that we roam unconscious, or with hearts

Unfeeling of our universal Sire,

And that in his vast family no Cain

Injures uninjured Cm her best-aim'd blow

Victorious Murder a blind Suicide),

Haply for this some younger Angel now

Looks down on Human Nature : and, behold !

A sea of blood bestrew'd with wrecks, where mad

Embattling Interests on each other rush

With unhelm'd rage !

'T is the sublime of man,
Cur noontide Majesty, to know ourselves

Parts and proportions of one wondrous whole !
This fraternizes Man, this constitutes
Our charities and bearings. But 't is God
Diffused through all, that doth make all one whole
This the worst superstition, him except
Aught to desire, Supreme Reality!
The plenitude and permanence of bliss !

0 Fiends of Superstition ! not that oft

The erring Priest hath stain'd with brother's blood
Your grisly idols, not for this may wrath
Thunder against you from the Holy One!
But o'er some plain that steameth to the sun,
Peopled with Death ; or where more hideous Trade
Loud-laughing packs his bales of human anguish :

1 will raise up a mourning, O ye Fiends !

And curse your spells, that film the eye of Faith,

Hiding the present God ; whose presence lost,

The moral world's cohesion, we become

An anarchy of Spirits ! Toy-bewifch'd,

Made blind by lusts, disherited of soul,

No common centre Man, no common sire

Knoweth ! A sordid solitary thing,

'Mid countless brethren with a lonely heart

Through courts and cities the smooth Savage roams,

Feeling himself, his own low Self the whole ;

When he by sacred sympathy might make

The whole one Self! Self that no alien knows!

Self, far diffused as Fancy's wing can travel !

Self, spreading still ! Oblivious of its own,

Yet all of all possessing! This is Faith!

This the Messiah's destin'd victory !

But first offences needs must come ! Even now*

(Black Hell laughs horrible — to hear the scoff!)

Thee to defend, meek Galibasan ! Thee

And thy mild laws of love unutterable,

Mistrust and Enmity have burst the bands

Of social Peace ; and listening Treachery lurks

With pious Fraud to snare a brother's life ;

And childless widows o'er the groaning land

Wail numberless ; and orphans weep for bread ;

Thee to defend, dear Savior of Mankind !

Thee, Lamb of God ! Thee, blameless Prince Oi

Peace !
From all sides rush the thirsty brood of War !
Austria, and that foul Woman of the North,
The lustful Murderess of her wedded Lord .
And he, connatural Mind ! whom (in their songs
So bards of elder time had haply feign'd*
Some Fury fondled in her hate to man,
Bidding her serpent hair in mazy surge
Lick his young face, and at his mouth inbreathe
Horrible sympathy ! And leagued with these
Each petty German princeling, nursed in gore !
Soul-harden'd barterers of human blood !

* January 21st, 1794, in the debate on the Address to his
Majesty, on the speech from the Throne, the Earl of Guild-
ford moved an Amendment to the following effect: — "That
the House hoped his Majesty would seize the earliest oppor-
tunity to conclude a peace with France," etc. Thin motion
was opposed by the Duke of Portland, who " considered the
war to be merely grounded on one principle — the preservatio
of the Christian Religion." May 30th, 1794, the Duke o.
Bedford moved a number of Resolutions, with a view to the
Establishment of a Peace with France. He was opposed
(among others) by Lord Abingdon in these remarkable words s
" The best road to Peace, my Lords, is War ! and War car-
ried on in the same manner in which we are taught to worshij
our Creator, namely, with all our souls, and with all out
minds, and with all our hearts, and with all our strength."
24

JUVENILE POEMS.

15

Death's prime Slave -merchants ! Scorpion-whips of

Fate .'
Nor least in savagery of holy zeal,
Apt for the yoke, the race degenerate,
Whom Britain erst had blush'd to call her sons !
Thee to defend the Moloch Priest prefers
The prayer of hate, and bellows to the herd
That Deity, Accomplice Deity
[n the fierce jealousy of waken'd wrath
Will go forth with our armies and our fleets,
To scatter the red ruin on their foes ?
0 blasphemy ! to mingle fiendish deeds
With blessedness !

4

Lord of unsleeping Love,*
From everlasting Thou ! We shall not die.
These, even these, in mercy didst thou form,
Teachers of Good through Evil, by brief wrong
Making Truth lovely, and her future might
Magnetic o'er the fix'd untrembling heart.

In the primeval age a dateless while
The vacant Shepherd wander'd with his flock,
Pitching his tent where'er the green grass waved.
But soon Imagination conjured up
An host of new desires : with busy aim,
Each for himself, Earth's eager children toil'd.
So Property began, two-streaming fount,
Whence Vice and Virtue flow, honey and gall.
Hence the soft couch, and many-color'd robe,
The timbrel, and arch'd dome and costly feast,
With all the inventive arts, that nursed the soul
To forms of beauty, and by sensual wants
(Jnsensualized the mind, which in the means
Learnt to forget the grossness of the end,
Best pleasured with its own activity.
And hence Disease that withers manhood's arm,
The dagger'd Envy, spirit-quenching Want,
Warriors, and Lords, and Priests — all the sore ills
That vex and desolate our mortal life.
Wide-wasting ills ! yet each the immediate source
Of mightier good. Their keen necessities
To ceaseless action goading human thought
Have made Earth's reasoning animal her Lord ;
And the pale-featured Sage's trembling hand
Strong as an host of armed Deities,
Such as the blind Ionian fabled erst.

From Avarice thus, from Luxury and War

Sprang heavenly Science ; and from Science

Freedom.
O'er waken'd realms Philosophers and Bards
Spread in concentric circles : they whose souls,
Conscious of their high dignities from God,
Brook not Wealth's rivalry ! and they who long
Enamour'd with the charms of order hate
The unseemly disproportion : and whoe'er
Turn with mild sorrow from the victor's car
And the low puppetry of thrones, to muse
On that blest triumph, when the patriot Sage
Call'd the red lightnings from the o'er-rushing cloud,
And dash'd the beauteous Terrors on the earth
Smiling majestic. Such a phalanx ne'er
Measured firm paces to the calming sound
Of Spartan flute ! These on the fated day,

When, stung to rage by Pity, eloquent men

Have roused with pealing voice unnumber'd tribes

That toil and groan and bleed, hungry and blind

These hush'd awhile with patient eye serene,

Shall watch the mad careering of the storm ;

Then o'er the wild and wavy chaos rush

And tame the outrageous mass, with plastic might

Moulding Confusion to such perfect forms,

As erst were wont, bright visions of the day !

To float before them, when, the Summer noon,

Beneath some arch'd romantic rock reclined,

They felt the sea-breeze lift their youthful locks ;

Or in the month of blossoms, at mild eve,

Wandering with desultory feet inhaled

The wafted perfumes, and the rocks and woods

And many-tinted streams and setting Sun

With all his gorgeous company of clouds

Ecstatic gazed ! then homeward as they stray'd

Cast the sad eye to earth, and inly mused

Why there was Misery in a world so fair.

Ah far removed from all that glads the sense,

From all that softens or ennobles Man,

The wretched Many ! Bent beneath their loans

They gape at pageant Power, nor recognize

Their cots' transmuted plunder ! From the tree

Of Knowledge, ere the vernal sap had risen

Rudely disbranch'd ! Blessed Society !

Fitliest depictured by some sun-scorch'd waste,

Where oft majestic through the tainted noon

The Simoom sails, before whose purple pomp

Who falls not prostrate dies ! And where by night

Fast by each precious fountain on green herbs

The lion couches ; or hyena dips

Deep in the lucid stream his bloody jaws •

Or serpent plants his vast moon-glittering bulk,

Caught in whose monstrous twine Behemoth* yells

His bones loud-crashing !

O ye numberless,
Whom foul Oppression's ruffian gluttony
Drives from life's plenteous feast ! O thou po*

wretch,
Who nursed in darkness and made wild by want,
Roamest for prey, yea thy unnatural hand
Dost lift to deeds of blood ! O pale-eyed form,
The victim of seduction, doom'd to know
Polluted nights and days of blasphemy ;
Who in lothed orgies with lewd wassailers
Must gaily laugh, while thy remember'd home
Gnaws like a viper at thy secret heart !
O aged Women ! ye who weekly catch
The morsel toss'd by law-forced Charity,
And die so slowly, that none call it murder !
O lothely Suppliants! ye, that unreceived
Totter heart-broken from the closing gates
Of the full Lazar-house : or, gazing, stand
Sick with despair ! O ye to Glory's field
Forced or ensnared, who, as ye gasp in death,
Bleed with new wounds beneath the Vulture's beak
O thou poor Widow, who in dreams dost view
Thy Husband's mangled corse, and from short doze
Start'st with a shriek ; or in thy half-thatch'd cot
Waked by the wintry night-storm, wet and cold,
Cow'rst o'er thy screaming baby ! Rest awhile

* Art thou not from everlasting, O Lord, mine Holy one?
We Bhall not die. O Lp«l tJu,u hast ordained them for judg-
ment, elc.—Habakkuk.

* Behemoth, in Hebrew, signifies wild beasts in general.
Some believe it is the elephant, some the hippopotamus; some
affirm it is the wild bull. Poetically, it designates any*larye
quadruped.

Of*

16

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

Children of Wretchedness ! More groans must rise,
More blood must stream, or ere your wrongs be full.
Yet is the day of Retribution nigh :
The Lamb of God hath open'd the fifth sed. :
And upward rush on swiftest wing of 3re
The innumerable multitude of wrongs
By man on man inflicted ! Rest awhile,
Children of Wretchedness ! The hour is nigh ;
And lo ! the Great, the Rich, the Mighty Men,
The Kings and the Chief Captains of the World,
With nil that fix'd on high like stars of Heaven
Shot baleful influence, shall be cast to earth,
Vile and down-trodden, as the untimely fruit
Shook from the fig-tree by a sudden storm.
Even now the storm begins:* each gentle name,
Faith and meek Piety, with fearful joy
Tremble far-off — for lo ! the Giant Frenzy,
Uprooting empires with his whirlwind arm,
Mocke'ch high Heaven ; burst hideous from the cell
Where the old Hag, unconquerable, huge,
Creation's eyeless drudge, black Ruin, sits
Nursing the impatient earthquake.

O return !
Pure Faith ! meek Piety ! The abhorred Form
Whose scarlet robe was stiff with earthly pomp,
Who drank iniquity in cups of gold,
Whose names were many and all blasphemous,
Hatn met the horrible judgment ! Whence that cry?
The mighty army of foul Spirits shriek'd
Disherited of earth ! For she hath fallen
On whose black front was written Mystery ;
She that reel'd heavily, whose wine was blood ;
&ii that work'd whoredom with the Demon Power,
And from the dark embrace all evil things
Brought forth and nurtured : mitred Atheism :
And patient Folly who on bended knee
Gives back the steel that stabb'd him ; and pale

Fear
Hunted by ghastlier shapings than surround
Moon-blasted Madness when he yells at midnight !
Return, pure Faith ! return, meek Piety !
The kingdoms of the world are yours : each heart,
Self-govem'd, the vast family of Love
Raised from the common earth by common toil,
Enjoy the equal produce. Such delights
As float to earth, permitted visitants !
When in some hour of solemn jubilee
The mass}'- gates of Paradise are thrown
Wide open, and forth come in fragments wild
Sweet echoes of unearthly melodies,
And odors snatch'd from beds of Amaranth,
And they, that from the crystal river of life
Spring up on freshen'd wing, ambrosial gales !
The favor'd good man in his lonely walk
Perceives them, and his silent spirit drinks
Strange bliss which he shall recognize in heaven.
And such delights, such strange beatitude
Seize on my young anticipating heart
When that ble§t future rushes on my view !
For in his own and in his Father's might
The Savior comes ! While as the Thousand Years
Lead up their mystic dance, the Desert shouts !
Old Ocean claps his hands ! The mighty Dead
Rise to new life, whoe'er from earliest time

With conscious zeal had urged Love's wondrous plaa.
Coadjutors of God. To Milton's trump
The high Groves of the renovated Earth
Unbosom their glad echoes : inly hush'd,
Adoring Newton his serener eye
Raises to heaven : and he of mortal kind
Wisest, he* first who mark'd the ideal tribes
Up the fine fibres through the sentient brain.
Lo ! Priestley there, Patriot, and Saint, and Sage
Him, full of years, from his loved native land
Statesmen blood-stain'd and Priests idolatrous
By dark lies maddening the blind multitude
Drove with vain hate. Calm, pitying, he re tired,
And mused expectant on these promised years.

0 years ! the blest pre-eminence of Saints !
Ye sweep athwart my gaze, so heavenly bright,
The wings that veil the adoring Seraph's eyes,
What time he bends before the Jasper Throne,t
Reflect no lovelier hues ! yet ye depart,

And all beyond is darkness ! Heights most strange,
Whence Fancy falls, fluttering her idle wing.
For who of woman born may paint the hour,
When seized in his mid course, the«Sun shall wa7*e
Making noon ghastly ! Who of woman born
May image in the workings of his thought,
How the black-visaged, red-eyed Fiend outstretch Jj
Beneath the unsteady feet of Nature groans,
In feverish slumbers — destin'd then to wake,
When fiery whirlwinds thunder his dread name
And Angels shout, Destruction ! How his arm
The last great Spirit lifting high in air
Shall swear by Him, the ever-living One,
Time is no more !

Believe thou, O my soul
Life is a vision shadowy of Truth ;
And vice, and anguish, and the wormy grave,
Shapes of a dream ! The veiling clouds retire.
And lo ! the Throne of the redeeming God
Forth flashing unimaginable day,
Wraps in one blaze earth, heaven, and deepest Ifcwfc

Contemplant Spirits ! ye that hovar o'er
With untired gaze the immeasurable fount
Ebullient with creative Deity !
And ye of plastic power, that interfused
Roll through the grosser and material mass
In organizing surge ! Holies of God !
(And what if Monads of the infinite mind)

1 haply journeying my immortal course

Shall sometime join your mystic choir? Till then

I discipline my young noviciate thought

In ministries of heart-stirring song,

And aye on Meditation's heavenward wing

Soaring aloft I breathe the empyreal air

Of Love, omnific, omnipresent Love,

Whose day-spring rises glorious in my soul

As the great Sun, when he his influence

Sheds on the frost-bound waters — The glad stream

Flows to the ray, and warbles as it flows.

* Alluding to the French Revolution.

* David Hartley.

t Rev. Chap. iv. v. 2 and 3. — And immediately I was in the
Spirit: and behold, a Throne was set in Heaven, and one sat
on the throne. And he that sat was to lock upon like a jasper
and sardine stone, etc.

% The final Destruction impersonated.

26

JUVENILE POEMS.

17

THE DESTINY OF NATIONS.

Auspicious Reverence! Hush all meaner song,
Sre we the deep preluding strain have pour'd
JTc the Great Father, only Rightful King,
Eternal Father ! King Omnipotent !
The Will, the Word, the Breath, — the Living God.

Such symphony requires best instrument.
Seize, then! ray soid! from Freedom's trophied dome,
The Harp which hangeth high between the Shields
Of Brutus and Leonidas ! With that
Strong music, that soliciting spell, force back
Earth's free and stirring spirit that lies entranc'd

For what is Freedom, but the unfetter'd use
Of all the powers which God for use had given?
But chiefly this, him First, him Last to view
Through meaner powers and secondary things
Effulgent, as through clouds that veil his blaze.
For all that meets the bodily sense I deem
Symbolical, one mighty alphabet
For infant minds ; and we in this low world
Placed with our backs to bright Reality,
That we may learn with young unwounded ken
The substance from its shadow. Infinite Love,
Whose latence is the plenitude of All,
Thou with retracted Beams, and Self-eclipse
Veiling, revealest thine eternal Son.

But some there are who deeiA themselves most free
When they within this gross and visible sphere
Chain down the winged thought, scoffing ascent,
Proud in their meanness : and themselves they cheat
With noisy emptiness of learned phrase,
Their subtle fluids, impacts, essences,
Self-working tools, uncaus'd effects, and all
Those blind Omniscients, those Almighty Slaves,
Untenanting creation of its God.

But properties are God : the naked mass
(If mass there be, fantastic Guess or Ghost)
Acts only by its inactivity.
Here we pause humbly. Others boldlier think
That as one body seems the aggregate
Of Atoms numberless, each organized ;
So, by a strange and dim similitude,
Infinite myriads of self-conscious minds
Are one all-conscious Spirit, which informs
With absolute ubiquity of thought
(His one eternal self-affirming Act !)
All his involved Monads, that yet seem
With various province and apt agency
Each to pursue its own self-centering end.
Some nurse the infant diamond in the mine ;
Some roll the genial juices through the oak ;
Some drive the mutinous clouds to clash in air,
And rushing on the storm with whirlwind speed,
Yoke the red lightning to their volleying car.
Thus these pursue their never-varying course,
No eddy in their stream. Others, more wild,
With complex interests weaving human fates,
Duteous or proud, alike obedient all,
Evolve the process of eternal good.
3

And what if some rebellious, o'er dark realms
Arrogate power ? yet these train up to God,
And on the rude eye, unconfirm'd for day,
Flash meteor-lights better than total gloom
As ere from Lieule-Oaive's vapory head
The Laplander beholds the far-off Sun
Dart his slant beam on unobeying snows,
While yet the stern and solitary Night
Brooks no alternate sway, the Boreal Morn
With mimic lustre substitutes its gleam,
Guiding his course or by Niemi lake
Or Balda-Zhiok,* or the mossy stone
Of Solfar-kapper,t while the snowy blast
Drifts arrowy by, or eddies round his sledge,
Making the poor babe at its mother's backj:
Scream in its scanty cradle : he the while
Wins gentle solace as with upward eye
He marks the streamy banners of the North,
Thinking himself those happy spirits shall join
Who there in floating robes of rosy light
Dance sportively. For Fancy is the Power
That first unsensualizes the dark mind,
Giving it new delights ; and bids it swell
With wild activity ; and peopling air,
By obscure fears of Beings invisible,
Emancipates it from the grosser thrall
Of the present impulse, teaching Self-control,
Till Superstition with unconscious hand
Seat Reason on her throne. Wherefore not vain,
Nor yet without permitted power impress'd,
I deem'd those legends terrible, with which
The polar ancient thrills his uncouth throng;
Whether of pitying Spirits that make their moan
O'er slaughter'd infants, or that Giant Bird
Vuokho, of whose rushing wings the noise
Is Tempest, when the unutterable shaped
Speeds from the mother of Death, and utters once
That shriek, which never Murderer heard and lived
Or if the Greenland Wizard in strange trance
Pierces the untravell'd realms of Ocean's bed
(Where live the innocent, as far from carts
As from the storms and overwhelming waves
Dark tumbling on the surface of the deep),
Over the abysm, even to that uttermost cave
By misshaped prodigies beleaguer'd, such
As Earth ne'er bred, nor Air, nor the upper Sea-
There dwells the Fury Form, whose unheard
name
With eager eye, pale cheek, suspended breath,

* Balda Zhiok ; i. e. mons altitudinis, the highest mountain
in Lapland.

t Solfar Kapper; capitium Solfar, hie locus omnium quot-
quot veterum Lapponum superstitio sacrificiis religiosoquecul-
tui dedicavit, celebratissimus erat, in parte sinus australis situs
scmirnilliaris spatio a maiidistans. Ipselocus, quern curiositatis
gratia aliquando me invisisse memini, duabus prealtis lapidibus,
sibi invicem oppositis, quorum alter musco circumdatus erat,
constabat. — Leemius De Lapponibus.

X The Lapland Women carry their infants at their back in a
piece of excavated wood, which serves them for a cradle
Opposite to the infant's mouth there is a. hole for it to breathe
through. — Mirandum prorsus est el. vix credibile nisi cui vidisset
contigit. Lappones hyeme iter facient.es per vastas montes, per-
que horrida et invia tesqua, eo presertim tempore quo omnia
perpetuis nivibus obtecta sunt et nives ventis agitantur et in
gyros aguntur, viam ad destinata loca absque errore invenira
posse, lactantem autem infantem si quern habeat, ipsa mater
in dorso bajulat, in excavato ligno (Gieed'k ipsi vocant) quod
pro cunis utuntuf : in hoc infans pannis et pellibus convolulua
colligatus jacet. — Leemius De Lapponibus

ft Jaibme Aibmo.

vrt

18

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

And lips half-opening with the dread of sound,

Unsleeping Silence guards, worn out with fear,

Lest, haply escaping on some treacherous blast,

The fateful word let slip the Elements,

And frenzy Nature. Yet the wizard her,

krm'd with Torngarsuck's* power, the Spirit of

Good,
Forces to unchain the foodful progeny
Of the Ocean's stream. — Wild phantasies! yet wise,
On the victorious goodness of High God
Teaching Reliance, and Medicinal Hope,
Till from Bethabra northward, heavenly Truth,
With gradual steps winning her difficult way,
Transfer their rude Faith perfected and pure.

If there be Beings of higher class than Man,
I deem no nobler province they possess,
Than by disposal of apt circumstance
To rear up Kingdoms : and the deeds they prompt,
Distinguishing from mortal agency,
They choose their human ministers from such states
As still the Epic song half fears to name,
Repell'd from all the Minstrelsies that strike
The Palace-roof and soothe the Monarch's pride.

And such, perhaps, the Spirit, who (if words
Witness'd by answering deeds may claim our Faith)
Held commune with that warrior-maid of France
Who scourged the Invader. From her infant days,
With Wisdom, Mother of retired Thoughts,
Her soul had dwelt ; and she was quick to mark
The good and evil thing, in human lore
Undisciplined. For lowly was her Birth,
And Heaven had doom'd her early years to Toil,
That pure from Tyranny's least deed, herself
Unfear'd by Fellow-natures, she might wait
On the poor Laboring man with kindly looks,
And minister refreshment to the tired
Way-wanderer, when along the rough-hewn Bench
The sweltry man had stretch'd him, and aloft
Vacantly watch'd the rudely pictured board
Which on the Mulberry-bough with welcome creak
Swung to the pleasant breeze. Here, too, the Maid
Learnt more than Schools could teach: Man's shift-
ing mind,
His Vices and his Sorrows ! And full oft
At Tales of cruel Wrong and strange Distress
Had wept and shiver'd. To the tottering Eld
Still as a Daughter would she run: she placed
His cold Limbs at the sunny Door, and loved
To hear him story, in his garrulous sort,
Of his eventful years, all come and gone.

So twenty seasons past. The Virgin's Form,
Active and tall, nor Sloih nor Luxury
Had shrunk or paled. Her front sublime and broad,
Her flexile eye-brows wildly hair'd and low,
And her full eye, now bright, now unillum'd,
Spake more than Woman's Thought; and all her
face

* They call the Good Spirit Tornsrarsuck. The other great
but malignant spirit is a nameless Female; she dwells under
the sea in a great house, where she can detain in captivity all
the animals of the ocean by her magic power. When a dearth
befalls die Greenlanders, an Angekok or magician must under-
take a journey thither. He passes through the kingdom of
*ou!s, over an horrible abyss into the Paiace of this phantom,
»nd by his enchantments causes the captive creatures to ascend
iirectly to the surface of the ocean.— See Crdnts' Hist, of
'Jreenland, vol. i. 206.

Was moulded to such features as declared
That Pity there had oft and strongly work'd,
And sometimes Indignation. Bold her mien
And like a haughty Hun tress of the woods
She mov'd : yet sure she was a gentle maid !
And in each motion her most innocent soul
Beam'd forth so brightly, that who saw would say
Guilt was a thing impossible in her !
Nor idly would have said — for she had lived
In this bad World as in a place of Tombs,
And touch'd not the pollutions of the Dead.

'Twas the cold season, when the Rustic's eye
From the drear desolate whiteness of his fields
Rolls for relief to watch the skiey tints
And clouds slow varying their huge imagery ;
When now, as she was wont, the healthful Maid
Had left her pallet ere one beam of day
Slanted the fog-smoke. She went forth alone,
Urged by the indwelling angel-guide, that oft,
With dim inexplicable sympathies
Disquieting the Heart, shapes out Man's course
To the predoom'd adventure. Now the ascent
She climbs of that steep upland, on whose top
The Pilgrim-Man, who long since eve had watch d
The alien shine of unconcerning Stars,
Shouts to himself, there first the Abbey-lights
Seen in Neufchatel's vale ; now slopes adown
The winding sheep-track vale-ward : when, behold
In the first entrance of the level road
An unattended Team ! The foremost horse
Lay with stretch'd limbs ; the others, yet alive,
But stiff and cold, stood motionless, their manes
Hoar with the frozen night-dews. Dismally
The dark-red down now glimmer'd ; but its gleams
Disclosed no face of man. The Maiden paused,
Then hail'd who might be near No voice replied.
From the thwart wain at length there reach d he)

ear
A sound so feeble that it almost seem'd
Distant : and feebly, with slow effort puslfd,
A miserable man crept forth i his limbs
The silent frost had eat, scathing like fire.
Faint on the shafts he rested. She, meantime,
Saw crowded close beneath the coverture
A mother and her children — lifeless all,
Yet lovely ! not a lineament was marr'd—
Death had put on so slumber-like a form !
It was a piteous sight ; and one, a babe,
The crisp milk frozen on its innocent lips,
Lay on the woman's arm, its little hand
Stretch'd on her bosom.

Mutely questioning,
The Maid gazed wildly at the living wretch-
He, his head feebly turning, on the group
Look'd with a vacant stare, and his eye spoke
The drowsy pang that steals on worn-out anguish.
She shudder'd : but, each vainer pang subdued,
Quick disentangling from the foremost horse
The rustic bands, with difficulty and toil
The stiff cramp' d team forced homeward. There

arrived,
Anxiously tends him she with healing herbs,
And weeps and prays— but the numb power of Deat h
Spreads o'er his limbs ; and ere the noontide hour
The hovering spirits of his Wife and Babes
Hail him immortal ! Yet amid his pangs,

28

JUVENILE POEMS.

19

With interruptions long from ghastly throes,
His voice had falter'd out this simple tale.

The Village, where he dwelt an Husbandman,
By sudden inroad had been seized and fired
Late on the yester-evening. With his wife
<Vnd little ones he hurried his escape.
They saw the neighboring Hamlets flame, they

heard
Uproar and shrieks ! and terror-struck drove on
Through unfrequented roads, a weary way !
But saw nor house nor cottage. All had quench'd
Their evening hearth-fire : for the alarm had spread.
The air dipt keen, the night was fang'd with frost,
And they provisionless ! The weeping wife
111 hush'd her children's moans ; and still they

moan'd,
Till Fright and Cold and Hunger drank their life.
They closed their eyes in sleep, nor knew 't was

Death.
He only, lashing his o'er-wearied team,
Gain'd a sad respite, till beside the base
Of the high hill his foremost horse dropp'd dead.
Then hopeless, strengthless, sick for lack of food,
He crept beneath the coverture, entranced,
Till waken'd by the maiden. — Such his tale.

Ah ! suffering to the height of what wa?
Stung with too keen a sympathy, the Ma'
Brooded with moving lips, mute, startf
And now her flush'd tumultuous feat
Such strange vivacity, as fires the
Of misery Fancy-crazed ! and nr
Naked, and void, and fix'd, anr1
The unquiet silence of confir
And shapeless feelings. Fo
Was strong upon her, till '
To the high hill-top trad
Aside the beacon, up -
The tender ivy-trails
Unconscious of the
Yea, swallow'd ur
Ghastly as broa
Breathed from
Inly she toil'
Felt an in

Thup

An \\r
And
O
r

As
With
Poisonin^
Wakens tn
A heavy unn.

Sent forth, when she the Protoplast beheld
Stand beauteous on Confusion's chr d wave.
Moaning she fled, and entered tlv d

That leads with downward wine' ve

Of darkness palpable, Desert o'
Sunk deep beneath Gehenna'
There many a dateless age
And trembled ; till engen'"
Fierce Hate and gloomv
Shaped like a black *

fire.
It roused the Hell"
From off her bro
Retraced her st
Of that drear
Nor dared r
As throur

(WhieJ

Circl

Th

C

groan

aOs went
od!
i earth ;
ts adored,
Ylankind ! "

scure haunl
istly Dam,
ed yet slow,
iex swampy reeds,
i early Spring
apors.

(the exulting Maiden said)
f Goou Tidings fell,
/d God ! But now the clouds
beneath their feet, they soar
soar, and soaring sing
amph ! O ye spirits of God,
y mortal agonies ! "
instantly faint melody
,ar, soothing and sad, and slow, —
es, as at calmest midnight heard
mit in his holy dream,
solace death ; and now they rise
when with harp and mingled voice
>robed* multitude of slaughter'd saints
en's wide-open'd portals gratulant
i some martyr'd Patriot. The harmony
iced the Maid, till each suspended sense
slumber seized, and confused ecstasy.

AfTength awakening slow, she gazed around :
.nd through a Mist, the relic of that trance
Still thinning as she gazed, an Isle appear'd,
Its high, 6'er-hanging, white, broad-breasted cliffs;,
Glass'd on the subject ocean. A vast plain
Stretch'd opposite, where ever and anon

* Revel, vi. 9, 11. And when he had opened the fifth se.il, i
saw under the altar the souls of them that were slain for the
word of God, and for the testimony which they held. And
white robes were given unto every one of them, and it was
said unto them that they should rest yet for a little season,
until their fellow servants also and their brethren, that should
be killed as they were, should be fulfilled.
5 29

20

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

The Plow-man, following sad his meagre team,
Turn'd up fresh sculls unstartled, and the bones
Of fierce hate-breathing combatants, who there
All mingled lay beneath the common earth,
Death's gloomy reconcilement ! O'er the Fields
Stept a fair form, repairing all she might,
Her temples olive-wreathed ; and where she trod
feresh flowerets rose, and many a foodful herb.
But wan her cheek, her footsteps insecure,
And anxious pleasure beam'd in her faint eye,
As she had newly left a couch of pain,
Pale Convalescent ! (yet some time to rule
With power exclusive o'er the willing world,
That bless'd prophetic mandate then fulfill'd,
Peace be on Earth !) A happy while, but brief,
She seem'd to wander with assiduous feet,
And heal'd the recent harm of chill and blight,
And nursed each plant that fair and virtuous grew

But soon a deep precursive sound moan'd hollow :
Black rose the clouds, and now (as in a dream)
Their reddening shapes, transformed to Warrior

hosts,
Coursed o'er the Sky, and battled in mid -air.
Nor did not the large blood -drops fall from Heaven
Portentous ! while aloft were seen to float,
Like hideous features booming on the mist,
Wan Stains of ominous Light ! Resign'd, yet sad,
The fair Form bowed her olive-crowned Brow,
Then o'er the plain with oft-reverted eye
Fled till a Place of Tombs she reach'd, and there
Within a ruined Sepulchre obscure
Found Hiding-place.

The delegated Maid
Gazed through her tears, then in sad tones exclaim'd,
" Thou mild-eyed Form ! wherefore, ah ! wherefore

fled?
The power of Justice, like a name all Light,
Shone from thy brow ; but all they, who unblamed
Dwelt in thy dwellings, call thee Happiness.
Ah ! why, uninjured and unprofited,
Should multitudes against their brethren rush ?
Why sow they guilt, still reaping Misery ?
Lenient of care, thy songs, O Peace ! are sweet,
As after showers the perfumed gale of eve,
That flings the cool drops on a feverous cheek:
And gay the grassy altar piled with fruits.
But boasts the shrine of Daemon War one charm,
Save that with many an orgie strange and foul,
Dancirjcr around with interwoven arms,
The Maniac Suicide and Giant Murder
Exult in their fierce union ? I am sad,
And know not why the simple Peasants crowd
Beneath the Chieftains' standard!" Thus the Maid

To her the tutelary Spirit replied :
" When Luxury and Lust's exhausted stores
No more can rouse the appetites of Kings ;
When the low flattery of their reptile Lords
Falls flat and heavy on the accustom'd ear ;
When Eunuchs sing, and Fools buffoonery make,
And Dancers writhe their harlot-limbs in vain ;
Then War and all its dread vicissitudes
Pleasingly agitate their stagnant Hearts ;
Its hopes, its fears, its victories, its defeats,
Insipid Royalty's keen condiment !
Therefore uninjured and unprofited

(Victims at once and Executioners),
The congregated Husbandmen lay waste
The Vineyard and the Harvest. As long
The Bothnic coast, or southward of the Line,
Though hush'd the Winds and cloudless the h_gb

Noon,
Yet if Leviathan, weary of ease,
In sports unwieldy toss his Island-bulk,
Ocean behind him billows, and before
A storm of waves breaks foamy on the strand.
And hence, for times and seasons bloody and dark,
Short Peace shall skin the wounds of causeless War
And War, his strained sinews knit anew,
Still violate the unfinish'd works of Peace.
But yonder look ! for more demands thy view ! "
He said : and straightway from the opposite Isle
A Vapor sailed, as when a cloud, exhaled
From Egypt's fields that steam hot pestilence,
Travels the sky for many a trackless league,
Till o'er some Death-doom'd land, distant in vain,
It broods incumbent. Forthwith from the Plain,
Facing the Isle, a brighter cloud arose,
And steer'd its course which way the Vapor went.

The Maiden paused, musing what this might mean.
But long time pass'd not, ere that brighter cloud
Return'd more bright ; along the plain it swept ;
And soon from forth its bursting sides emerged
A dazzling form, broad-bosom'd, bold of eye,
And wild her hair, save where with laurels bound
Not more majestic stood the healing God,
When from his bow the arrow sped that slew
Huge Python. Shriek'd Ambition's giant throng,
And with them hiss'd the Locust-fiends that crawl d
And glitter'd in Corruption's slimy track.
Great was their wrath, for short they knew then

reign ;
And sich commotion made they, and uproar,
As when the mad Tornado bellows through
The guilty islands of the western main,
What tine departing from their native shores,
Eboe, or Koromantyn's* plain of Palms,

* The slaves in the West-Indies consider death as a passpoit
to their native country. This sentiment is thus expressed in
the introduction to a Greek Prize-Ode on the Slave-Trade, oi'
which the ideas are better than the language in which they
are conveyed.

£1 ckotov vvkas, Qavare, irpoXunwv
Ef yevog cttevSois viro^zv^Qtv Arq-
Ov t-eviaOr, cy yevvwv airapayfioi ;

Ou<T oXoXuy^cd,

AXXa km kvkXoigi ^opoirviroiai
KW/mraw %apq' cpoStpos jjsv tcui
AXX' ojtiw? HXevQepiq avvotKclg,

"Ervyve Tvpavve !

AacKiois eiru irrepvyeaai cr/ai
A I $a\a(T(TiQv Kadopwvrcs otSfia
AidepoitXayrois vno nova aveicri

Ylarpih fTr' aiav.
Ev0a jiav Epacat 'Epipp.evT]<riv
AfUpi Ttriyj](Tiv Kirpivuv utt' aXtrtov,
Oaa'vno flpoToig eiradov PpoTci, ra

Astva \tyovai.
0

LITERAL TRANSLATION.

Leaving the Gates of Darkness, O Death ! hasten thou to a
Race yoked with Misery ! Thou wilt not be received wiui
30

SIBYLLINE LEAVES.

21

The infuriate spirits of the Murder'd make
Fierce merriment, and vengeance ask of Heaven.
Warm'd with new influence, the unwholesome plain
Sent up its foulest fogs to meet • the Morn ;
The Sun that rose on Freedom, rose in blood !

" Maiden beloved, and Delegate of Heaven ! "
?To her the tutelary Spirit said)
* Soon shall the Morning struggle into Day,
The stormy Morning into cloudless Neon.
Much hast thou seen, nor all canst understand —
But this be thy best Omen — Save thy Country ! "

lacerations of cheeks, nor with funeral ululation — but with
ending dances and the joy of songs. Thou art terrible indeed,
jret thou dwellest with Liberty, stern Genius ! Borne on thy
dark pinions over the swelling of ocean, they return to their
native country. There, by the side of Fountains beneath
Citron-groves, the lovers tell to their beloved what horrors,
being Men, they had endured from Men,

Thus saying, from the answering Maid he pass'd,
And with him disappear'd the Heavenly Vision.

" Glory to Thee, Father of Earth and Heaven T
All-conscious Presence of the Universe !
Nature's vast Ever-acting Energy !
In Will, in Deed, Impulse of All to All !
Whether thy love with unrefracted ray
Beam on the Prophet's purged eye, or if
Diseasing realms the enthusiast, wild of thought
Scatter new frenzies on the infected throng,
Thou both inspiring and predooming both,
Fit instruments and best, of perfect end :
Glory to Thee, Father of Earth and Heaven!"

And first a landscape rose,
More wild and waste and desolate than where
The white bear, drifting on a field of ice,
Howls to her sunder'd cubs with piteous rage
And savage agony.

itmiliMt &e?fte&

f POEMS OCCASIONED BY POLITICAL

EVENTS OR FEELINGS CONNECTED
WITH THEM.

When I have bome in memory what has tamed

Great nations, how ennobling thoughts depart

When men change swords for legers, and desert

The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed

I had, my country ! Am I to be blamed 1

But, when I think of Thee, and what Thou art,

Verily, in the bottom of my heart,

Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.

But dearly must we prize thee ; we who find

In thee a bulwark of the cause of men ;

And I by my affection was beguiled.

What wonder if a poet, now and then,

Among the many movements of his mind.

Felt for thee as a Lover or a Child.

Wordsworth.

ODE TO THE DEPARTING YEAR,*

lov, loV, (5 U) KO.K&*

Tit* av fie Saves dpOo/xavreias 7ro'vo?
Htdo6u) TapdacbJv typoipiots i^ripioig,
* * * * * «

T<5 p.i\\ov n£u. Kal cv /itjv itd^u ira^uiv
''A.yav y' aXrjQdfiavTiv p ipeig.

/Eschyl. A gam. 1225.

ARGUMENT.

The Ode commences with an Address to the Divine
Providence, that regulates into one vast harmony all
the events of time, however calamitous some of them

* This Ode was composed on the 24th, 25th, and 26th days
of December, 179G : and was first published on the last day of
that year.

may appear to mortals. The second Strophe calls
on men to suspend their private joys and sorrows,
and devote them for a while to the cause of human
nature in general. The first Epode speaks of the
Empress of Russia, who died of an apoplexy on the
17th of November, 1796; having just concluded a
subsidiary treaty with the Kings combined against
France. The first and second Antistrophe describe
the Image of the Departing Year, etc. as in a vision.
The second Epode prophesies, in anguish of spirit,
the downfall of this country.

his

I.

Spirit who sweepest the wild Harp of Time !
It is most hard, with an untroubled ear
Thy dark inwoven harmonies to hear !
Yet, mine eye fix'd on Heaven's unchanging clime,
Long when I listen'd, free from mortal fear,
With inward stillness, and submitted mind $
When lo ! its folds far waving on the wind,
I saw the train of the Departing Year !
Starting from my silent sadness,
Then with no unholy madness,
Ere yet the enter'd cloud foreclosed my sight,
I raised the impetuous song, and solemnized
flight.

II.

Hither, from the recent tomb.
From the prison's direr gloom,
From Distemper's midnight anguish ;
And thence, where Poverty doth waste and languish,
Or where, his two bright torches blending,

Love illumines manhood's maze ;
Or where, o'er cradled infants bending,
Hope has fix'd her wishful gaze,
Hither, in perplexed dance,
Ye Woes ! ye young-eyed Joys ! advance '
31

22

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

By Time's wild harp, and by the hand
Whose indefatigable sweep
Raises its fateful strings from sleep,
I bid you haste, a mix'd tumultuous band I
From every private bower,

And each domestic hearth,
Haste for one solemn hour ;
And with a loud and yet a louder voice,
O'er Nature struggling in portentous birth

Weep and rejoice !
Still echoes the dread Name that o'er the earth
Let slip the storm, and woke the brood of Hell :

And now advance in saintly Jubilee
Justice and Truth ! They too have heard thy spell.
They too obey thy name, Divinest Liberty !

HI.

I mark'd Ambition in his war-array !

I heard the mailed Monarch's troublous cry —
"Ah! wherefore does the Northern Conqueress stay!
Groans not her chariot on its onward way ? "
Fly, mailed Monarch, fly !
Stunn'd by Death's twice mortal mace,
No more on Murder's lurid face
The insatiate hag shall gloat with drunken eye !
Manes of the unnumber'd slain !
Ye that gasp'd on Warsaw's plain !
Ye that erst at Ismail's tower,
When human ruin choked the streams,

Fell in conquest's glutted hour,
'Mid women's shrieks and infants' screams !
Spirits of the uncoffin'd slain,

Sudden blasts of triumph swelling,
Oft, at night, in misty train,

Rush around her narrow dwelling !
The exterminating fiend is fled —

(Foul her life, and dark her doom)
Mighty armies of the dead

Dance like death-fires round her tomb !
Then with prophetic song relate,
Each some tyrant-murderer's fate!

IV.

Departing Year ! 't was on no earthly shore
My soul beheld thy vision ! Where alone,
Voiceless and stern, before the cloudy throne,
Aye Memory sits: thy robe inscribed with gore,
With many an unimaginable groan

Thou storied'st thy sad hours ! Silence ensued,
Deep silence o'er the ethereal multitude,
Whose locks with wreaths, whose wreaths with
glories shone.
Then, his eye wild ardors glancing,
From the choired Gods advancing,
The Spirit of the Earth made reverence meet,
And stood up, beautiful, before the cloudy seat.

V.

Throughout the blissful throng,

Hush'd were harp and song :
Till wheeling round the throne the Lampads seven

(The mystic Words of Heaven),

Permissive signal make :
The fervent Spirit bow'd, then spread his wings and

" Thou in stormy blackness throning

Love and uncreated Light,
By the Earth's unsolaced groaning,
Seize thy terrors, Arm of might !
By Peace with proffer' d insult sacred,
Masked Hate and envying Scorn !
By Years of Havoc yet unborn !
And Hunger's bosom to the frost-winds bare.i I
But chief by Afric's wrongs,

Strange, horrible, and foul !
By what deep guilt belongs
To the deaf Synod, * full of gifts and lies '*
By Wealth's insensate laugh ! by Torture's how)
Avenger, rise !
For ever shall the thankless Island scowl,
Her quiver full, and with unbroken bow ?
Speak! from thy storm-black Heaven, O speak aloud

And on the darkling foe
Open thine eye of fire from some uncertain cloud !

O dart the flash ! O rise and deal the blow I
The past to thee, to thee the future cries !

Hark ! how wide Nature joins her groans KJ*»w I
Rise, God of Nature ! rise."

VI.

The voice had ceased, the vision fled ;
Yet still I gasp'd and reel'd with dread.
And ever, when the dream of night
Renews the phantom to my sight,
Cold sweat-drops gather on my limbs ;

My ears throb hot ; my eye-balls start ;
My brain with horrid tumult swims ;
Wild is the tempest of my heart ;
And my thick and struggling breath
Imitates the toil of Death !
No stronger agony confounds

The Soldier on the war-field spread,
When all foredone with toil and wounds,

Death-like he dozes among heaps of dead
(The strife is o'er, the day-light fled,

And the night-wind clamors hoarse !
See ! the starting wretch's head

Lies pillow'd on a brother's corse !)

vn.

Not yet enslaved, not wholly vile,
O Albion ! O my mother Isle !
Thy valleys, fair as Eden's bowers,
Glitter green with sunny showers ;
Thy grassy uplands' gentle swells

Echo to the bleat of flocks
(Those grassy hills, those glittering dells

Proudly ramparted with rocks) ;
And Ocean, 'mid his uproar wild
Speaks safety to his island-child !

Hence, for many a fearless age

Has social Quiet loved thy shore !
Nor ever proud Invader's rage
Or sack'd thy towers, or stain'd thy fields with gor«

VIII.

Abandon'd of Heaven ! mad Avarice thy guide,
At cowardly distance, yet kindling with pride —
32

SIBYLLINE LEAVES.

23

"Mid thy herds and thy corn-fields secure thou hast

stood,
And join'd the wild yelling of Famine and Blood !
The nations curse thee ! They with eager wondering

Shall hear Destruction, like a Vulture, scream !

Strange-eyed Destruction! who with many a dream
Of central fires through nether seas upthundering

Soothes her fierce solitude ; yet, as she lies
By livid fount, or red volcanic stream,

If ever to her lidless dragon-eyes,

O Albion! thy predestin'd ruins rise,
The fiend-hag on her perilous couch doth leap,
Muttering distemper'd triumph in her charmed sleep.

IX.

Away, my soul, away !
In vain, in vain, the Birds of warning sing —
And hark ! I hear the famish'd brood of prey
Flap their lank pennons on the groaning wind!
Away, my soul, away !
I, unpartaking of the evil thing,
With daily prayer and daily toil
Soliciting for food my scanty soil,
Have waii'd my country with a loud lament.
Now I recentre my immortal mind

In the deep sabbath of meek self-content ;
Cleans'd from the vaporous passions that bedim
God' a Image, sister of the Seraphim.

FRANCE.

I.

Ye Clouds ! that far above me float and pause,

Whose pathless march no mortal may control !

Ye Ocean- Waves ! that, wheresoe'er ye roll,
Yield homage only to eternal laws !
Ye Woods ! that listen to the night-birds' singing,

Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclined,
Save when your own imperious branches swinging,

Have made a solemn music of the wind !
Where, like a man beloved of God,
Through glooms, which never woodman trod,

How oft, pursuing fancies holy,
My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound,

Inspired, beyond the guess of folly,
By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound!
O ye loud Waves ! and O ye Forests high !

And O ye Clouds that far above me soar'd !
Thou rising Sun ! thou blue rejoicing Sky !

Yea, every thing that is and will be free!

Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be,

With what deep worship I have still ador'd
The spirit of divinest Liberty.

II.

When France in wrath her giant-limbs uprear'd,
And with that oath; which smote air, earth and sea,
Stamp'd hei strong foot and said she would be free,

Boar witness for me, how I hoped and fear'd !

With what a joy my lofty gratulation
Unaw'd I sang, amid a slavish band :

And when to whelm the disenchanted nation,
Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand,

The Monarchs march'd in evil day,
And Britain joined the dire array ;

Though dear her shores and circling ocean,
Though many friendships, many youthful loves

Had swoln the patriot emotion,
And flung a magic light o'er all her hills and groves;
Yet still my voice, unalter'd, sang defeat

To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance,
And shame too long delay'd and vain retreat!
For ne'er, 0 Liberty! with partial aim
I dimm'd thy light or damp'd thy holy flame ,

But bless' d the pagans of deliver'd France.
And hung my head and wept at Britain's name.

III.

" And what," I said, " though Blasphemy's loud scream
With that sweet music of deliverance strove !
Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove
A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's dream

Ye storms, that round the dawning east assembled:
The Sun was rising, though he hid his light !

And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped ai'jd
trembled,
The dissonance ceased, and all seern'd calm anc
bright ;
When France her front deep-scarr'd and gory
Conceal'd with clustering wreaths of glory ;

When, insupportably advancing,
Her arm made mockery of the warrior's tramp.;

While timid looks of fury glancing,
Domestic treason, crush'd beneath her fatal stamp,
Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore ;

Then I reproach'd my fears that would not flee ;
" And soon," I said, " shall Wisdom teach her lore
In the low huts of them that toil and groan !
And, conquering by her happiness alone,

Shall France compel the nations to be free,
Till Love and Joy look round, and call the Eartu
their own."

IV.

Forgive me, Freedom ! O forgive those dreams !

I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament,

From bleak Helvetia's icy caverns sent —
I hear thy groans upon her blood-stain'd streams!

Heroes, that for your peaceful country perish'd
And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain-snows

With bleeding wounds; forgive me that I cherish '<!
One thought that ever bless'd your cruel foes!

To scatter rage, and traitorous guilt,

Where Peace her jealous home had built ,
A patriot race to disinherit
Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear;

And with inexpiable spirit
To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer—-
O France, that mockesf Heaven, adulterous, blind,

And patriot only in pernicious toils !
Are these thy boasts, Champion of human-kind ?

To mix with Kings in the low lust of sway.
Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey*
To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils

From Freemen torn ; to tempt and to betray ?

The Sensual and the Dark rebel m vain
Slaves by rhoir own compulsion ! In mad game
They burst their manacles and wear the name

Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain !
33

24

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

O liberty ! with profitless endeavor
Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour ;

But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nor ever
Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power.
Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee
(Not prayer nor boastful name delays thee),

Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions,
And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves,

Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions,
lie guide of homeless winds, and playmates of the
waves !
And there I felt thee ! — on that sea-cliff's verge,

Whose pines, scarce travell'd by the breeze above,

Had made one murmur with the distant surge !

Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare,

And shot my being through earth, sea, and air,

Possessing all things with intensest love,

O Liberty ! my spirit felt thee there.

February, 1797.

FEARS IN SOLITUDE.

WRITTEN IN APRIL, 1798, DURING TBE ALARM OF
AN INVASION.

A green and silent spot, amid the hills,

A small and silent dell ! O'er stiller place

No sinking sky-lark ever poised himself.

The hills are heathy, save that swelling slope,

Which hath a gay and gorgeous covering on,

All golden with the never-bloomless furze,

Which now blooms most profusely ; but the dell,

Bathed by the mist, is fresh and delicate

As vernal corn-field, or the unripe flax,

When, through its half-transparent stalks* at eve,

The level Sunshine glimmers with green light.

Oh! 'tis a quiet spirit-healing nook!

Which all, methinks, would love ; but chiefly he,

The humble man, wdio, in his youthful years,

Knew just so much of folly, as had made

His early manhood more securely wise !

Here he might lie on fern or wither'd heath,

While from the singing-lark (that sings unseen

The minstrelsy that solitude loves best),

And from the Sun, and from the breezy Air,

Sweet influences trembled o'er his frame;

And he, with many feelings, many thoughts,

Made up a meditative joy, and found

Religious meanings in the forms of nature !

And so, his senses gradually wrapt

In a half-sleep, he dreams of better worlds,

And dreaming hears thee still, O singing-lark I

Tnat singest like an angel in the clouds!

My God ! it is a melancholy thing
For such a man, who would full fain preserve
His soul m calmness, yet perforce must feel
For all his human brethren — O my God !
It weighs upon the heart, that he must think
What uproar and what strife may now be stirring
This way or that way o'er these silent hills —
Evasion and the thunder and the shout,

And all the crash of onset ; fear and rage,

And undetermined conflict — even now,

Even now, perchance, and in his native isle :

Carnage and groans beneath this blessed Sun?

We have offended, Oh ! my countrymen !

We have offended very grievously,

And been most tyrannous. From east to wesl

A groan of accusation pierces Heaven !

The wretched plead against us; multitudes

Countless and vehement, the Sons of God,

Our Brethren ! Like a cloud that travels on,

Steam'd up from Cairo's swamps of pestilence.

Even so, ray countrymen ! have we gone forth

And borne to distant tribes slavery and pangs,

And, deadlier far, our vices, whose deep taint

With slow perdition murders the whole man,

His body and his soul ! Meanwhile, at home,

All individual dignity and power

Ingulf 'd in Courts, Committees, Institutions,

Associations and Societies,

A vain, speech-mouthing, speech-reporting Guile!,

One Benefit-Club for mutual flattery,

We have drunk up, demure as at a grace,

Pollutions from the brimming cup of wealth ;

Contemptuous of all honorable rule,

Yet bartering freedom and the poor man's life

For gold, as at a market ! The sweet words

Of Christian promise, words that even yet

Might stem destruction were they wisely preach*^

Are mutter'd o'er by men, whose tones proclaim

How flat and wearisome they feel their trade:

Rank scoffers some, but most too indolent

To deem them falsehoods or to know their trutk,

Oh ! blasphemous ! the book of life is made

A superstitious instrument, on which

We gabble o'er the oaths we mean to break ;

For all must swear — all and in every place,

College and wharf, council and justice-court ;

All, all must swear, the briber and the bribed,

Merchant and lawyer, senator and priest,

The rich, the poor, the old man and the young ;

All, all make up one scheme of perjury,

That faith doth reel ; the very name of God

Sounds like a juggler's charm ; and, bold with je^

Forth from his dark and lonely hiding-place,

(Portentous sight!) the owlet Atheism,

Sailing on obscene wings athwart the noon,

Drops his blue-fringed lids, and holds them close,

And hooting at the glorious Sun in Heaven,

Cries out, " Where is it ? "

Thankless too for peace
(Peace long preserved by fleets and perilous seasj
Secure from actual warfare, we have loved
To swell the war-whoop, passionate for war !
Alas ! for ages ignorant of all
Its ghastlier workings (famine or blue plague,
Battle, or siege, or flight through wintry snows;,,
We, this whole people, have been clamorous
For war and bloodshed ; animating sports,
The which we pay for as a thing to talk of,
Spectators and not combatants ? No guess
Anticipative of a wrong unfelt,
No speculation or contingency,
However dim and vague, too vague and dim
To yield a justifying cause ; and forth
(Stuff d out with big preamble, holy names.
34

"&&

SIBYLLINE LEAVES.

25

And adjurations of the God in Heaven),

We send our mandates for the certain death

Of thousands and ten thousands ! Boys and girls,

And women, that would groan to see a child

Pull off an insect's leg, all read of war,

The best amusement for our morning-meal !

The poor wretch, who has learnt his only prayers

From curses, who knows scarcely words enough

To ask a blessing from his Heavenly Father,

Becomes a fluent phraseman, absolute

And technical in victories and defeats,

And all our dainty terms for fratricide ;

Terms which we trundle smoothly o'er our tongues

Like mere abstractions, empty sounds, to which

We join no feeling and attach no form !

As if the soldier died without a wound ;

As if the fibres of this godlike frame

Were gored without a pang ; as if the wretch,

Who fell in battle, doing bloody deeds,

Pass'd off to Heaven, translated and not kill'd :

As though he had no wife to pine for him,

No God to judge him ! Therefore, evil days

Are coming on us, O my countrymen !

And what if all-avenging Providence,

Strong and retributive, should make us know

The meaning of our words, force us to feel

The desolation and the agony

Of our fierce doings !

Spare us yet awhile,
Father and God ! O ! spare us yet awhile !
Oh ! let not English women drag their flight
Fainting beneath the burthen of their babes,
Of the sweet infants, that but yesterday
Laugh'd at the breast ! Sons, brothers, husbands, all
Who ever gazed with fondness on the forms
Which grew up with you round the same fire-side,
And all who ever heard the sabbath-bells
Without the infidel's scorn, make yourselves pure !
Stand forth : be men ! repel an impious foe,
Impious and false, a light yet cruel race,
Who laugh away all virtue, mingling mirth
With deeds of murder ; and still promising
Freedom, themselves too sensual to be free,
Poison life's amities, and cheat the heart
Of faith and quiet hope, and all that soothes
And all that lifts the spirit ! Stand we forth ;
Render them back upon the insulted ocean,
And let them toss as idly on its waves
As the vile sea-weed, which some mountain-blast
Swept from our shores ! And oh ! may we return
Not with a drunken triumph, but with fear,
Repenting of the wrongs with which we stung
So fiercp a foe to frenzy !

I have told,
O Britons ! O my brethren ! I have told
Most bitter truth, but without bitterness.
Nor deem my zeal or factious or mistimed ;
For never can true courage dwell with them,
Who, playing tricks with conscience, dare not look
At their own vices. We have been too long
Dupes of a deep delusion ! Some, belike,
Groaning with restless enmity, expect
All change from change of constituted power;
As if a Government had been a robe,
D2

On which our vice and wretchedness were tagg'd

Like fancy points and fringes, with the robe

Pull'd off at pleasure. Fondly these attach

A radical causation to a few

Poor drudges of chastising Providence,

Who borrow all their hues and qualities

From our own folly and rank wickedness,

Which gave them birth and nursed them. Others.

meanwhile,
Dote with a mad idolatry ; and all
Who will not fall before their images,
And yield them worship, they are enemies
Even of their country !

Such have I been deem'd —
But, O dear Britain ! O my Mother Isle !
Needs must thou prove a name most dear and holy
To me, a son, a brother, and a friend,
A husband, and a father ! who revere
All bonds of natural love, and find them all
Within the limits of thy rocky shores.

0 native Britain ! O my Mother Isle !

How shouldst thou prove aught else but dear and

holy
To me, who from thy lakes and mountain-hills,
Thy clouds, thy quiet dales, thy rocks and seas,
Have drunk in all my intellectual life,
All sweet sensations, all ennobling thoughts,
All adoration of the God in nature,
All lovely and all honorable things,
Whatever makes this mortal spirit feel
The joy and greatness of its future being ?
There lives nor form nor feeling in my soul
Unborrow'd from my country. O divine
And beauteous island ! thou hast been my sole
And most magnificent temple, in the which

1 walk with awe, and sing my stately songs,
Loving the God that made me !

May my fears,
My filial fears, be vain ! and may the vaunts
And menace of the vengeful enemy
Pass like the gust, that roar'd and died awTay
In the distant tree : which heard, and only heard
In this low dell, bow'd not the delicate grass.

But now the gentle dew-fall sends abroad
The fruit-like perfume of the golden furze :
The light has left the summit of the hill,
Though still a sunny gleam lies beautiful,
Aslant the ivied beacon. Now farewell,
Farewell, awhile, O soft and silent spot !
On the green sheep-track, up the heathy hill,
Homeward I wind my way ; and lo ! recall'd
From bodings that have well-nigh wearied me,
I find myself upon the brow, and pause
Startled ! And after lonely sojourning
In such a quiet and surrounding nook,
This burst of prospect, here the shadowy main,
Dim-tinted, there the mighty majesty
Of that huge amphitheatre of rich
And elmy fields, seems like society —
Conversing with the mind, and giving it
A livelier impulse and a dance of thought!
And now, beloved Stowey! I behold
Thy church-tower, and, methinks, the four huge elms
35

2ti

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

Clustering, which mark the mansion of my friend,
And close behind them, hidden from my view,
Is my own lowly cottage, where my babe
And my babe's mother dwell in peace ! With light
And quicken'd footsteps thitherward I tend,
Remembering thee, O green and silent dell !
And grateful, that, by nature's quietness
And solitary musings, all my heart
Is soften'd, and made worthy to indulge
Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human-kind.
Nether Siowey, April 28lk, 1798.

FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER.

A WAR ECLOGUE.

WITH AN APOLOGETIC PREFACE.*

The Scene a desolated Tract in La Vendue. Famine
is discovered lying on the ground ; to her enter Fire
and Slaughter.

famine.
Sisters ! sisters ! who sent you here ?

SLAUGHTER {10 FIRE).

I will whisper it in her ear.

No ! no ! no !
Spirits hear what spirits tell :
T will make a holiday in Hell.

No! no! no!
Myself, I named him once below,
And all the souls, that damned be,
Leap'd up at once in anarchy,
Clapp'd their hands and danced for glee.
The; «o longer heeded me;
But laugh'd to hear Hell's burning rafters
Unwillingly re-echo laughters !

No! no! no!
Spirits hear what spirits tell!
T will make a holiday in Hell !

FAMINE.

Whisper it, sister ! so and so !
IjQ a dark hint, soft and slow.

SLAUGHTER.

Letters four do form his name—
And who sent you ?

BOTH.

The same!

SLAUGHTER.

the same!

He came by stealth, and unlock'd my den,
And I have drunk the blood since then
Of thrice three hundred thousand men.

Who bade you do it \

SLAUGHTER.

The same! the same!

See Appendix to " Sibylline Leaves.

Letters four do form his name.
He let me loose, and cried Halloo
To him alone the praise is due.

Thanks, sister, thanks! the men have bled,

Their wives and their children faint for bread.

I stood in a swampy field of battle ;

With bones and sculls I made a rattle,

To frighten the wolf and carrion crow,

And the homeless dog — but they would not go.

So off I flew; for how could I bear

To see them gorge their dainty fare?

I heard a groan and a peevish squall,

And through the chink of a cottage-wall —

Can you guess what I saw there ?

BOTH.

Whisper it, sister! in our ear.

FAMINE.

A baby beat its dying mother.

I had starved the one, and was starving the other

Who bade you do't?

FAMINE.

The same! the same!
Letters four do form his name.
He let me loose, and cried Halloo!
To him alone the praise is due.

FIRE.

Sisters! I from Ireland came!

Hedge and corn-fields all on flame,

I triumph'd o'er the setting sun!

And all the while the work was done

On as I strode with my huge strides,

I flung back my head and I held my sides,

It was so rare a piece of fun

To see the swelter'd cattle run

With uncouth gallop through the night,

Scared by the red and noisy light!

By the light of his own blazing cot

Was many a naked rebel shot:

The house-stream met the flame and hiss'd,

While crash! fell in the roof, I wist,

On some of those old bedrid nurses,

That deal in discontent and curses.

Who bade you do 't ?

FIRE.

The same! the
Letters four do form his name.
He let me loose, and cried Halloo!
To him alone the praise is due.

ALL.

He let us loose, and cried Halloo !
How shall we yield him honor due?

i FAMINE.

Wisdom comes with lack of food.
I '11 gnaw, 1 '11 gnaw the multitude,
2(y

SIBYLLINE LEAVES.

27

Till the cup of rage o'erbrim :

They shall seize Mm and his brood —

SLAUGHTER.

The)- shall tear him limb from limb !

0 thankless beldames and untrue !
And is this all that you can do
For him who did so much for you ?
Ninety months he, by my troth !
Hath richly cater 'd for you both ;
And in an hour would you repay

An eight years' work ? — Away ! away !

1 alone am faithful ! I
Cling to him everlastingly.

1796.

RECANTATION

ILLUSTRATED IN THE STORY OF THE MAD OX.

An Ox, long fed with musty hay,

And work'd with yoke and chain,
Was turn'd out on an April day,
When fields are in their best array,
And growing grasses sparkle gay,
At once with sim and rain.

The grass was fine, the sun was bright,

With truth I may aver it ;
The Ox was glad, as well he might,
Thought a green meadow no bad sight,
And rnsk'd to show his huge delight,

Much like a beast of spirit

" Stop, neighbors ! stop ! why these alarms ?

The Ox is only glad."
But still ihey pour from cots and farms —
Halloo ! the parish is up in arms
(A hoaxing hunt has always charms),

Halloo! the Ox is mad.

The frighted beast scamper'd about,

Plunge ! through the hedge he drove—

The mob pursue with hideous rout,

A bull-dog fastens on his snout,

He gores the dog, his tongue hangs out —
He 's mad, he 's mad, by Jove !

" Stop, neighbors, stop!" aloud did call

A sage of sober hue,
But all at once on him they fall,
And women squeak and children squall,
" What! would you have him toss us all?

And, damme ! who are you ? "

Ah, hapless sage ! his ears they stun,

And curse him o'er and o'er —
" You bloody-minded dog! " (cries one,)
" To slit your windpipe were good fun —
'Od bl — you for an impious* son
Of a Presbyterian w — re !

* One of the many fine words which the most uneducated
had about this time a constant opportunity of ae<i"'ring from

\he sermons in the pulpit, and the proclamations on the

tomers.

" You 'd have him gore the parish-priest,

And run against the altar —
You Fiend!" — The sage his warnings ceased
And North, and South, and West, and East,
Halloo ! they follow the poor beast,

Mat, Dick, Tom, Bob, and Walter.

Old Lewis, 't was his evil day,

Stood trembling in his shoes ;
The Ox was his — what could he say ?
His legs were stifFen'd with dismay,
The Ox ran o'er him 'mid the fray,

And gave him his death's bruise.

The frighted beast ran on — but here,
The Gospel scarce more true is —

My muse stops short in mid-career —

Nay ! gentle reader ! do not sneer,

I cannot choose but drop a tear,
A tear for good old Lewis.

The frighted beast ran through the town,

All follow'd, boy and dad,
Bull-dog, Parson, Shopman, Clown,
The Publicans rush'd from the Crown,
" Halloo ! hamstring him ! cut him down ! *

They drove the poor Ox mad.

Should you a rat to madness tease,

Why even a rat might plague you :
There 's no philosopher but sees
That rage and fear are one disease —
Though that may burn and this may freeze
They're both alike the ague.

And so this Ox, in frantic mood,

Faced round like any Bull —
The mob turn'd tail, and he pursued,
Till they with fright and fear were stew'd,
And not a chick of all this brood

But had his belly-full.

Old Nick's astride the beast, 't'is clear —

Old Nicholas to a tittle !
But all agree he 'd disappear,
Would but the parson venture near,
And through his teeth, right o'er the steer

Squirt out some fasting-spittle.t

Achilles was a warrior fleet,

The Trojans he could worry —
Our parson too was swift of feet,
But show'd it chiefly in retreat !
The victor Ox scour'd down the street,

The mob fled hurry-skurry.

Through gardens, lanes, and fields new-plow'd
Through his hedge and through her hedge.

He plunged and toss'd, and bellow'd loud,

Till in his madness he grew proud

To see this helter-skelter crowd

That had more wrath than courage.

t According to the superstition of the West Countries, if you
meet the Devil, you may either cut him in half with a straw, 01
you may causo him instantly to disappear by spitting over hit
horns.

6 37

28

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

Alas ! to mend the breaches wide

He made for these poor ninnies,
They all must work, whate'er betide,
Both days and months, and pay beside
(Sad news for Avarice and for Pride)

A sight of golden guineas.

Btit here once more to view did pop

The man that kept his senses.
And now he cried — " Stop, neighbors ! stop !
The Ox is mad ! I would not swop,
No, not a school-boy's farthing top

For all the parish fences.

" The Ox is mad ! Ho ! Dick, Bob, Mat!

What means this coward fuss ?
Ho ! stretch this rope across the plat —
'T will trip him up — or if not that,
Why, damme ! we must lay him flat —

See, here 's my blunderbuss ! "

" A lying dog ! just now he said,

The Ox was only glad,
Let 's break his Presbyterian head ! " —
"Hush!" quoth the sage, "you've been misled,
No quarrels now — let's all make head—

You drove the poor Ox mad ! "

As thus I sat in careless chat,

With the morning's wet newspaper,

In eager haste, without his hat,

As blind and blundering as a bat,

In came that fierce aristocrat,
Our pursy woollen draper.

And so my Muse perforce drew bit,

And in he rush'd and panted : —
" Well, have you heard ? " — " No ! not a whit."
" What! han't you heard I " — Come, out with it ! "
" That Tierney votes for Mister Pitt,

And Sheridan 's recanted."

II. LOVE POEMS.

Quas humilis tenero stylus olim effudit in aevo.

Perlegis hie lacrymas, et quod pharetratus acuta

Ille puer puero fecit mihi cuspide vulnus,

Omnia paulatim consumit longior retas,

Vivendoque simul morimur, rapimurque manendo.

lspe mihi collatusenim non ille videbor:

Frons alia est, moresque alii, nova mentis imago,

Voxque aliud sonat —

Pectore nunc gelido calidos miseremur amantes,

Jamque arsisse pudet. Veteres tranquilla tumultua

Mens horret relegensque alium putat ista locutum.

Petrarch.

INTRODUCTION TO THE TALE OF THE
DARK LADIE.

The following Poem is intended as the introduction to a
somewhat longer one. The use of the old Ballad word Ladie for
Lady, is the only piece of obsoleteness in it; and as it is pro-
fessedly a tale of ancient times, I trust that the affectionate
lovers of venerable antiquity [as Camden saysj will grant me
their pardon, and perhaps may be induced to admit a force
and propriety in it A heavier objection may be adduced
against the author, that in these times of fear and expectation,
tt'hen novelties explode around us in all directions, he should

presume to offer to the public a silly tale of old-fashioned lovn
and five years ago, I own I should have allowed and felt tho
force of this objection. But, alas ! explosion has succeeded
explosion so rapidly, that novelty itself ceases to appear new; and
it is possible that now even a simple story, wholly uninspired with
politics or personality, may find some attention amid the hub-
bub of revolutions, as to those who have remained a long time
by the falls of Niagara, the lowest wh ispering becomes distinct
ly audible. S. T. C

Dec. 21, 1799.

O leave the lily on its stem;

0 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 twined
Because it fashion'd mournfully

Its murmurs in the wind.

And now a Tale of Love and Woe,
A woful 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 !

0 come, and hear what cruel wrongs
Befell the Dark Ladie.

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.

All thoughts, "all passions, all delights,
Whatever stir this mortal frame,

All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.

Oh ! ever in my waking dreams,

1 dwell upon that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I sate,

Beside the ruin'd tower.

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene
Had blended with the fights 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 harp,
Amid the ling'ring light.

1 play'd a sad and doleful air,

I sang an old and moving story —
An old rude song, that fitted well
That ruin wild and hoary.

She listen'd with a flitting blush,

With downcast eyes and modest graco ,

For well she knew, I could not choose
But gaze upon her face.

I told her of the Knight that wore
Upon his shield a burning brand ;

And how for ten long years he woo'd
The Ladie of the Land :

38

SIBYLLINE LEAVES.

29

I told her bow he pined : and ah !

The deep, the low, the pleading tone
iVith which I sung 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 lonely Knight,
And how he roam'd the mountain-woods,

Nor rested day or night;

And how he cross'd the woodman's paths,
Thz-ough briers 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 how he knew it was a Fiend,
This miserable Knight !

And how, unknowing what he did,

He leapt amid a lawless band,
And saved from outrage worse than death

The Ladie of the Land !

And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees ;

And how she tended him in vain —
And meekly strove to expiate

The scorn that crazed his brain :

And how she nursed him in a cave ;

And how his madness went away,
When on the yellow forest-leaves

A dying man he lay ;

His dying words — but when I reach'd
That tend 'rest strain of all the ditty,

My falt'ring voice and pausing harp
Disturb'd her soul with pity !

All impulses of soul and sense

Had thrill'd my guiltless 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 maiden-shame;
And, like the murmurs of a dream,

I heard her breathe my name.

saw her bosom heave and swell,
Heave and swell with inward sighs —
I could not choose but love to see
Her gentle bosom rise.

Her wet cheek glow'd : she stept aside,
As conscious of my look she stepp'd ;

Then suddenly, with tim'rous eye,
She flew to me and wept.

She half inclosed me with her arms,
She press'd me with a meek embrace ;

And bending back her head, look'd up.
And gazed upon my face.

'T was partly love, and partly fear,
And partly 't was 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.

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 the cruel scorn

That crazed this bold and lonely Knight,

And how he roam'd the mountain- woods
Nor rested day or night ;

I promised thee a sister tale

Of man's perfidious cruelty :
Come, then, and hear what cruel wrong

Befell the Dark Ladie.

LEWTI, 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

And the shadow of a star
Heaved upon Tamaha's stream ;

But the rock shone brighter far,
The rock half-shelter'd from my view
By pendent boughs of tressy yew —
So shines my Lewti's forehead fair,
Gleaming through her sable hair.
Image of Lewti ! from my mind
Depart ; for Lewti is not kind.

I saw a cloud of palest hue,

Onward to the moon it pass'd ;
Still brighter and more bright it grew
With floating colors not a few,

Till it reach'd the moon at last :
Then the cloud was wholly bright
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 !
Nay, treacherous image ! leave my mind.
If Lewti never will be kind.

39

30

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

The little cloud — it floats away,

Away it goes ; away so soon ?
Alas ! it has no power to stay :
Its hues are dim, its hues are gray —

Away it passes from the moon !
How mournfully it seems to fly,

Ever fading more and more,
To joyless regions of the sky —

And now 'tis whiter than before !
As white as my poor cheek will be,

When, Lewti ! on my couch I he,
A dying man for love of thee.
Nay, treacherous image ! leave my mind — ■
And yet thou didst not look unkind.

T saw a vapor in the sky,

Thin, and white, and very high ;
I ne'er beheld so thin a cloud :

Perhaps the breezes that can fly

Now below and now above,
Have snatch'd aloft the lawny shroud

Of Lady fair — that died for love.
For maids, as well as youths, have perish'd
From fruitless love too fondly cherish'd.
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,
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

0 beauteous Birds ! 't is such a pleasure
To see you move beneath the moon,

1 would it were your true delight
To sleep by day and wake all night

I know the place where Lewti lies,
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,
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.

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

Her bosom heave, and heave for me !

Soothe, gentle image ! soothe my mind !

To morrow Lewti may be kind.
1795.

THE PICTURE, OR THE LOVER'S
RESOLUTION.

ruRoufiTi weeds and thorns, and matted underwood
( forre my way ; now climb and now descend

O'er rocks, or bare or mossy, with wild foot
Crushing the purple whorts ; wrule oft unseen,
Hurrying along the drifted forest-leaves,
The scared snake rustles. Onward still I toil,
I know not, ask not whither*! A new joy,
Lovely as light, sudden as summer gust,
And gladsome as the first-born of the spring,
Beckons me on, or follows from behind,
Playmate, or guide ! The master-passion quell'd,
I feel that I am free. With dun-red bark
The fir-trees, and the unfrequent slender oak,
Forth from this tangle wild of bush and brake
Soar up, and form a melancholy vault
High o'er me, murmuring like a distant sea.

Here Wisdom might resort, and here Remorse ,
Here too the lovelorn man who, sick in soul,
And of this busy human heart aweary,
Worships the spirit of unconscious life
In tree or wild-flower. — Gentle Lunatic !
If so he might not wholly cease to be,
He would far rather not be that, he is ;
But would be something, that he knows not of,
In winds or waters, or among the rocks !

But hence, fond wretch ! breathe not contagior.
here !
No myrtle-walks are these : these are no groves
Where Love dare loiter ! If in sullen mood
He should stray hither, the low stumps shall gore
His dainty feet, the brier and the thorn
Make his plumes haggard. Like a wounded bird
Easily caught, ensnare him, O ye Nymphs,
Ye Oreads chaste, ye dusky Dryades !
And you, ye Earth-winds ! you that make at morn
The dew-drops quiver on the spiders' webs !
You, O ye wingless Airs ! that creep between
The rigid stems of heath and bitten furze,
Within whose scanty shade, at summer-noon,
The mother-sheep hath worn a hollow bed —
Ye, that now cool her fleece with dropless damp,
Now pant and murmur with her feeding lamb.
Chase, chase him, all ye Fays, and elfin Gnomes !
With prickles sharper than his darts bemock
His little Godship, making him perforce
Creep through a thorn-bush on yon hedgehog's back

This is my hour of triumph ! I can now
With my own fancies play the merry fool,
And laugh away worse folly, being free.
Here will I seat myself, beside this old,
Hollow, and weedy oak, which ivy-twine
Clothes as with net- work : here will I couch my

limbs,
Close by this river, in this silent shade,
As safe and sacred from the step of man
As an invisible world — unheard, unseen,
And list'ning only to the pebbly brook
That murmurs with a dead, yet tinkling sound
Or to the bees, that in the neighboring trunk
Make honey-hoards. The breeze, that visits mt
Was never Love's accomplice, never raised
The tendril ringlets from the maiden's brow,
And the blue, delicate veins above her cheek ;
Ne'er play'd the wanton — never half-disclosed
The maiden's snowy bosom, scattering thence
Eye-poisons for some love-distemperd youth,
Who ne'er henceforth may see an aspen-grove
40

SIBYLLINE LEAVES.

31

Shiver in sunshine, but his feeble heart
Shall flow away like a dissolving thing.

Sweet breeze ! thou only, if I guess aright,
Liftest the feathers of the robin's breast,
That swells its little breast, so full of song,
Singing above me, on the mountain-ash.
And thou too, desert Stream ! no pool of thine,
Though clear as lake in latest summer-eve,
Did e'er reflect the stately virgin's robe,
The face, the form divine, the downcast look
Contemplative ! Behold ! her open palm
Presses her cheek and brow ! her elbow rests
On the bare branch of half-uprooted tree,
That leans towards its mirror! Who ere while
Had from her countenance turn'd, or look'd by

stealth
vFor fear is true love's cruel nurse), he now
With stedfast gaze and unoffending eye,
Worships the watery idol, dreaming hopes
Delicious to the soul, but fleeting, vain,
E'en as that phantom-world on which he gazed,
But not unheeded gazed : for see, ah ! see,
The sportive tyrant with her left hand plucks
The heads of tall flowers that behind her grow,
Lychnis, and willow-herb, and fox-glove bells :
And suddenly, as one that toys with time,
Scatters them on the pool ! Then all the charm
Is broken — all that phantom-world so fair
Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread,
And each misshapes the other. Stay awhile,
Poor youth, who scarcely darest lift up thine eyes !
The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon
The visions will return ! And lo ! he stays :
And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms
Come trembling back, unite, and now once more
The pool becomes a mirror ; and behold
Each wild-flower on the marge inverted there,
And there the half-uprooted tree — but where,
O where the virgin's snowy arm, that lean'd
On its bare branch ? He turns, and she is gone !
Homeward she steals through many a woodland

maze
Which he shall seek in vain. Ill-fated youth !
Go, day by day, and waste thy manly prime
In mad love-yearning by the vacant brook,
Till sickly thoughts bewitch thine eyes, and thou
Behold'st her shadow still abiding there,
The Naiad of the Mirror!

Not to thee,

0 wild and desert Stream ! belongs this tale :
Gloomy and dark art thou — the crowded firs
Spire from thy shores, and stretch across thy bed,
Making thee doleful as a cavern-well :

Save when the shy king-fishers build their nest
On thy steep banks, no loves hast thou, wild stream!

This be my chosen haunt — emancipate
From passion's dreams, a freeman, and alone,

1 rise and trace its devious course. O lead,
Lead me to deeper shades and lonelier glooms.
Lo ! stealing through the canopy of firs,
How fair the sunshine spots that mossy rock,
Isle of the river, whose disparted waves
Dart off asunder with an angry sound,

How soon to reunite ! And see ! they meet,
Each in the other lost and found : and see

Placeless, as spirits, one soft water-sun

Throbbing within them, Heart at once and Eye !

With its soft neighborhood of filmy clouds

The stains and shadings of forgotten tears,

Dimness o'erswum with lustre ! Such the hour

Of deep enjoyment, following love's brief feuds ,

And hark, the noise of a near waterfall!

I pass forth into light — I find myself

Beneath a weeping birch (most beautiful

Of forest-trees, the Lady of the woods),

Hard by the brink of a tall weedy rock

That overbrows the cataract. How bursts

The landscape on my sight ! Two crescent hills

Fold in behind each other, and so make

A circular vale, and land-lock'd, as might seem,

With brook and bridge, and gray stone cottages,

Half hid by rocks and fruit-trees. At my feet,

The whortle-berries are bedew'd with spray,

Dash'd upwards by the furious waterfall.

How solemnly the pendent ivy mass

Swings in its winnow : all the air is calm.

The smoke from cottage-chimneys, tinged with

light,
Rises in columns ; from this house alone,
Close by the waterfall, the column slants,
And feels its ceaseless breeze. But what is this ?
That cottage, with its slanting chimney-smoke,
And close beside its porch a sleeping child,
His dear head pillow'd on a sleeping dog —
One arm between its fore-legs, and the hand
Holds loosely its small handful of wild-flowers,
Unfilleted, and of unequal lengths.
A curious picture, with a master's haste
Sketch'd on a strip of pinky-silver skin,
Peel'd from the birchen bark ! Divinest maid .'
Yon bark her canvas, and those purple berries
Her pencil ! See, the juice is scarcely dried
On the fine skin ! She has been newly here ;
And lo ! yon patch of heath has been her couch-
The pressure still remains ! O blessed couch !
For this mayst thou flower early, and the Sun,
Slanting at eve, rest bright, and linger long
Upon thy purple bells ! O hnbel !
Daughter of genius ! stateliest of our maids !
More beautiful than whom Alcaeus wooed,
The Lesbian woman of immortal song !
O child of genius ! stately, beautiful,
And full of love to all, save only me,
And not ungentle e'en to me ! My heart,
Why beats it thus ? Through yonder coppice- wood
Needs must the pathway turn, that leads straightway
On to her father's house. She is alone !
The night draws on — such ways are hard to hit —
And fit it is I should restore this sketch,
Dropt unawares, no doubt. Why should I yearn
To keep the relic ? 't will but idly feed
The passion that consumes me. Let me haste !
The picture in my hand which she has left.
She cannot blame me that I folio w'd her ;
And I may be her guide the long wood through

THE NIGHT-SCENE.

A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT.

SANDOVAL.

You loved the daughter of Don Manrique
41

32

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

EARL HENRY.
SANDOVAL.

Did you not say you woo'd her ?

EARL HENRY.

Her whom I dared not woo !

Loved?

Once I loved

SANDOVAL.

And woo'd, perchance,
One whom you loved not !

EARL HENRY.

Oh ! I were most base,
Not loving Oropeza. True, I woo'd her,
Hoping to heal a deeper wound ; but she
Met my advances with impassion'd pride,
That kindled love with love. And when her sire,
Who in his dream of hope already grasp'd
The golden circlet in his hand, rejected
My suit with insult, and in memory
Of ancient feuds pour'd curses on my head,
Her blessings overtook and baffled them !
But thou art stern, and with unkindly countenance
Art inly reasoning whilst thou listenest to me.

SANDOVAL.

Anxiously, Henry ! reasoning anxiously.
But Oropeza —

EARL HENRY.

Blessings gather round her !
Within this wood there winds a secret passage,
Beneath the walls, which opens out at length
Into the gloomiest covert of the garden —
The night ere my departure to the army,
She, nothing trembling, led me through that gloom,
And to that covert by a silent stream,
Which, with one star reflected near its marge,
Was the sole object visible around me.
No leaflet stirr'd ; the air was almost sultry ;
So deep, so dark, so close, the umbrage o'er us !
No leaflet stirr'd ; — yet pleasure hung upon
The gloom and stillness of the balmy night-air.
A little further on an arbor stood,
Fragrant with flowering trees — I well remember
What an uncertain glimmer in the darkness
Their snow-white blossoms made — thither she led

me,
To that sweet bower ! Then Oropeza trembled —
heard her heart beat — if 't were not my own.

SANDOVAL.

A. rude and scaring note, my friend !

EARL HENRY.

Oh! no!

I have small memory of aught but pleasure.

The inquietudes of fear, like lesser streams

Still flowing, still were lost in those of love :

So love grew mightier from the fear, and Nature,

Fleeing from Pain, shelter' d herself in Joy.

The stars above our heads were dim and steady,

Like eyes suffused with rapture. Life was in us :

We were all life, each atom of our frames

A living soul — I vow'd to die for her :

With the faint voice of one who, having spoken,

Relapses into blessedness, I vow'd it:
That solemn vow, a whisper scarcely heard,
A murmur breathed against a lady's ear.
Oh ! there is joy above the name of pleasure,
Deep self-possession, an intense repose.

Sandoval (with a sarcastic smile).
No other than as eastern sages paint,
The God, who floats upon a lotos leaf,
Dreams for a thousand ages ; then awaking,
Creates a world, and smiling at the bubble,
Relapses into bliss. \

EARL HENRY.

Ah ! was that bliss
Fear'd as an alien, and too vast for man '{
For suddenly, impatient of its silence,
Did Oropeza, starting, grasp my forehead.
I caught her arms ; the veins were swelling on them
Through the dark bower she sent a hollow voice,
Oh ! what if all betray me ? what if thou ?
I swrore, and with an inward thought that seem'd
The purpose and the substance of my being,
I swore to her, that were she red with guilt,
I would exchange my unblench'd state with hers. —
Friend ! by that winding passage, to that bower
I now will go — all objects there will teach me
Unwavering love, and singleness of heart.
Go, Sandoval ! I am prepared to meet her —
Say nothing of me — I myself will seek her —
Nay, leave me, friend ! I cannot bear the torment
And keen inquiry of that scanning eye —

[Earl Henry retires into the woott

Sandoval (alone).
O Henry ! always strivest thou to be great
By thine own act — yet art thou never great
But by the inspiration of great passion.
The whirl-blast comes, the desert-sands rise up
And shape themselves : from Earth to Heaven they

stand,
As though they were the pillars of a temple,
Built by Omnipotence in its own honor !
But the blast pauses, and their shaping spirit
Is fled : the mighty columns were but sand,
And lazy snakes trail o'er the level ruins '

TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN,

WHOM THE AUTHOR HAD KNOWN IN THE DAYS OF
HER INNOCENCE.

Myrtle-leaf that, ill besped,

Pinest in the gladsome ray,
Soil'd beneath the common tread,

Far from thy protecting spray •

When the Partridge o'er the sheaf
Whirr'd along the yellow vale,

Sad I saw thee, heedless leaf!
Love the dalliance of the gale

Lightly didst thou, foolish thing .

Heave and flutter to his sighs,
While the flatterer, on his wing,

Woo'd and whisper'd thee to rise.
42

SIBYLLINE LEAVES.

33

Gaily fror?, thy mother-stalk .

Wert thou danced and wafted high —
Soon on this unshelter'd walk

Flung to fade, to rot and die.

TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN AT THE
THEATRE.

Maiden, that with sullen brow
Sittest behind those virgins gay,

Like a scorch'd and mildew'd bough,
Leafless 'mid the blooms of May !

Him who lured thee and forsook,

Oft I watch'd with angry gaze,
Fearful saw his pleading look,

Anxious heard his fervid phrase.

Soft the glances of the youth,
Soft his speech, and soft his sigh ;

But no sound like simple truth,
But no true love in his eye.

Lothing thy polluted lot,

Hie thee, Maiden, hie thee hence !

Seek thy weeping Mother's cot,
With a wiser innocence.

Thou hast known deceit and folly,
Thou hast felt that vice is woe :

With a musing melancholy
Inly arm'd, go, Maiden! go.

Mother sage of Self-dominion,
Firm thy steps, O Melancholy !
/ The strongest plume in wisdom's pinion
v Is the memory of past folly. f\ ,.

Mute the sky-lark and forlorn, /

While she moults the firstling plumes,

That had skimm'd the tender corn,
Or the bean-field's odorous blooms :

Soon with renovated wing

Shall she dare a loftier flight,
Upward to the day-star spring,

And embathe in heavenly light.

LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-ROOM.

Nor cold, nor stern, my soul ! yet I detest

These scented Rooms, where, to a gaudy throng,

Heaves the proud Harlot her distended breast,
In intricacies of laborious song.

These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign
To melt at Nature's* passion-warbled plaint ;

But when the long-breathed singer's uptrill'd strain
Bursts in a squall — they gape for wonderment.

Hark the deep buzz of Vanity and Hate !

Scornful, yet envious, with self-torturing sneer

My lady eyes some maid of humbler state,

While the pert Captain, or the primmer Priest,
Prattles accordant scandal in her ear.
4 E

O give me, from this heartless scene released,
To hear our old musician, blind and gray

(Whom stretching from my nurse's arms I kiss d),
His Scottish tunes and warlike marches play

By moonshine, on the balmy summer-night,
The while I dance amid the tedded hay

With merry maids, whose ringlets toss in light

Or lies the purple evening on the bay
Of the calm glossy lake, O let me hide

Unheard, unseen, behind the alder-trees
For round their roots the fisher's boat is tied,

On whose trim seat doth Edmund stretch at ease,
And while the lazy boat sways to and fro,

Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and slow,
That his own cheek is wet with quiet tears.

But O, dear Anne ! when midnight wind careers,
And the gust pelting on the out-house shed

Makes the cock shrilly on the rain-storm crow,

To hear thee sing some ballad full of woe,
Ballad of shipwreck'd sailor floating dead,

Whom his own true-love buried in the sands '
Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice remeasures
Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures

The things of Nature utter ; birds or trees,
Or moan of ocean-gale in weedy caves,
Or where the stiff grass 'mid the heath-plant wa\es,

Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze.

THE KEEPSAKE.

The tedded hay, the first fruits of the soil,
The tedded hay and corn-sheaves in one field,
Show summer gone, ere come. The foxglove tall
Sheds its loose purple bells, or in the gust,
Or when it bends beneath the up-springing lark,
Or mountain-finch alighting. And the rose
(In vain the darling of successful love)
Stands, like some boasted beauty of past years,
The thorns remaining, and the flowers all gone.
Nor can I find, amid my lonely walk
By rivulet, or spring, or wet road-side,
That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook,
Hope's gentle gem, the sweet Forget-me-not!*
So will not fade the flowers which Emmeline
With delicate fingers on the snow-white silk
Has work'd (the flowers which most she knew I

loved),
And, more beloved than they, her auburn hair.

Iri the cool morning twilight, early waked
By her full bosom's joyous restlessness,
Softly she rose, and lightly stole along,
Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower,
Whose rich flowers, swinging in the morning breeze,
Over their dim fast-moving shadows hung,
Making a quiet image of disquiet
In the smooth, scarcely moving nvei-pool
There, in that bower where first she own'd her love
And let me kiss my own warm tear of joy
From off her glowing cheek, she sate and stretch'd

* One of the names (and meriting to be the only one) of the
Myosotis Scorpioidfs Pnlustris, a flower from six to twelve
inches high, with blue blossom and bright yellow eye. It has
the same name over the whole Empire of Germany {Vcrgisa-
mcin nicht) and, we believe, in Denmark and Swednc.
43

34

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

The silk upon the frame, and work'd her name
Between the Moss-Rose and Forget-me-not —
Her own dear name, with her own auburn hair '.
That forced to wander till sweet spring return,
I yet might ne'er forget her smile, her look,
Her voice (that even in her mirthful mood
Has made me wish to steal away and weep),
Nor yet the entrancement of that maiden kiss
With which she promised, that when spring return'd,
She would resign one half of that dear name,
And own thenceforth no other name but mine !

TO A LADY.

WITH FALCONER'S " SHIPWRECK."

Ah . not by Cam or Isis, famous streams,

In arched groves, the youthful poet's choice ;

Nor while half-listening, 'mid delicious dreams,
To harp and song from lady's hand and voice ;

Nor yet while gazing in sublimer mood

On cliff, or cataract, in Alpine dell ;
Nor in dim cave with bladdery sea-weed strew'd,

Framing wild fancies to the ocean's swell ;

Our sea-bard sang this song ! which still he sings,
And sings for thee, sweet friend! Hark, Pity, hark!

Now mounts, now7 totters on the Tempest's wings,
Now groans, and shivers, the re plunging Bark !

" Cling to the shrouds ! " In vain ! The breakers
roar —

Death shrieks ! With two alone of all his clan
Forlorn the poet paced the Grecian shore,

No classic roamer, but a shipwreck'd man !

Say then, what muse inspired these genial strains,
And lit his spirit to so bright a flame ?

The elevating thought of suffer'd pains,

Which gentle hearts shall mourn ; but chief, the
name

Of Gratitude ! Remembrances of Friend,
Or absent or no more ! Shades of the Past,

Which Love makes Substance ! Hence to thee I send,
O dear as long as life and memory last !

1 send with deep regards of heart and head,

Sweet maid, for friendship form'd ■ this work to
thee:

And thou, the while thou canst not choose but shed
A tear for Falconer, wilt remember me.

TO A YOUNG LADY.

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.

.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.

Believe me, while in bed you lay.
Your danger taught us all to pray :

You made us grow devouter !
Each eye look'd up, and seem'd to say

How can we do without her ?

Besides, what vex'd us worse, we knew.
They have no need of such as you

±n the place where you were going ;
This World has angels all too few,

And Heaven is overflowing !

SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY
NATURAL.

WRITTEN IN GERMANY.

If I had but two little wings,
And were a little feathery bird,
To you I 'd fly, my dear !
But thoughts like these are idle things,
And I stay here.

But in my sleep to you I fly :

I'm always with you in my sleep !
The world is all one's own.
But then one wakes, and where am I ?
All, all alone.

Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids :
So I love to wake ere break of day :
For though my sleep be gone,
Yet, while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids,
And still dreams on.

HOME-SICK.

WRITTEN IN GERMANY.

'T is sweet to him, wTho all the week
Through city-crowds must push his way,

To stroll alone through fields and woods,
And hallow thus the Sabbath-Day

And sweet it is, in summer bower,

Sincere, affectionate, and gay,
One's own dear children feasting round.

To celebrate one's marriage-day.

But what is all, to his delight,

Who having long been doom'd to roam,
Throws off the bundle from his back,

Before the door of his owti home ?

Home-sickness is a wasting pang ;

This feel I hourly more and more :
There 's Healing only in thy wings,

Thou Breeze that playest on Albion's shore !

ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION.

Do you ask what the birds say ? The Sparrow, tM

Dove,
The Linnet and Thrush, say, " I love and I love ! "
In the winter they 're silent — the wind is so strong ,
What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song
But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm

weather,
And singing, and loving — all come back together
44

SIBYLLINE LEAVES.

35

But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love,
The green fields below him, the blue sky above,
That he sings, and he sings ; and for ever sings he —
" 1 love my Love, and my Love loves me ! "

THE VISIONARY HOPE.

Sad lot. to have no Hope! Though lowly kneeling
He fain would frame a prayer within his breast,
Would fain entreat for some sweet breath of healing,
That his sick body might have ease and rest;
He strove in vain! the dull sighs from his chest
Against his will the stifling load revealing,
Though Nature forced ; though like some captive guest,
Some royal prisoner at his conqueror's feast,
An alien's restless mood but half concealing,
The sternness on his gentle brow confess'd,
Sickness within and miserable feeling:
Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams,
And dreaded sleep, each night repell'd in vain,
Each night was scatter'd by its own loud screams ,
Yet never could his heart command, though fain,
One deep full wish to be no more in pain.

That Hope, which was his inward bliss and boast,
Which waned and died, yet ever near him stood,
Though changed in nature, wander where he would —
For Love's Despair is but Hope's pining Ghost !
For this one Hope he makes his hourly moan,
He wishes and can wish for this alone !
Pierced, as with light from Heaven, beibre its gleams
'So the love-stricken visionary deems)
Disease would vanish, like a summer shower,
Whose dews fling sunshine from the noon-tide bower!
Or let it stay ! yet this one Hope should give
Such strength that he would bless his pains and liv

THE HAPPY HUSBAND.

A FRAGMENT.

Oft, oft methinks, the while with Thee
I breathe, as from the heart, thy dear
And dedicated name, I hear

A promise and a mystery,

A pledge of more than passing life,
Yea, in that very name of Wife !

A pulse of love, that ne'er can sleep!

A feeling that upbraids the heart

With happiness beyond desert,
That gladness half requests to weep!

Nor bless I not the keener sense

And unalarming turbulence

Of transient joys, that ask no sting,

From jealous fears, or coy denying;

But born, beneath Love's brooding wing,
And into tenderness soon dying,

Wheel out their giddy moment, then

Resign the soul to love again.

A more precipitated vein

Of notes, that eddy in the flow

Of smoothest song, they come, they go,

And leave the sweeter under-strain

Its own sweet self — a love of Thee
That seems, yet cannot greater be !

RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE.

How warm this woodland wild Recess!
Love surely hath been breathing here,
And this sweet bed of heath, my dear !

Swells up, then sinks, with faint caress,
As if to have you yet more near.

Eight springs have flown, since last I lay
On seaward Quantock's heathy hills,
Where quiet sounds from hidden rills

Float here and there, like things astray,
And high o'erhead the sky-lark shrills

No voice as yet had made the air
Be music with your name; yet why
That asking look ? that yearning sigh ?

That sense of promise everywhere?
Beloved ! flew your spirit by ?

As when a mother doth explore

The rose-mark on her long-lost child
I met, I loved you, maiden mild !

As whom I long had loved before —
So deeply, had I been beguiled.

You stood before me like a thought,
A dream remember'd in a dream.
But when those meek eyes first did seem

To tell me, Love within you wrought- -
O Greta, dear domestic stream !

Has not, since then, Love's prompture deep,
Has not Love's whisper evermore,
Been ceaseless, as thy gentle roar?

Sole voice, when other voices sleep,
Dear under-song in Clamor's houi.

ON REVISITING THE SEA-SHORE, AFTER
LONG ABSENCE,

UNDER STRONG MEDICAL RECOMMENDATION NOT TO
BATHE.

God be with thee, gladsome Ocean.

How gladly greet I thee once more !
Ships and waves, and ceaseless motion,

And men rejoicing on thy shore.

Dissuading spake the mild Pltysician,

" Those briny waves for thee are Death ! "

But my soul fulfill'd her mission,

And lo! I breathe untroubled breath.'

Fashion's pining sons and daughters,
That seek the crowd they seem to fly.

Trembling they approach thy waters;
And what cares Nature, if they die ?

Me a thousand hopes and pleasures,

A thousand recollections bland,
Thoughts sublime, and stately measures

Revisit on thy echoing strand:
7 45

36

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

Dreams (the soul herself forsaking),
Tearful raptures, boyish mirth ;

Silent adorations, making

A blessed shadow of this Earth !

O ye hopes, that stir within me,

Health comes with you from above!

God is with me, God is in me !
I cannot die, if Life be Love.

THE COMPOSITION OF A KISS.

Cupid, if storying legends* tell aright,

Once framed a rich elixir of delight.

A chalice o'er love-kindled flames he fix'd,

And in it nectar and ambrosia mix'd :

With these the magic dews, which evening brings,

Brush'd from the Idalian star by faery wings :

Each tender pledge of sacred faith he join'd,

Each gentler pleasure of the unspotted mind —

Day-dreams, whose tints with sportive brightness glow,

And Hope, the blameless parasite of woe.

The eyeless Chemist heard the process rise,

The steamy chalice bubbled up in sighs ;

Sweet sounds transpired, as when th' enamour'd dove

Pours the soft murm'ring of responsive love.

The finish'd work might Envy vainly blame,

And " Kisses" was the precious compound's name.

With half the god his Cyprian mother blest,

And breathed on Sara's lovelier lips the rest.

III. MEDITATIVE POEMS,

LN BLANK VERSE.

Yea, he deserves to find himself deceived,
Who seeks a heart in the unthinking Man.
Like shadows on a stream, the forms of life
Impress their characters on the smooth forehead:
Naught sinks into the Bosom's silent depth.
Quick sensibility of Pain and Pleasure
Moves the light fluids lightly ; but no soul
Warmelh the inner frame.

Schiller.

On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc !
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base
Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful form
Risest from forth thy silent Sea of Pines,
How silently ! Around thee and above
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,
An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it,
As with a wedge ! But when I look again,
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine.
Thy habitation from eternity !

0 dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee,
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,

Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayei

1 worshipp'd the Invisible alone.

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody,
| So sweet, we know not we are listening to it,

Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my Thought,
j Vea with my Life and Life's own secret Joy :
I Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused,
j uto the mighty vision passing — there
j As in her natural form, swell'd vast to Heaven!

HYMN BEFORE SUN-RISE, IN THE VALE
OF CHAMOUNY.

Besides the Rivers Arve and Arveiron, which have their
sources in the foot of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous torrents
rush down its sides, and within a few paces of the Glaciers,
the Gentiana Major grows in immense numbers, with its
"flowers of loveliest blue."

Hast thou a charm to stay the Morning-Star
In ms steep course ? So long he seems to pause

* Effinxit quondam blandum meditata laborem

Basia lasciva Cypria Diva mana.
Ambrosiae succos occulta temperat arte,

Fragransque infuso nectare tingit opus.
Suflicit et partem mellis, quod subdolus olim

Non impune favis surripuisset Amor.
Decussos viola? foliis ad miscet odores

Et spolia sstivis plurima rapta rosis.
Addit et illecebras et mille et mille lepores,

Et quot Acidalius gaudia Cestus habet.
Ft his composuit Dea basia ; et omnia libans

Livenias nitidis sparsa per ora Cloes

Carm. Quod. Vol. II.

Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise
Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears,
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake,
Y'jice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn.

Thou first and chief, sole Sovereign of the Vale '
O struggling with the darkness all the night,
And visited all night by troops of stars,
Or when they climb the sky or when thry sink :
Companion of the Morning-Star at dawn,
Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn
Co-herald : wake, O wake, and utter praise '
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ?
Who fill'd thy countenance with rosy light ?
Who made thee Parent of perpetual streams ?

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad !
Who call'd you forth from night and utter death,
From dark and icy caverns call'd you forth,
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,
For ever shatter'd and the same for ever ?
Who gave you your invulnerable life,
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joj
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ?
And who commanded (and the silence came),
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest ?

Ye Ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brov*
Adown enormous ravines slope amain —
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty Voice,
And stopp'd at once amid their maddest plunge !
Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts !
Who made you glorious as the Gates of Heaven
Beneath the keen full Moon ? Who bade the Sun
Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with living flowers
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet ? —
God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations,
Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!
God ! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds
And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!

46

SIBYLLINE LEAVES.

m

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost '
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest !
Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm!
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!
Ye signs and wonders of the element!
Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise !

Then tor, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks.
Oft from v, hose feet the Avalanche, unheard,
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene
Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast —
Thou too again, stupendous Mountain ! thou
That as I raise my head, awhile bow'd low
In adoration, upward from thy base
Slew travelling with &m eyes suffused with tears,
Solemnly seemest like a vapory cloud,
To ri.-c before me— Rise, O ever rise,
Hise like a rfoad ef incense, from the earth!
Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills,
Thou dread Ambassador from Earth to Heaven,
Great ffierareh ! tell thou the silent sky,
And tell the Stare, and tell yon rising sun
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.

LINES

WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM AT ELB1NGERGDE, IN THE
HARTZ FOREST.

f stood on Brocken's* sovran height, and saw

Woods crowding upon woods, hills over hills,

A surging scene, and only limited

By the blue distance. Heavily my way

Downward I dragg'd through fir-groves evermore,

Where bright green moss heaves in sepulchral forms

Speckled with sunshine ; and, but seldom heard,

The sweet bird's song became a hollow sound;

And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly,

Preserved its solemn murmur most distinct

From many a note of many a waterfall,

And the brook's chatter ; 'mid whose islet stones

The dingy kidling with its tinkling bell

Leap'd frolicsome, or old romantic goat

Sat, his white beard slow waving. I moved on

In low and languid mood :t for I had found

That outward forms, the loftiest, still receive

Their finer influence from the Life within :

Fair ciphers else : fair, but of import vague

Or unconcerning, where the Heart not finds

History or prophecy of Friend, or Child,

Or gentle Maid, our first and early love,

Or Father, or the venerable name

Of our adored Country ! O thou Queen,

Thou delegated Deity of Earth,

O dear, dear England ! how my longing eye

Turn'd westward, shaping in the steady clouds

Thy sands and high white clifls !

* The highest mountain in the Hartz, and indeed in North
Germany.

-When I have gazed

From some high eminence on goodly vales,
And cots and villages embower'd below,
The thought would rise that all to me was strange
Amid the scenes so fair, nor one small spot
H'hero my tired mind might rest, and call it home.

Smit.heifs Hymn to the Penates.

E2

My native land !
Fill'd with the thought of thee this heart was proud
Yea, mine eye swam with tears ; that all the view
From sovran Brocken, woods and woody hills,
Floated away, like a departing dream,
Feeble and dim ! Stranger, these impulses
Blame thou not lightly ; nor will I profane,
With hasty judgment or injurious doubt,
That man's sublimer spirit, who can feel
That God is everywhere ! the God who framed
Mankind to be one mighty Family,
Himself our Father, and the World oy.r Home.

ON OBSERVING A BLOSSOM ON THE FIRST GF

FEBRUARY, 1796.
Sweet Flower ! that peeping from thy russet stem
Unfeldest timidly (for in strange sort
This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chattering

month
Hath borrow'd Zephyr's voice, and gazed upon thee
With blue voluptuous eye), alas, poor Flower!
These are but flatteries of the faithless year.
Perchance, escaped its unknown polar cave,
E'en now the keen North-East is on its way.
Flower that must perish ! shall I liken thee
To some sweet girl of too too rapid growth,
Nipp'd by Consumption 'mid untimely charms ?
Or to Bristowa's Bard,* the wondrous boy !
An Amaranth, which earth scarce seem'd to own*
Till Disappointment came, and pelting wrong
Beat it to earth ? or with indignant grief
Shall I compare thee to poor Poland's Hope,
Bright flower of Hope kill'd in the opening bud ?
Farewell, sweet blossom ! better fate be thine,
And mock my boding ! Dim similitudes
Weaving in moral strains, I 've stolen one hour
From anxious Self, Life's cruel Task-Master !
And the warm wooings of this sunny day
Tremble along my frame, and harmonize
The attemper'd organ, that even saddest thoughts
Mix with some sweet sensations, like harsh tunes
Play'd deftly on a soft-toned instrument.

THE EOLIAN HARP.

COMPOSED AT CLEVEDON, SOMERSETSHIRE.

My pensive Sara ! thy soft cheek reclined

Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is

To sit beside our cot, our cot o'ergrown

With white-flower' d Jasmin, and the broad-leaved

Myrtle,
(Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love !)
And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light,
Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve
Serenely brilliant (such should wisdom be)
Shine opposite ! How exquisite the scents
Snatch'd from you bean-field! and the world so

hush'd !
The stilly murmur of the distant Sea
Tells us of Silence.

And that simplest Lute,
Placed length-ways in the clasping casement, hark
How by the desultory breeze caress'd,
Like some coy maid half yielding to her lov<>r,

ChaKerton.

47

SB

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

It pours such sweet upbraiding, as must needs
Tempt to repeat the wrong ! And now, its strings
Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes
Over delicious surges sink and rise,
Such a soft floating witchery of sound
As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve
Voyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land,
"Where Melodies round honey-dropping flowers-,
Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise,
Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untamed wing !

0 the one life within U3 and abroad,
Which meets all motion and becomes its soul,
A light in sound, a sound-like power in light,
Rhythm in 3,11 thought, and joyance everywhere —
Methinks, it should have been impossible

Not to love all things in a world so fill'd ;
Where the breeze warbles, and the mute still air
Is Music slumbering on her instrument.

And thus, my love ! as on the midway slope
Of yonder hill I stretch my limbs at noon.
Whilst through my half-closed eye-lids I behold
The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main,
And tranquil muse upon tranquillity ;
Full many a thought uncall'd and undetain'd,
And many idle flitting phantasies,
Traverse my indolent and passive brain,
As wild and various as the random gales
That swell and flutter on this subject lute ;

And what if all of animated nature
Be but organic harps diversely framed,
That tremble into thought, as o'er them sweeps,
Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze,
At once the Soul of each, and God of All 1

But thy more serious eye a mild reproof
Darts, O beloved woman ! nor such thoughts
Dim and unhallow'd dost thou not reject,
And biddest me walk humbly with my God.
Meek daughter in the family of Christ !
Well ha9t thou said and holily dispraised
These shapings of the unregenerate mind ;
Bubbles that glitter as they rise and break
On vain Philosophy's aye-babbling spring.
For never guiltless may I speak of him,
The Incomprehensible ! save when with awe

1 praise him, and with Faith that inly feels ;
Who with his saving mercies healed me,

A sinful and most miserable Man,
Wilder'd and dark, and gave me to possess
Peace, and this Cot, and thee, heart-honor'd Maid !

REFLECTIONS ON HAVING LEFT A PLACE
OF RETIREMENT.

Sermoni propriora. — Hor.

Low was our pretty Cot : our tallest rose
Peep'd at the chamber-window. We could hear,
At silent noon, and eve, and early morn,
The Sea's faint murmur. In the open air
Our myrtles blossom'd ; and across the Porch
Thick jasmins twined : the little landscape round

Was green and woody, and refresh'd the eye,
It was a spot which you might aptly call
The Valley of Seclusion ! once I saw
(Hallowing his Sabbath-day by quietness)
A wealthy son of commerce saunter by,
Bristowa's citizen : methought, it calm'd
His thirst of idle gold, and made him muse
With wiser feelings ; for he paused, and look'J
With a pleased sadness, and gazed all around,
Then eyed our cottage, and gazed round again,
And sigh'd, and said, it was a blessed place.
And we were bless'd. Oft with patient ear
Long-listening to the viewless sky-lark's note
(Viewless or haply for a moment seen
Gleaming on sunny wings), in whisper'd tones
I've said to my beloved, " Such, sweet girl !
The inobtrusive song of Happiness,
Unearthly minstrelsy ! then only heard
When the soul seeks to hear; when all is hush'd,
And the Heart listens ! 'T

But the time, wlien firsft
From that low dell, steep up the stony Mount
I climb'd with perilous toil, and reach'd the top,
Oh ! what a goodly scene ! Here the bleak Mount,
The bare bleak Mountain speckled thin with sheep
Gray clouds, that shadowing spot the sunny fields ;
And River, now with bushy rocks o'erbrow'd,
Now winding bright and full, with naked banks ;
And Seats, and Lawns, the Abbey and the Wood,
And Cots, and Hamlets, and faint City-spire ;
The Channel there, the Islands and white Sails,
Dim Coasts, and cloud-like Hills, and shore! esa

Ocean —
It seem'd like Omnipresence ? God, methought,
Had built him there a Temple : the whole World
Seem'd imaged in its vast circumference,
No wish profaned my overwhelmed heart.
Blest hour! It was a luxury, — to be!

Ah ! quiet dell ; dear cot, and Mount sublime I
I was constrain'd to quit you. Was it right,
While my unnumber'd brethren toil'd and bled,
That I should dream away the intrusted hours
On rose-leaf beds, pampering the coward heart
With feelings all too delicate for use ?
Sweet is the tear that from some Howard's eye
Drops on the cheek of One he lifts from Earth :
And He that works me good with unmoved face,
Does it but half: he chills me while he aids,
My Benefactor, not my Brother Man !
Yet even this, this cold beneficence,
Praise, praise it, O my Soul ! oft as thou scann'st
The Sluggard Pity's vision-weaving tribe !
Who sigh for wretchedness, yet shun the wretched.
Nursing in some delicious solitude
Their slothful loves and dainty Sympathies !
I therefore go, and join head, heart, and hand,
Active and firm, to fight the bloodless fight
Of Science, Freedom, and the Truth in Christ.

Yet oft, when after honorable toil
Rests the tired mind, and waking loves to dream,
My spirit shall revisit thee, dear Cot I
Thy jasmin and thy window-peeping rose,
And. myrtles fearless of the mild sea-air.
And I shall sigh fond wishes — sweet Abode !
48

SIBYLLINE LEAVES.

39

Ab ! — had none greater ! And that all had such !
it might be so — but the time is not yet.
Speed it, O Father ! Let thy Kingdom come !

TO THE REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE OF
OTTERY ST. MARY, DEVON.

WITH SOME POEMS.

Notus in fratres animi paterni.

Hor. Carra. lib. i. 2.

A blessed lot hath he, who having pass'd
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 ;
And haply views his tottering little ones
Embrace those aged 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.
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 th' Eternal Wisdom hath dispensed
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
Some have preserved 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
Dropp'd the collected shower ; and some most false,
False and fair fbliaged 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
Who gives us all things, more have yielded me
Permanent shelter ; and beside one Friend,
Beneath th' impervious covert of one Oak,
I've raised a lowly shed, and know the names
Of Husband and of Father ; nor unhearing
Of that divine and nightly- whispering Voice,
Which from my childhood to maturer years
Spake to me of predestinated wreaths,
Bright with no fading colors !

Yet at times
My soul is sad, that I have roam'd through life
Still most a stranger, most with naked heart
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 ;
And boding evil, yet still hoping good,
Rebuked 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 loved thee ever,

Loved as a brother, as a son revered thee !

Oh ! 't is 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 ;

Or when as now, on some delicious eve,

We, in our sweet sequester'd orchard-plot,

Sit on the tree crooked earthward; whose old boughs,

That hang above us in an arborous roof

Stirr'd by the faint gale of departing May,

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
Or that sad wisdom folly leaves behind,
Or such as, tuned to these tumultuous times,
Cope with the tempest's swell .'

These various strains
Which I have framed in many a various mood,
Accept, my Brother ! and (for some perchance
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 I

INSCRIPTION FOR A FOUNTAIN ON A HEATH.

This Sycamore, oft musical with bees, —

Such tents the Patriarchs loved ! O long unharm'd

May all its aged boughs o'er-canopy

The small round basin, which this jutting stone

Keeps pure from falling leaves! Long may the Spring,

Quietly as a sleeping infant's breath,

Send up cold waters to the traveller

With soft and even pulse ! Nor ever cease

Yon tiny cone of sand its soundless dance,

Which at the bottom, like a fairy's page,

As merry and no taller, dances still,

Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the Fount

Here twilight is and coolness : here is moss,

A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade.

Thou mayst toil far and find no second tree.

Drink, Pilgrim, here ! Here rest ! and if thy heart

Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh

Thy spirit, listening to some gentle sound,

Or passing gale or hum of murmuring bees !

A TOMBLESS EPITAPH.

'T is true, Idoloclastes Satyrane !
(So call him, for so mingling blame with praise.
And smiles with anxious looks, his earliest friends,
Masking his birth-name, wont to character
His wild-wood fancy and impetuous zeal)
'T is true that, passionate for ancient truths,
And honoring with religious love the Great
Of elder times, he hated to excess,
With an unquiet and intolerant scorn.
The hollow puppets of a hollow age,
Ever idolatrous, and changing ever
Its worthless Idols! Learning, Power, and Tiimh
(Too much of all) thus wasting in vain war
49

40

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

Of fervid colloquy. Sickness, 't is true,

Whole years of weary days, besieged him close,

Even to- the gates and inlets of his life !

But it is true, no less, that strenuous, firm,

And with a natural gladness, he maintain'd

The citadel unconquer'd, and in joy

Was strong to follow the delightful Muse.

For not a hidden Path, that to the Shades

Of the beloved Parnassian forest leads,

Lurk'd undiscover'd by him ; not a rill

There issues from the fount of Hippocrene,

But he had traced it upward to its source,

Through open glade, dark glen, and secret dell.

Knew the gay wild-flowers on its banks, and cull'd

Its med'cinable herbs. Yea, oft alone,

Piercing the long-neglected holy cave,

The haunt obscure of old Philosophy,

He bade with lifted torch its starry walls

Sparkle as erst they sparkled to the flame

Of odorous lamps tended by Saint and Sage.

O framed for calmer times and nobler hearts !

O studious Poet, eloquent for truth !

Philosopher ! contemning wealth and death,

Yet docile, childlike, full of life and love !

Here, rather than on monumental stone,

This record of thy worth thy Friend inscribes,

Thoughtful, with quiet tears upon his cheek.

THIS LIME-TREE BOWER MY PRISON.

In the June of 1797, some long-expeeted Friend3 paid a visit
to the Author's Cottage; and on the morning of their ar-
rival, 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.

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
Most sweet to my remembrance, even when age
Had dimm'd mine eyes to blindness ! They, mean-
while,
Friends, whom I never more may meet again,
On springy 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,
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,
Famvd by the waterfall ! and there my friends
Behold the dark-green file of long lank weeds,*
That all at once (a most fantastic sight !)
Still nod and drip beneath the dripping edge
01' the blue clay-stone.

Now, my Friends emerge
Beneath the wide wide Heaven — and view again
The many-steepled tract magnificent
Ol lully fields and meadows, and the sea,
With some fair bark, perhaps, whose sails light up

The slip of smooth clear blue betwixt two isles

Of purple shadow ! Yes, they wander on

In gladness all -7 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

With sad yet patient soul, through evil and pail

And strange calamity ! Ah ! slowly sink

Behind the western ridge, thou glorious Sun !

Shine in the slant beams of the sinking orb,

Ye purple heath-flowers! riehlier burn, ye clouds?

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

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,
This little lime-tree bower, have I not mark'd
Much that has soothed me. Pale beneath the blaxa
Hung the transparent foliage ; and I wateh'd
Some broad and sunny leaf, and loved to see
The shadow of the leaf and stem above
Dappling its sunshine ! And that Walnut-tree
Was richly tinged, and a deep radiance lay
Full on the ancient Ivy, which usurps
Those fronting elms, and now, with blackest mass,
Makes their dark branches gleam a lighter hue
Through the late twilight ; and though now the Bai
Wheels silent by, and not a Swallow twitters,
Yet still the solitary Humble-Bee
Sings in the bean-flower ! Henceforth I shall kncro
That Nature ne'er deserts the wise and pure :
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
'T is well to be bereft of promised good,
That we may lift the soul, and contemplate
With lively joy the joys we cannot share.
My gentle-hearted Charles ! when the last Roofe
Beat its straight path along the dusky air
Homewards, I blest it ! deeming its black wing
(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 ereakingt o'er thy head, and had a charm
For thee, my gentle-hearted Charles, to whom
No sound is dissonant which tells of Life.

* 1 he Asplenmm Scolopendrium, called in some countries
the Adder's Tongue, in others the Hart's Tongue ; but With-
ering gives the Adder's Tongue as the trivial name of the
t iphi»w;k>3SUPB only.

TO A FRIEND

WHO HAD DECLARED HIS INTENTION OF WRITING
NO MOKE POETRY.

Dear Charles ! whilst yet thou wert a babe, I wees
That Genius plunged thee in that wizard fount

t Some months after I had written this line, it gave me plea-
sure to observe that Bartram had observed the same circirrar
stance of the Savanna Crane. " When these Birds roov©
'their wiags in Sight, their strokes are slow, moderate &b&
50

SIBYLLINE LEAVES.

4J

Hight Castalie: and (sureties of thy faith)

That Pity and Simplicity stood by,

And promised for thee, that thou shouldst renounce

The world's low cares and lying vanities,

Stedfast and rooted in the heavenly Muse,

And wash'd and sanctified to Poesy.

Yes — thou wert plunged, but with forgetful hand

Held, as by Thetis erst her warrior Son :

And with those recreant unbaptized heels

Thou 'rt flying from thy bounden ministeries—

So sore it seems and burthensome a task

To weave unwithering flowers ! But take thou heed:

For thou art vulnerable, wild-eyed Boy,

And I have arrows* mystically dipp'd,

Such as may stop thy speed. Is thy Burns dead ?

And shall he die unwept, and sink to Earth

* Without the meed of one melodious tear ? "

Thy Burns, and Nature's own beloved Bard,

Who to the " Illustrioust of his native land

' So properly did look for patronage."

Ghost of Maecenas ! hide thy blushing face !

They snatch'd him from the Sickle and the Plow —

To gauge Ale-Firkins.

Oh ! for shame return !
On a bleak rock, midway the Aonian Mount,
There stands a lone and melancholy tree,
Whose aged branches in the midnight blast
Make solemn music : pluck its darkest bough,
Ere yet the unwholesome night-dew be exhaled,
And weeping wreath it round thy Poet's tomb.
Then in the outskirts, where pollutions grow,
Pick the rank henbane and the dusky flowers
Of night-shade, or its red and tempting fruit.
These with stopp'd nostril and glove-guarded hand
Knit in nice intertexture, so to twine
The illustrious brow of Scotch Nobility.

1796.

TO A GENTLEMAN.

COMPOSED ON THE NIGHT AFTER HIS RECITATION
OF A POEM ON THE GROWTH OF AN INDIVIDUAL
MIND.

Friend of the Wise ! and Teacher of the Good !

Into my heart have I received that lay

More than historic, that prophetic lay,

Wherein (high theme by thee first sung aright)

Of the foundations and the building up

Of a Human Spirit thou hast dared to tell

What may be told, to the understanding mind

Revealable ; and what within the mind,

By vital breathings secret as the soul

Of vernal growth, oft quickens in the heart

Thoughts all too deep for words ! —

Theme hard as high !
Of smiles spontaneous, and mysterious fears
The first-born they of Reason and twin-birth),

regular ; and even when at a considerable distance or high
above us, we plainly hear the quill feathers ; their shafts and
webs upon one another creak as the joints or working of a
vessel in a tempestuous sea."

* Vide Find. Olymp. iii. 1. 156.

t Verbatim from Burns's dedication of his Poems to the No-
oility and Gentry of the Caledonian Hunt.

Of tides obedient to external force,

And currents self-determined, as might seem,

Or by some inner Power ; of moments awful,

Now in thy inner life, and now abroad,

When Power stream'd from thee, and thy soul

received
The light reflected, as a light bestow'd —
Of Fancies fair, and milder hours of youth,
Hyblean murmurs of poetic thought
Industrious in its joy, in Vales and Glens
Native or outland, Lakes and famous Hills !
Or on the lonely High-road, when the Stars
Were rising ; or by secret Mountain-streams,
The Guides and the Companions of thy way '

Of more than Fancy, of the Social Sense
Distending wide, and Man beloved as Man,
Where France in all her towns lay vibrating
Like some becalmed bark beneath the burst
Of Heaven's immediate thunder, when no cloud
Is visible, or shadow on the Main.
For thou wert there, thine own brows garlanded,
Amid the tremor of a realm aglow,
Amid a mighty nation jubilant,
When from the general heart of human-kind
Hope sprang forth like a full-born Deity!

Of that dear Hope afflicted and struck down

So summon'd homeward, thenceforth calm and sure

From the dread watch-tower of man's absolute Self,

With light unwaning on her eyes, to look

Far on — herself a glory to behold,

The Angel of the vision ! Then (last strain)

Of Duty, chosen laws controlling choice,

Action and Joy ! — An orphic song indeed,

A song divine of high and passionate thoughts,

To their own music chanted !

O great Bard '
Ere yet that last strain dying awed the air,
With stedfast eye I view'd thee in the choir
Of ever-enduring men. The truly Great
Have all one age, and from one visible space
Shed influence ! They, both in power and act,
Are permanent, and Time is not with them,
Save as it worketh for them, they in it.
Nor less a sacred roll, than those of old,
And to be placed, as they, with gradual fame
Among the archives of mankind, thy work
Makes audible a linked lay of Truth,
Of Truth profound a sweet continuous lay,
Not learnt, but native, her own natural notes '
Ah ! as I listen'd with a heart forlorn.
The pulses of my being beat anew :
And even as life returns upon the drown'd,
Life's joy rekindling roused a throng of pains-
Keen Pangs of Love, awakening as a babe
Turbulent, with an outcry in the heart;
And Fears self-will'd, that shunn'd the eye of Hop*
And Hope that scarce would know itself from Fea;
Sense of past Youth, and Manhood come in vain
And Genius given, and knowledge won in vain
And all which I had cull'd in wood-walks wild
And all which patient toil had rear'd, and all,
Commune with thee had open'd out — but flower*
Strew'd on my corse, and borne upon my bier,
In the same coffin, for the self-same grave !

That way no more ! and ill beseems it me
Who came a welcomer in herald's guise,
51

42

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

Singing of Glory, and Futurity,
To wander back on such unhealthful road,
Plucking the poisons of self-harm ! And ill
Such intertwine beseems triumphal wreaths
Strew'd before thy advancing !

Nor do thou,
Sage Bard ! impair the memory of that hour
Of my communion with thy nobler mind
By Pity or Grief, already felt too long !
Nor let my words import more blame than needs.
The tumult rose and ceased : for Peace is nigh
Where Wisdom's voice has found a listening heart.
Amid the howl of more than wintry storms,
The Halcyou hears the voice of vernal hours
Already on the wing.

Eve following eve,
Dear tranquil time, when the sweet sense of Home
Is sweetest ! moments for their own sake hail'd
And more desired, more precious for thy song,
In silence listening, like a devout child,
My soul lay passive, by the various strain
Driven as in surges now beneath the stars,
With momentary Stars of my own birth,
Fair constellated Foam,* still darting off
Into the darkness ; now a tranquil sea,
Outspread and bright, yet swelling to the Moon.

And when — O Friend ! my comforter and guide !
Strong in thyself, and powerful to give strength .' —
Thy long sustained song finally closed,
And thy deep voice had ceased — yet thou thyself
Wert still before my eyes, and round us both
That happy vision of beloved faces —
Scarce conscious, and yet conscious of its close
I sate, my being blended in one thought
(Thought was it ? or Aspiration ? or Resolve ?)
Absorb'd, yet hanging still upon the sound —
And when. I rose, I found myself in prayer.

THE NIGHTINGALE :

A CONVERSATION POEM;

WRITTEN IN APRIL, 1798.

No cloud, no relic of the sunken day
Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip
Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues.
Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge !
You see the glimmer of the stream beneath,
But hear no murmuring : it flows silently,
O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still,
A balmy night ! and though the stars be dim,
Yet let us think upon the vernal showers
Tnat gladden the green earth, and we shall find
A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
And bark ! the Nightingale begins its song,

Most musical, most melancholy "t bird .
A melancholy bird ? Oh ! idle thought !
In nature there is nothing melancholy.
But some night-wandering man, whose heart was

pierced
With the remembrance of a grievous wrong,
Or slow distemper, or neglected love
(And so, poor Wretch ! filled all things with himself
And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale
Of his own sorrow), he and such as he,
First named these notes a melancholy strain.
And many a poet echoes the conceit ;
Poet who hath been building up the rhyme
When he had better far have stretch'd his limbs
Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell,
By Sun or Moon-light, to the influxes
Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements
Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song
And of his frame forgetful ! so his fame
Should share in Nature's immortahty,
A venerable thing ! and so his song
Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself
Be loved like Nature ! But 't will not be so ;
And youths and maidens most poetical,
Who lose the deepening twilights of the spring
In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still,
Full of meek sympathy, must heave their sighs
O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains.

My friend, and thou, our Sister ! we have learnt
A different lore : we may not thus profane
Nature's sweet voices, always full of love
And joyance! 'Tis the merry Nightingale
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates
With fast thick warble his delicious notes,
As he were fearful that an April night
Would be too short for him to utter forth
His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul
Of all its music !

And I know a grove
Of large extent, hard by a castle huge,
Which the great lord inhabits not ; and so
This grove is wild with tangling underwood,
And the trim walks are broken up, and grass,
Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths
But never elsewhere in one place I knew
So many Nightingales ; and far and near,
In wood and thicket, over the wide grove,
They answer and provoke each other's song,
With skirmish and capricious passagings,
And murmurs musical and swift jug jug,
And one low piping sound more sweet than all —
Stirring the air with such a harmony,
That should you close your eyes, you might almost
Forget it was not day ! On moonlight bushes,
Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed,
You may perchance behold them on the twigs,
Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright

and full,
Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade
Lights up her love-torch.

* " A beautiful white cloud of foam at momentary intervals
toursed by the side of the vessel with a roar, and little stars
of flame danced and sparkled and went out in it: and every
now and then light detachments of this white cloud-like foam
darted off from the vessel's side, each with its own small con-
stellation, over the sea, pnd scoured out of sight like a Tartar
troou »ver a wilderness."— -Tie Friend, p. 220.

t This passage in Milton possesses an excellence far superio
to that of mere description. It is spoken in the character of th
melancholy man, and has therefore a dramatic propriety. Th
author makes this remark, to rescue himself from the charg
of having alluded with levity to a line in Milton : a charge tha
which none could be more painful to him, except perhaps that
of having ridiculed his Bible.

53

SIBYLLINE LEAVES.

43

A most gentle Maid,
Who dwelleth in her hospitable home
Hard by the castle, and at latest eve
(Even like a lady vovv'd and dedicate
To something more than Nature in the grove)
Glides through the pathways ; she knows all their

notes,
That gentle Maid ! and oft a moment's space,
What time the Moon was lost behind a cloud,
Hath heard a pause of silence ; till the Moon
Emerging, hath awaken'd earth and sky
With one sensation, and these wakeful Birds
Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy,
As if some sudden gale had swept at once
A hundred airy harps ! And she hath watch'd
Many a Nightingale perch'd giddily
On blossomy twig still swinging from the breeze,
And to that motion tune his wanton song
Like tipsy joy that reels with tossing head.

Farewell, O Warbler ! till to-morrow eve,
And you, my friends ! farewell, a short farewell !
We have been loitering long and pleasantly,
And now for our dear homes. — That strain again ?
Full fain it would delay me ! My dear babe,
Who, capable of no articulate sound,
Mars all things with his imitative lisp,
How he would place his hand beside his ear,
His little hand, the small forefinger up,
And bid us listen ! And I deem it wise
To make him Nature's Play-mate. He knows well
The evening-star ; and once, when he awoke
In most distressful mood (some inward pain
Had made up that strange thing, an infant's dream),
I hurried with him to our orchard-plot,
And he beheld the Moon, and, hush'd at once,
Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently,
While his fair eyes, that swam with undropp'd tears
Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam ! Well ! —
It is a father's tale : But if that Heaven
Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up
Familiar with these songs, that with the night
He may associate joy ! Once more, farewell,
Sweet Nightingale ! Once more, my friends ! farewell.

FROST AT MIDNIGHT.

The Frost performs its secret ministry,
(Jnhelp'd by any wind. The owlet's cry
Came loud — and hark, again ! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
Have left me to that solitude, which suits
Abstruser musings : save that at my side
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
'T is calm indeed ! so calm, that it disturbs
And vexes meditation with its strange
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,
This populous village ! Sea, and hill, and wood,
With all the numberless goings on of life,
Inaudible as dreams ! the thin blue flame
Lies on my low burnt fire, and quivers not ;
Only that film, which flutter'd on the grate,
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.
Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,
Making it a companionable form,
Whose puny (laps and freaks the idling Spirit

By its own moods interprets, everywhere
Echo or mirror seeking of itself,
And makes a toy of Thought.

But O ! how oft,
How oft, at school, with most believing mind
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars,
To watch that fluttering stranger ! and as oft
With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt
Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-to -vef
Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang
From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day,
So sweetly, that they stirr'd and haunted me
With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear
Most like articulate sounds of things to come !
So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt,
Lull'd me to sleep, and sleep prolong'd my dreams
And so I brooded all the following morn,
Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye
Fix'd with mock study on my swimming book :
Save if the door half-open'd, and I snatch'd
A hasty glance, and still my heart leap'd up,
For still I hoped to see the stranger's face,
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved,
My play-mate when we both were clothed alike I

Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,
Fill up the interspersed vacancies
And momentary pauses of the thought !
My babe so beautiful ! it thrills my heart
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore,
And in far other scenes ! For I was rear'd
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim,
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.
But thou, my babe ! shalt wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags : so shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language, which thy God
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Great universal Teacher ! he shall mould
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee.
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw ; whether the eave-drops

fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.

TO A FRIEND.

TOGETHER WITH AN UNFINISHED POEM

Thus far my scanty brain hath built the rhyme
Elaborate and swelling: yet the heart
Not owns it. From thy spirit-breathing powers
8 53

44

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

I ask not now, my friend ! the aiding verse,
Tedious to thee, and from my anxious thought
Of dissonant mood. In fancy (well I know)
From business wand'ring far and local cares,
Thou creepest round a dear-loved Sister's bed
With noiseless step, and watchest the faint look,
Soothing each pang with fond solicitude,
And tenderest tones medicinal of love.

I too a Sister had, an only Sister

She loved me dearly, and I doted on her !
To her I pour'd forth all my puny sorrows
(As a sick patient in his nurse's arms),
And of the heart those hidden maladies
That shrink ashamed from even Friendship's eye.
Oh ! I have woke at midnight, and have wept
Because she was not ! — Cheerily, dear Charles !
Thou thy best friend shalt cherish many a year :
Such warm presages feel I of high Hope.
For not uninterested the dear maid
I've view'd — her soul affectionate yet wise,
Her polish'd wit as mild as lambent glories,
That play around a sainted infant's head.
He knows (the Spirit that in secret sees,
Of whose omniscient and all-spreading Love
Aught to implore* were impotence of mind)
That my mute thoughts are sad before his throne,
Prepared, when he his healing ray vouchsafes,
To pour forth thanksgiving with lifted heart,
And praise Him Gracious with a Brother's joy !
December, 1794.

THE HOUR WHEN WE SHALL MEET AGAIN.
COMPOSED DURING ILLNESS AND IN ABSENCE.

Dim hour ! that sleep'st on pillowing clouds afar,
O rise and yoke the turtles to thy car !
Bend o'er the traces, blame each lingering dove,
And give .me to the bosom of my love !
My gentle love, caressing and carest,
With heaving heart shall cradle me to rest ;
Shed the warm tear-drop from her smiling eyes,
Lull with fond woe, and med'cine me with sighs :
While finely-flushing float her kisses meek,
Like melted rubies, o'er my pallid cheek.
Chill'd by the night, the drooping rose of May
Mourns the long absence of the lovely day ;
Young Day, returning at her promised hour,
Weeps o'er the sorrows of her fav'rite flower ;
Weeps the soft dew, the balmy gale she sighs,
And darts a trembling lustre from her eyes.
New life and joy th' expanding flow'ret feels :
His pitying Mistress mourns, and mourning heals !

LINES TO JOSEPH COTTLE.*

Mv honor'd friend ! whose verse concise, yet clear,
Tunes to smooth melody unconquer'd sense,
May your fame fadeless live, as " never-sere "
The ivy wreathes yon oak, whose broad defence

* I utterly recant the sentiment contained in the lines
Of whose omniscient and all-spreading love
Aught to implore were impotence of mind,
jt being written in Scripture, "jSsk, and it shall be given you,"
and my human reason being moreover convinced of the pro-
priety of offering.oe^'^07is as well as thanksgivings to the Deity.

Embow'rs me from noon's sultry influence !

For, like that nameless riv'let stealing by,

Your modest verse, to musing Quiet dear,

Is rich with tints heaven-borrow'd : the charm'd eyf

Shall gaze undazzled there, and love the soften'd sky

Circling the base of the Poetic mount

A stream there is, which rolls in lazy flow

Its coal-black waters from Oblivion's fount .

The vapor-poison'd birds, that fly too low,

Fall with dead swoop, and to the bottom go.

Escaped that heavy stream on pinion fleet,

Beneath the Mountain's lofty-frowning brow.

Ere aught of perilous ascent you meet,

A mead of mildest charm delays th' unlab'ring feet.

Not there the cloud-climb'd rock, sublime and vast,
That like some giant-king, o'ergloomss the hill ;
Nor there the pine-grove to the midnight blast
Makes solemn music ! But th' unceosing rill
To the soft wren or lark's descending trill
Murmurs sweet under-song 'mid jasmin bowers
In this same pleasant meadow, at your will,
I ween, you wander'd — there collecting flow'rs
Of sober tint, and herbs of med'cinable powers !

There for the monarch-murder'd Soldier's tomb
You wove th' unfinish'd wreath of saddest hues ;*
And to that holier chaplett added bloom,
Besprinkling it with Jordan's cleansing dews.

But lo ! your Henderson}: awakes the Muse

His spirit beckon'd from the mountain's height !
You left the plain and soar'd 'mid richer views '
So Nature mourn'd, when sank the first day's light,
With stars, unseen before, spangling her robe of
night!

Still soar, my friend, those richer views among,
Strong, rapid, fervent flashing Fancy's beam i
Virtue and Truth shall love your gentler song ;
But Poesy demands th' impassion'd theme :
Waked by Heaven's silent dews at eve's mild gleam,
What balmy sweets Pomona breathes around !
But if the vext air rush a stormy stream,
Or Autumn's shrill gust moan in plaintive sound,
With fruits and flowers she loads the tempest
honor'd ground.

IV. ODES AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

THE THREE GRAVES.
A FRAGMENT OF A SEXTON'S TALE.

[The Author has published the following humble fragment
encouraged by the decisive recommendation of more than one
of our most celebrated living Poets. The language was in-
tended to be dramatic ; that is, suited to the narrator : and the
metre corresponds to the homeliness of the diction. It is there-
fore presented as the fragment, not of a Poem, but of a com
mon Ballad-tale. Whether this is sufficient to justify the adop
tion of such a style, in any metrical composition not profess
edly ludicrous, the Author is himself in some doubt. At all
events, it is not presented as Poetry, and it is in no way con-
nected with the Author's judgment concerning Poetic diction.
Its merits, if any, are exclusively Psychological. The story

* War, a Fragment. t John the Baptist, a Poem.

J Monody on John Henderson.

54

SIBYLLINE LEAVES.

45

which must be supposed to have been narrated in the first and
second parts, is as follows.

Edward, a young farmer, meets, at the house of Ellen, her
aosom- friend, Mary, and commences an acquaintance, which
ends in a mutual attachment. With her consent, and by the
advice of their common friend Ellen, he announces his hopes
and intentions to Mary's Mother, a widow-woman bordering
on her fortieth year, and from constant health, the possession
of a competent property, and from having had no other children
but Mary and another daughter (the Father died in their in
fancy), retaining, for the greater part, her personal attractions
and comeliness of appearance ; but a woman of low education
and violent temper. The answer which she at once returned
to Edward's application was remarkable — "Well, Edward
you are a handsome young fellow, and you shall have my
Daughter." From this time all their wooing passed under the
Mother's eye; and, in fine, she became herself enamoured of her
future Son-in-law, and practised every art, both of endearment
and of calumny, to transfer his affections from her daughter to
herself. (The outlines of the Tale are positive facts, and of no
very distant date, though the author has purposely altered the
names and the scene of action, as well as invented the characters
of the parties and the detail of the incidents.) Edward, how
ever, though perplexed by her strange detraction from her
daughter's good qualities, yet in the innocence of his own heart
still mistaking her increasing fondness for motherly affection
6he, at length overcome by her miserable passion, after much
abuse of Mary's temper and moral tendencies, exclaimed with
violent emotion — " O Edward ! indeed, indeed, she is not fit for
you — she has not a heart to love you as you deserve. It is I
that love you ! Marry me, Edward ! and I will this very day
settle all my property on you." — The Lover's eyes were now
opened; and thus taken by surprise, whether from the effect
of the horror which he felt, acting as it were hysterically on
his nervous system, or that at the first moment he lost the sense
of the proposal in the feeling of its strangeness and absurdity,
he flung her from him and burst into a fit of laughter. Irritated
by this almost to frenzy, the woman fell on her knees, and in a
loud voice that approached to a scream, she prayed for a Curse
both on him and on her own Child. Mary happened to bf
the room directly above them, heard Edward's laugh and her
Mother's blasphemous prayer, and fainted away. He, hearing
the fall, ran up stairs, and taking her in his arms, carried her
off to Ellen's home ; and after some fruitless attempts on her
part toward a reconciliation with her Mother, she was married
to him. — And here the third part of the Tale begins.

I was not led to choose this story from any partiality to
tragic, much less to monstrous events (though at the time that
I composed the verses, somewhat more than twelve years ago,
I was less averse to such subjects than at present), but from
finding in it a striking proof of the possible effect on the imagi-
nation, from an idea violently and suddenly impressed on it. I
had been reading Bryan Edwards's account of the effect of the
Oby Witchcraft on the Negroes in the West Indies, and
Hearne's deeply interesting Anecdotes of similar workings on
the imagination of the Copper Indians (those of my readers who
have it in their power will be well repaid for the trouble of re-
ferring to those works for the passages alluded to), and I con-
ceived the design of showing that instances of this kind are not
peculiar to savage or barbarous tribes, and of illustrating the
mode in which the mind is affected in these cases, and the pro-
gress and symptoms of the morbid action on the fancy from the
beginning.

[The Tale is supposed to be narrated by an old Sexton, in a
country church-yard, to a Traveller whose curiosity had been
awakened by the appearance of three graves, close by each
other, to two only of which there were grave-stones. On the
first of these were the name, and dates, as usual : on the second,
no name, but only a date, and the words, The Mercy of God is
infinite."!

* *

* •

* *

The grapes upon the vicar's wall
Were ripe as ripe could be ;

And yellow leaves in sun and wind
Were filling from the tree.
F

On the hedge elms in the narrow lane
Still swung the spikes of corn :

Dear Lord ! it seems but yesterday —
Young Edward's marriage-morn.

Up through that wood behind the church,
There leads from Edward's door

A mossy track, all over-bough'd
For half a mile or more.

And from their house-door by that track
The Bride and Bridegroom went ;

Sweet Mary, though she wras not gay,
Seem'd cheerful and content.

But when they to the church-yard came,

I 've heard poor Mary say,
As soon as she stepp'd into the sun,

Her heart it died away.

And when the vicar join'd their hands,
Her limbs did creep and freeze ;

But when they pray'd, she thought she saw
Her mother on her knees.

And o'er the church-path they return'd—

I saw poor Mary's back,
Just as she stepp'd beneath the boughs

Into the mossy track.

Her feet upon the mossy track

The married maiden set :
That moment — I have heard her say —

She wish'd she could forget.

The shade o'erflush'd her limbs with hea*
Then came a chill like death :

And when the merry bells rang out,
They seem'd to stop her breath.

Beneath the foulest Mother's curse

No child could ever thrive :
A Mother is a Mother still,

The holiest thing alive.

So five month's pass'd : the Mother still

Would never heal the strife ;
But Edward was a loving man,

And Mary a fond wife.

" My sister may not visit us,
My mother says her nay :

0 Edward ! you are all to me,

1 wish for your sake I could be

More lifesome and more gay.

" I'm dull and sad ! indeed, indeed

I know I have no reason !
Perhaps 1 am not well in health,

And 't is a gloomy season."

'Twas a drizzly time — no ice, no snow.

And on the few fine days
She stirr'd not out, lest she might meet

Her Mother in her ways.

But Ellen, spite of miry ways
And weather dark and dreary,

Trudged every day to Edward's house,
And made them all more cheerv.
55

46

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

Oh! Ellen was a faithful Friend,

More dear than any Sister!
As cheerful too as singing lark ;
And she ne'er left them till 'twas dark,

And then they always miss'd her.

And now Ash- Wednesday came — that day

But few to church repair :
For on that day you know we read

The Commination prayer.

Our late old vicar, a kind man,

Once, Sir, he said to me,
He wish'd that service was clean out

Of our good Liturgy.

The Mother walk'd into the church —

To Ellen's seat she went;
Though Ellen always kept her church,

All church-days during Lent

And gentle Ellen welcomed her

With courteous looks and mild.
Thought she " what if her heart should melt

And all be reconciled ! "

The day was scarcely like a day —
The clouds were black outright :

And many a night, with half a Moon,
I've seen the church more light.

The wind was wild ; against the glass

The rain did beat and bicker ;
The church-tower swinging overhead,

You scarce could hear the vicar !

And then and there the Mother knelt,

And audibly she cried —
" Oh ! may a clinging curse consume

This woman by my side !

" O hear me, hear me, Lord in Heaven,
Although you take my life —

0 curse this woman, at whose house
Young Edward woo'd his wife.

" By night and day, in bed and bower,

O let her cursed be ! ! ! "
So having pray'd, steady and slow,

She rose up from her knee !
And left the church, nor e'er again

The church-door enter'd she.

1 saw poor Ellen kneeling still,

So pale ! I guess'd not why :
When she stood up, there plainly was
A trouble in her eye.

And when the prayers were done, we all
Came round and ask'd her why :

Giddy she seem'd, and sure there was
A trouble in her eye.

But ere she from the church-door stepp'd,
She smiled and told us why ;
It was a wicked woman's curse,"
Quoth she, " and what care I?"

She smiled, and smiled, and pass'd it off
Ere from the door she stept —

But all agree it would have been
Much better had she wept.

And if her heart was not at ease,
This was her constant cry —

" It was a wicked woman's curse-
God 's good, and what care I ?"

There was a hurry in her looks,

Her struggles she redoubled :
" It was a wicked woman's curse,

And why should I be troubled ? "

These tears will come — I dandled her
When 'twas the merest fairy —

Good creature ! and she Kid it all :
She told it not to Mary,

But Mary heard the tale : her arms
Round Ellen's neck she threw ;

" 0 Ellen, Ellen, she cursed me,
And now she hath cursed you ! "

I saw young Edward by himself

Stalk fast adown the lea,
He snatch'd a stick from every fence,

A twig from every tree.

He snapp'd them still with hand or knee

And then away they flew !
As if with his uneasy limbs

He knew not what to do !

You see, good Sir ! that single hill ?

His farm lies underneath :
He heard it there, he heard it all

And only gnash'd his teeth.

Now Ellen was a darling love

In all his joys and cares :
And Ellen's name and Mary's name
Fast link'd they both together came,

Whene'er he said his prayers.

And in the moment of his prayers

He loved them both alike :
Yea, both sweet names with one sweet joy

Upon his heart did strike !

He reach'd his home, and by his looks

They saw his inward strife :
And they clung round him with their arms

Both Ellen and his wife.

And Mary could not check her tears,

So on his breast she bow'd ;
Then Frenzy melted into Grief,

And Edward wept aloud.

Dear Ellen did not weep at all,

But closelier did she cling,
And turn'd her face, and look'd as if

She saw some frightful thing.
56

SIBYLLINE LEAVES.

47

To see a man tread over graves

I hold it no good mark;
Tis wicked in the sun and moon,

And bad luck in the dark !

You see that grave ? The Lord he gives,
The Lord, he takes away :

0 Sir! the child of my old age
Lies there as cold as clay.

Except that grave, you scarce see one

That was not dug by me :
I'd rather dance upon 'em all

Than tread upon these three!

" Ay, Sexton! 'tis a touching tale,"

You, Sir ! are but a lad ;
This month 1 'm in my seventieth year,

And still it makes me sad.

And Mary's sister told it me,
For three good hours and more ;

Though I had heard it, in the main,
From Edward's self, before.

Well ! it pass'd off! the gentle Ellen

Did well nigh dote on Mary ;
And she went oftener than before,
And Mary loved her more and more :

She managed all the dairy.

To market she on market-days,

To church on Sundays came ;
All seem'd the same : all seem'd so, Sir !

But all was not the same !

1 [ad Ellen lost her mirth? Oh ! no!

But she was seldom cheerful ;
And Edward look'd as if he thought
That Ellen's mirth was fearful.

When by herself, she to herself

Must sing some merry rhyme ;
She could not now be glad for hours,

Yet silent all the time.

And when she soothed her friend, through all

Her soothing words 'twas plain
She had a sore grief of her own,

A haunting in her brain.

And oft she said, I'm not grown thin !

And then her wrist she spann'd ;
And once, when Mary was downcast,

She took her by the hand,
And gazed upon her, and at first

She gently press'd her hand ;

Then harder, till her grasp at length

Did gripe like a convulsion !
Alas! said she, we ne'er can be

Made happy by compulsion !

And once her both arms suddenly

Round Mary's neck she flung,
And her heart panted, and she felt

The words upon her tongue.

She felt them coming, but no power
Had she the words to smother ;

And with a kind of shriek she cried,
" Oh Christ! you're like your Mother.

So gentle Ellen now no more

Could make this sad house cheery ;

And Mary's melancholy ways
Drove Edward wild and weary

Lingering he raised' his latch at eve
Though tired in heart and limb •

He loved no other place, and yet
Home was no home to him.

One evening he took up a book,

And nothing in it read ;
Then flung it down, and groaning, cried

" Oh ! Heaven ! that I were dead

Mary look'd up into his face,

And nothing to him said ;
She tried to smile, and on his arm

Mournfully lean'd her head.

And he burst into tears, and fell

Upon his knees in prayer :
" Her heart is broke ! O God ! my grief

It is too great to bear ! "

'Twas such a foggy time as makes

Old Sextons, Sir ! like me,
Rest on their spades to cough ; the sprint

Was late uncommonly.

And then the hot days, all at once,
They came, we know not how :

You look'd about for shade, when scarce
A leaf was on a bough.

It happen'd then ('twas in the bower

A furlong up the wood ;
Perhaps you know the place, and yet

I scarce know how you should),

No path leads thither, 'tis not nigh

To any pasture-plot ;
But cluster'd near the chattering brook,

Lone hollies mark'd the spot.

Those hollies of themselves a shape

As of an arbor took,
A close, round arbor ; and it stands

Not three strides from a brook.

Within this arbor, which was still

With scarlet berries hung,
Were these three friends, one Sunday mom

Just as the first bell rung.

57

18

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

Tis sweet to hear a brook, 'tis sweet

To hear fae Sabbath-bell,
'Tis sweet to hear them both at once,

Deep in a woody dell.

His limbs along the moss, his head

Upon a mossy heap,
With shut-up senses, Edward lay :
That brook e'en on a working day

Might chatter one to sleep.

And he had pass'd a restless night,

And was not well in health ;
The women sat down by his side,

And talk'd as 'twere by stealth.

" The sun peeps through the close thick leaves,

See, dearest Ellen ! see !
Tis in the leaves, a little sun,

No bigger than your e'e ;

" A tiny sun, and it has got

A perfect glory too ;
Ten thousand threads and hairs of light,
Make up a glory, gay and bright,

Round that small orb, so blue.'

And then they argued of those rays,

What color they might be :
Says this, " they're mostly green;" says that,

" They 're amber-like to me."

So they sat chatting, while bad thoughts
Were troubling Edward's rest ;

But soon they heard his hard quick pants,
And the thumping in his breast.

• A Mother too ! " these self-same words

Did Edward mutter plain ;
His face was drawn back on itself,

With horror and huge pain.

Both groan'd at once, for both knew well
What thoughts were in his mind ;

When he waked up, and stared like one
That hath been just struck blind.

He sat upright ; and ere the dream

Had had time to depart,
* O God forgive me ! (he exclaim'd)

I have torn out her heart."

Then Ellen shriek'd, and forthwith burst

Into ungentle laughter ;
And Mary shiver'd, where she sat,

And never she smiled after.

Carmen reliquum in futurum tempus relegatum. To-morrow
and To-morrow ! and To-morrow !—

DEJECTION;

Late, late yestreen, I saw the new Moon,
With the old Moon in her arms ;
And I fear, I fear, my Master dear !
We shall have a deadly storm.

Ballad of Sir Patrick Spens,

I.

Well ! if the Bard was weather-wise, who made
The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,
This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence
Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade
Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes,
Or the dull sobbing draught, that moans and rakes
Upon the strings of this ^Eolian lute,
Which better far were mute.
For lo ! the New-moon winter-bright !
And overspread with phantom light,
(With swimming phantom light o'erspread
But rimm'd and circled by a silver thread)
I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling

The coming on of rain and squally blast.
And oh ! that even now the gust were swelling,

And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast
Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilsi
they awed,
And sent my soul abroad,
Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give,
Might startle this dull pain, and make it move an4
live!

II.
A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassion'd grief,
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,
In word, or sigh, or tear —

0 Lady ! in this wan and heartless mood,
To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd,

All this long eve, so balmy and serene,
Have I been gazing on the western sky,

And its peculiar tint of yellow green :
And still I gaze — and with how blank an eye !
And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars.
That give away their motion to the stars ;
Those stars, that glide behind them or between,
Now sparkling, now bedimm'd, but always seen ■
Yon crescent Moon, as fix'd as if it grew
In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue ;

1 see them all so excellently fair,

I see, not feel, how beautiful they are !

III.

My genial spirits fail,

And what can these avail
To lift the smothering weight from off my breast?

It were a vain endeavor,

Though I should gaze for ever,
On that green light that lingers in the west :
I may not hope from outward forms to win
The passion and the life, whose fountains are withu*

IV.

O Lady ! we receive but what we give,
And in our life alone does nature live :

58

SIBYLLINE LEAVES.

19

Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud !

And would we aught behold, of higher worth,
Than that inanimate cold world allow'd
To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,

Ah ! from the soul itself must issue forth,
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud

Enveloping the Earth —
\nd from the soul itself must there be sent

A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,
Of all sweet sounds the life and element!

V.

0 pure of heart ! thou need'st not ask of me
What this strong music in the soul may be !
What, and wherein it doth exist,

This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,
This beautiful and beauty-making power.

Joy, virtuous Lady ! Joy that ne'er was given,
Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,
Life, and Life's Effluence, Cloud at once and

Shower,
Joy, Lady ! is the spirit and the power,
Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower

A new Earth and new Heaven,
Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud —
Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud —

We in ourselves rejoice !
And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,

All melodies the echoes of that voice,
All colors a suffusion from that light.

VI.

There was a time when, though my path was
rough,

This joy within me dallied with distress,
And all misfortunes were but as the stuff
Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness :
For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,
And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seem'd mine.
But now afflictions bow me down to earth :
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth.

But oh ! each visitation
Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,

My shaping spirit of Imagination.
For not to think of what I needs must feel,

But to be still and patient, all I can ;
And haply by abstruse research to steal

From my own nature all the natural Man —

This was my sole resource, my only plan :
Till that which suits a part infects the whole,
And now is almost grown the habit of my Soul.

VII.

Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,
Reality's dark dream !

1 turn from you, and listen to the wind,

Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream
Of agony by torture lengthen'd out
That lute sent forth ! Thou Wind, that rayest
without,

Bare crag, or mountain-tairn,* or blasted tree,
Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,
Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,

Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,
Mad Lutanist ! who in this month of showers,
Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers,

* Tairn is a small lake, generally, if not always, applied to
the lakes up in the mountains, and which are the feeders of
those in the valleys. This address to the Storm-wind will not
appear extravagant to those who have heard it at night, and
in a mountainous country.

5 F2

Makest Devils' yule, with worse than wintry sung,
The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among.

Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds !
Thou mighty Poet, e'en to Frenzy bold !
What tell'st thou now about ?
'T is of the Rushing of an Host in rout,
With groans of trampled men, with smarting
wounds —
At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the

cold !
But hush ! there is a pause of deepest silence !

And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,
With groans, and tremulous shudderings: — all is
over — [loud !

It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and
A tale of less affright,
And temper'd with delight, ,
As Otway's self had framed the tender lay,
Tis of a little child
Upon a lonesome wild,
Not far from home, but she hath lost her way,
And now moans low in bitter grief and fear,
And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother
hear.

VIII.
'T is midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep :
Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep !
Visit her, gentle Sleep ! with wings of healing.
And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,
May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,
Silent as though they watch'd the sleeping Earth,
With light heart may she rise,
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,
Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice :
To her may all things live, from Pole to Pole
Their life the eddying of her living soul !

O simple spirit, guided from above,
Dear Lady ! friend devoutest oi my choice,
Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice.

ODE TO GEORGIANA, DUCHESS OF
DEVONSHIRE,

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 preserved his Child

Then aim'd the arrow at the Tyrant's heart.

Splendor's fondly foster'd 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
Whence learnt you that heroic measure *

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 lull'd your infant ear,
Obeisance, praises soothed your infant heart :

Emblazonments and old ancestral crests,
With many a bright obtrusive form of art,

Detain'd your eye from nature ■ stately vesta
f»9

50

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

That veiling strove to deck your charms divine,
Rich viands, and the pleasurable wine,
Were yours unearn'd by toil ; nor could you see
The unenjoying toiler's misery.
And yet, free Nature's uncorrupted child,
You hail'd the Chapel and the Platform wild,
Where once the Austrian fell
Beneath the shaft of Tell !

O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure !

Whence learnt you that heroic measure ?

There crowd your finely-fibred frame,

All living faculties of bliss ;
And Genius to your cradle came,
His forehead wreathed with lambent flame,
And bending low, with godlike kiss
Breathed in a more celestial life ;
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,
Co-rivals in the nobler gift of thought.
Yet these delight to celebrate
Laurell'd War and plumy State ; •
Or in verse and music dress
Tales of rustic happiness —
Pernicious Tales ! insidious Strains !
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 !
Bui you, free Nature's uncorrupted child,
You hail'd the Chapel and the Platform wild,
Where once the Austrian fell
Beneath the shaft of Tell !

0 Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure !
Where learnt you that heroic measure ?

5 ou were a Mother ! That most holy name,
Which Heaven and Nature bless,

1 may not vilely prostitute to those

Whose Infants owe them less
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,
Which you yourself created. Oh ! delight !
A second lime to be a Mother,

Without the Mother's bitter groans :
Another thought, and yet another,
By touch, or taste, by looks or tones
O er the growing Sense to roll,
The Mother of your infant's Soul !
The Angel of the Earth, who, while he guides

His chariot-planet round the goal of day,
All trembling gazes on the Eye of God,

A moment turn'd his awful face away ;
And as he view'd you, from his aspect sweet

New influences in your being rose,
Blest Intuitions and Communions fleet
With living Nature, in her joys and woes !
Thenceforth your soul rejoiced to see
The shrine of social Liberty !
O beautiful ! O Nature's child !
Twas thence you hail'd die Platform wild,

Where once the Austrian fell
Beneath the shaft of Tell !

O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure !

Thence learnt you that heroic measure.

ODE TO TRANQUILLITY.

Tranciuillity ! thou better name

Than all the family of Fame !

Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age

To low intrigue, or factious rage ;

For oh ! dear child of thoughtful Truth,

To thee I gave my early youth,
And left the bark, and blest the stedfast shore,
Ere yet the Tempest rose and scared me with its roar

Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine,
On him but seldom, power divine,
Thy spirit rests ! Satiety
And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee,
Mock the tired worldling. Idle Hope
And dire Remembrance interlope,
To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind :
The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind.

But me thy gentle hand will lead
At morning through the accustom'd mead ;
And in the sultry summer's heat
Will build me up a mossy seat ;
And when the gust of Autumn crowds
And breaks the busy moonlight clouds,
Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune
Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding Moon

The feeling heart, the searching soul,
To thee I dedicate the whole !
And while within myself I trace
The greatness of some future race,
Aloof with hermit-eye I scan
The present works of present man —
A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile,
Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile !

TO A YOUNG FRIEND,

ON HIS PROPOSING TO DOMESTICATE WITH THE
AUTHOR.

COMPOSED IN 1796.

A mount, not wearisome and bare and steep,

But a green mountain variously up-piled,
Where o'er the jutting rocks soft mosses creep,
Or color'd lichens with slow oozing weep ;

Where cypress and the darker yew start wild
And 'mid the summer torrent's gentle dash
Dance brighten'd the red clusters of the ash ;

Beneath whose boughs, by those still sounds ba
guiled,
Calm Pensiveness might muse herself to sleep ;

Till haply startled by some fleecy dam,
That rustling on the bushy clift above,
With melancholy bleat of anxious love,

Made meek inquiry for her wandering lamb
60

SIBYLLINE LEAVES.

5)

Such a green mountain 'twere most sweet to climb,
E 'en while the bosom ached with loneliness —
How more than sweet, if some dear friend should
bless

The adventurous toil, and up the path sublime
Now lead, now follow : the glad landscape round,
Wide and more wide, increasing without bound!

O then 't were loveliest sympathy, to mark
The berries of the half-uprooted ash
Dripping and bright ; and list the torrent's dash, —

Beneath the cypress, or the yew more dark,
Seated at ease, on some smooth mossy rock ;
In social silence now, and now to unlock
The treasured heart ; arm link'd in friendly arm,
Save if the one, his muse's witching charm
Muttering brow-bent, at unwatch'd distance lag ;

Till high o'erhead his beckoning friend appears,
And from the forehead of the topmost crag

Shouts eagerly : for haply there uprears
That shadowing pine its old romantic limbs,

Which latest shall detain the enamour'd sight
Seen from below, when eve the valley dims,

Tinged yellow with the rich departing light;

And haply, basin'd in some unsunn'd cleft,
A beauteous spring, the rock's collected tears,
Sleeps shelter'd there, scarce wrinkled by the gale !

Together thus, the world's vain turmoil left,
Stretch'd on the crag, and shadow'd by the pine,

And bending o'er the clear delicious fount,
Ah ! dearest youth ! it were a lot divine
To cheat our noons in moralizing mood,
While west-winds fann'd our temples toil-bedew'd :

Then downwards slope, oft pausing, from the
mount,
To some lone mansion, in some woody dale,
Where smiling with blue eye, domestic bliss
Gives this the Husband's, that the Brother's kiss !

Thus rudely versed in allegoric lore,
The Hill of Knowledge I essay'd to trace ;
That verdurous hill with many a resting-place,
And many a stream, whose warbling waters pour

To glad and fertilize the subject plains ;
That hill with secret springs, and nooks untrod,
And many a fancy-blest and holy sod,

Where Inspiration, his diviner strains
Low murmuring, lay ; and starting from the rocks
Stiff evergreens, whose spreading foliage mocks
Want's barren soil, and the bleak frosts of age,
And Bigotry's mad fire-invoking rage !

O meek retiring spirit! we will climb,
Cheering and cheer'd, this lovely hill sublime ;

And from the stirring world uplifted high
(Whose noises, faintly wafted on the wind,
To quiet musings shall attune the mind,

And oft the melancholy theme supply),

There, while the prospect through the gazing eye

Pours all its healthful greenness on the soul,
We '11 smile at wealth, and learn to smile at fame,
Our hopes, our knowledge, and our joys the same,

As neigh-boring fountains image, each the whole :
Then, when the mind hath drunk its fill of truth,

We'll discipline the heart to pure delight,
Rekindling sober Joy's domestic flame.
They whom I love shall love thee. Honor'd youth !

Now may Heaven realize this vision bright !

LINES TO W. L. ESQ.

WHILE HE SANG A SONG TO PURCELL's MUSIC

While my young cheek retains its healthful hues,

And I have many friends who hold me dear ;

L ! methinks, I would not often hear

Such melodies as thine, lest I should lose
All memory of the wrongs and sore distress,

For which my miserable brethren weep !

But should uncomforted misfortunes sleep
My daily bread in tears and bitterness ;
And if at death's dread moment I should lie

With no beloved face at my bed-side,
To fix the last glance of my closing eye,

Methinks, such strains, breathed by my angel-gukk
Would make me pass the cup of anguish by,

Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died !

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG MAN OP FORTUNE
who abandoned himself to an indolent and

causeless melancholy.
Hence that fantastic wantonness of woe,

O Youth to partial Fortune vainly dear !
To plunder'd Want's half-shelter'd hovel go,

Go, and some hunger-bitten Infant hear.

Moan haply in a dying Mother's ear :
Or when the cold and dismal fog-damps brood
O'er the rank church-yard with sere elm-leaves

strew'd,
Pace round some widow's grave, whose dearer part

Was slaughter'd, where o'er his uncoffin'd limbs
The flocking flesh-birds scream'd ! Then, while thy
heart

Groans, and thine eye a fiercer sorrow dims,
Know (and the truth shall kindle thy young mind)
What Nature makes thee mourn, she bids thee heal.'

O abject! if, to sickly dreams resign'd,
All effortless thou leave life's commonweal
A prey to Tyrants, Murderers of Mankind.

SONNET TO THE LIVER OTTER.

Dear native Brook ! wild Streamlet of the West !

How many various-fated years have past,

What happy, and what mournful hours, since last
I skimm'd the smooth thin stone along thy breast,
Numbering its light leaps ! yet so deep imprest
Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes

I never shut amid the sunny ray,
But straight with all their tints thy waters rise,

Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows gray,
And bedded sand that vein'd with various dyes
Gleam'd through thy bright transparence! On my
way,

Visions of childhood! oft have \« beguiled
Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs :

Ah ! that once more I were a careless child !

SONNET.

COMPOSED ON A JOURNEY HOMEWARD ; THU AUTHOR
HAVING RECEIVED INTELLIGENCE OF THE BIRTH
OF A SON, SEPTEMBER 20, 1796.

Oft o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll
Which makes the present (while the flash doth last)
9 Gl

52

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

Seem a mere semblance of some unknown past,
Mix'd with such feelings, as perplex the soul
Self-question'd in her sleep ; and some have said*

We lived, ere yet this robe of Flesh we wore.

O my sweet baby ! when I reach my door,
If heavy looks should tell me thou art dead
(As sometimes, through excess of hope, I fear),
I think that I should struggle to believe

Thou wert a spirit, to this nether sphere
Sentenced for some more venial crime to grieve ;
Didst scream, then spring to meet Heaven's quick
reprieve,

While we wept idly o'er thy little bier !

SONNET.

TO A FRIEND WHO ASKED, HOW I FELT WHEN THE
NURSE FIRST PRESENTED MY INFANT TO ME.

Charles ! my slow heart was only sad, when first
I scann'd that face of feeble infancy :

For dimly on my thoughtful spirit burst
All I had been, and all my child might be !

But when I saw it on its Mother's arm,
And hanging at her bosom (she the while
Bent o'er its features with a tearful smile)

Then I was thriU'd and melted, and most warm

Impress'd a Father's kiss : and all beguiled
Of dark remembrance and presageful fear,
I seem'd to see an angel-form appear —

'T was even thine, beloved woman mild !
So for the Mother's sake the Child waa dear,

And dearer was the Mother for the Child.

THE VIRGIN'S CRADLE-HYMN.

COPIED FROM A PRINT OF THE VIRGIN IN A CATHOLIC
VILLAGE IN GERMANY.

Dormi, Jesu ! Mater ridet,
Quas tam dulcem somnum videt,

Dormi, Jesu ! blandule !
Si non dormis, Mater plorat,
Inter fila cantans orat

Blande, veni, somnule.

Sleep, sweet babe ! my cares beguiling
Mother sits beside thee smiling :

Sleep, my darling, tenderly !
If thou sleep not, mother mourneth,
Singing as her wheel she turneth :

Come, soft slumber, balmily !

ON THE CHRISTENING OF A FRIEND'S CHILD.

This day among the faithful placed

And fed with fontal manna ;
O with maternal title graced

Dear Anna's dearest Anna!

* Hv nov rifjimv rj ipv^r) npiv iv twSs rw avBpwnivu
■*\lti ysvevdai.

Plat, in Pkcedon.

While others wish thee wise and fair,

A maid of spotless fame,
I'll breathe this more compendious praye* —

Mayst thou deserve thy name !

Thy Mother's name, a potent spell,

That bids the Virtues hie
From mystic grove and living cell

Confest to Fancy's eye ;

Meek Quietness, without offence ;

Content, in homespun kirtle ;
True Love ; and True Love's Innocence.

White Blossom of the Myrtle !

Associates of thy name, sweet Child !

These Virtues mayst thou win ;
With Face as eloquently mild

To say, they lodge within.

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,

May gaze with stifled breath ,
And oft, in momentary trance,

Forget the waste of death.

Ev'n thus a lovely rose I view'd

In summer-swelling pride ;
Nor mark'd the bud, that green and rude

Peep'd at the Rose's side.

It chanced, I pass'd again that way

In Autumn's latest hour,
And wond'ring saw the self-same spray

Rich with the self-same 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 !

EPITAPH ON AN INFANT.

Its balmy lips the Infant blest
Relaxing from its Mother's breast,
How sweet it heaves the happy sigh
Of innocent Satiety !

And such my Infant's latest sigh !
O tell, rude stone ! the passer-by,
That here the pretty babe doth lie,
Death sang to sleep with Lullaby.

MELANCHOLY.
a fragment.

Stretch'd on a moulder'd Abbey's broadest w.

Where ruining ivies propp'd the ruins steep —
Her folded arms wrapping her tatter'd pall,

Had Melancholy mused herself to sleep.
62

SIBYLLINE LEAVES.

53

The fern was press'd beneath her hair,
The dark-green Adder's Tongue* was there ;
\nd still as past the flagging sea-gale weak,
The long lank leaf bow'd fluttering o'er her cheek.

rhat pallid cheek was flush'd : her eager look
Beam'd eloquent in slumber ! Inly wrought,
Imperfect sounds her moving lips forsook,
And her bent forehead work'd with troubled
thought.
Strange was the dream

TELL'S BIRTH-PLACE.

IMITATED FROM STOLBERG.

Mark this holy chapel well !
The Birth-place, this, of William Tell.
Here, where stands God's altar dread,
Stood his parents' marriage-bed.

Here first, an infant to her breast,
Him his loving mother prest ;
And kiss'd the babe, and bless'd the day,
And pray'd as mothers use to pray :

" Vouchsafe him health, O God, and give
The Child thy servant still to live ! "
But God has destined to do more
Through him, than through an armed power.

God gave him reverence of laws,

Yet stirring blood in Freedom's cause- —

A spirit to his rocks akin,

The eye of the Hawk, and the fire therein !

To Nature and to Holy writ
Alone did God the boy commit :
Where flash'd and roar'd the torrent, oft
His soul found wings, and soar'd aloft !

The straining oar and chamois chase
Had form'd his limbs to strength and grace :
On wave and wind the boy would toss,
Was great, nor knew how great he was !

He knew not that his chosen hand,
Made strong by God, his native land
Would rescue from the shameful yoke
Of Slavery the which he broke !

A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

The Shepherds went their hasty way,

And found the lowly stable-shed
Where the Virgin-Mother lay :

And now they check'd their eager tread,
F f* to the Babe, that at her bosom clung,
A Mother's song the Virgin-Mother sung.

They told her how a glorious light,

Streaming from a heavenly throng,
Around them shone, suspending night !
While, sweeter than a Mother's song,
Blest Angels heralded the Savior's birth,
Glory to God on high ! and peace on Earth.

* A botanical mistake. The plant which the poet here de-
scribes is called the Hart's Tongue.

She listen'd to the tale divine,

And closer still the Babe she press'd ;
And while she cried, the Babe is mine !
The milk rush'd faster to her breast :
Joy rose within her, like a summer's morn ;
Peace, Peace on Earth ! the Prince of Peace is bcm.

Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace,

Poor, simple, and of low estate !
That Strife should vanish, Battle cease,
O why should this thy soul elate ?

Sweet Music's loudest note, the Poet's story,

Did'st thou ne'er love to hear of Fame and Glory ?

And is not War a youthful King,

A stately Hero clad in mail ?
Beneath his footsteps laurels spring ;
Him Earth's majestic monarchs hail
Their Friend, their Play-mate! and his bold bright eye
Compels the maiden's love-confessing sigh

" 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,
That from the aged Father tears his Child !

" 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 ;
Plunders God's world of beauty ; rends away
All safety from the Night, all comfort from the Day

" Then wisely is my soul elate,

That Strife should vanish, Battle cease :
) I 'm poor and of a low estate,

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! "

HUMAN LIFE,

ON THE DENIAL OP IMMORTALITY

If dead, we cease to be ; if total gloom

Swallow up life's brief flash for aye, we fare
As summer-gusts, of sudden birth and doom,

Whose sound and motion not alone declare,
But are their whole of being ! If the Breath

Be Life itself, and not its task and tent,
If even a soul like Milton's can know death ,

O Man ! thou vessel, purposeless, unmeant,
Yet drone-hive strange of phantom purposes !

Surplus of Nature's dread activity,
Which, as she gazed on some nigh-finish'd vase.
Retreating slow, with meditative pause,

She form'd with restless hands unconsciously !
Blank accident! nothing's anomaly!

If rootless thus, thus substanceless thy state,
Go, weigh thy dreams, and be thy Hopes, thy Fears,
The counter-weights ! — Thy Laughter and thy Tears

Mean but themselves, each fittest to create,
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54

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

And to repay the other ! Why rejoices

Thy heart with hollow joy for hollow good?

Why cowl thy face beneath the mourner's hood,
Why waste thy sighs, and thy lamenting voices,

Image of image, Ghost of Ghostly Elf,
That such a thing as thou feel'st warm or cold !
Yet what and whence thy gain if thou withhold

These costless shadows of thy shadowy self?
Be sad ! be glad ! be neither ! seek, or shun !
Thou hast no reason why ! Thou canst have none :
Thy being's being is contradiction.

THE VISIT OF THE GODS.

IMITATED FROM SCHILLER.

Never, believe me,
Appear the Immortals,
Never alone :
Scarce had I welcomed the Sorrow-beguiler,
Iacchus ! but in came Boy Cupid the Smiler ;
Lo ! Phoebus the Glorious descends from his Throne !
They advance, they float in, the Olympians all !
With Divinities fills my
Terrestrial Hall !

How shall I yield you
Due entertainment,
Celestial Quire ?
Me rather, bright guests ! with your wings of up-

buoyance
Bear aloft to your homes, to your banquets of joyance,
That the roofs of Olympus may echo my lyre !
Ha ! we mount ! on their pinions they waft up my Soul !

O give me the Nectar !
O fill me the Bowl !
Give him the Nectar!
Pour out for the Poet,
Hebe ! pour free !
Quicken his eyes with celestial dew,
That Styx the detested no more he may view,
And like one of us Gods may conceit him to be !
Thanks, Hebe ! I quaff it! Io Paean, I cry!
The Wine of the Immortals
Forbids me to die !

ELEGY,

IMITATED from one of akenside s blank verse

INSCRIPTIONS.

Near the lone pile with ivy overspread,
Fast by the rivulet's sleep-persuading sound,

Where " sleeps the moonlight " on yon verdant bed—
O humbly press that consecrated ground !

For there does Edmund rest, the learned swain !

And there his spirit most delights to rove :
Young Edmund ! famed for each harmonious strain,

And the sore wounds of ill-requited love.

Like some tall tree that spreads its branches wide,
And loads the west-wind with its soft perfume,

His manhood blossom 'd : till the faithless pride
Of fair Matilda sank him to the tomb.

But soon did righteous Heaven her guilt pursue !

Where'er with wilder'd steps she wander'd pale
Still Edmund's image rose to blast her view,

Still Edmund's voice accused her in each gale.

With keen regret, and conscious guilt's alarms,

Amid the pomp of affluence she pined :
Nor all that lured her faith from Edmund's arms
. Could lull the wakeful horror of her mind.

Go, Traveller ! tell the tale with sorrow fraught
Some tearful maid, perchance, or blooming youth

May hold it in remembrance ; and be taught
That Riches cannot pay for Love or Truth.

KUBLA KHAN;

OR, A VISION IN A DREAM.

[The following fragment is here published at the request 'of a
poet of great and deserved celebrity, and. as far as the Author'9
own opinions are concerned, rather as a psychological curiosity,
than on the ground of any supposed poetic merits.

In the summer of the year 1797, the Author, then in ill health,
had retired to a lonely farm-house between Porlock and Linton,
on the Exmoor confines of Somerset and Devonshire. In con-
sequence of a slight indisposition, an anodyne had been pre-
scribed, from the effects of which he fell asleep in bis chair at
the moment that he was reading the following sentence, 01
words of the same substance, in Purchas's " Pilgrimage :"—
" Here the Khan Kubla commanded a palace to be built, and a
stately garden thereunto ; and thus ten miles of fertile ground
were inclosed with a wall." The author continued for abou*
three hours in a profound sleep, at least of the external senses,
during which time he has the most vivid confidence that he could
not have composed less than from two to three hundred lines ; if
that indeed can be called composition in which all the images
rose up before him as things, with a parallel production of the
correspondent expressions, without any sensation, or conscious-
ness of effort. On awaking he appeared to himself to have a
distinct recollection of the whole, and taking his pen, ink, and
paper, instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines that are here
preserved. At this moment he was unfortunately called out by
a person on business from Porlock, and detained by him above
an hour, and on his return to his room, found, to his no small
surprise and mortification, that though he still retained some
vague and dim recollection of the general purport of the vision,
yet, with the exception of some eight or ten scattered lines and
images, all the rest had passed away like the images on the
surface of a stream into which a stone had been cast, but, alas I
without the after restoration of the latter.

Then all the charm
Is broken— all that phantom-world so fair
Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread,
And each misshapes the other. Stay awhile,
Poor youth ! who scarcely darest lift up thine eyes— »
The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon
The visions will return ! And lo, he stays,
And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms
Come trembling back, unite, and now once more
The pool becomes a mirror.
Yet from the still surviving recollections in his mind, the Autho
has frequently purposed to finish for himself what had bee»
originally, as it were, given to him. Sapepov atiiiv aaa-
but the to-morrow is yet to come.

As a contrast to this vision, I have annexed a fragment of a
very different character, describing with equa. fidelity tha
dream of pain and disease. — Note to the first Edition, 1916.1

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree ;
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.

64

SIBYLLINE LEAVES.

55

So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round :
And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossom'd many an incense-bearing tree ;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Infolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover !
A savage place ! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seeth-
ing,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing
A mighty fountain momently was forced :
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail :
\nd 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles, meandering with a mazy motion,
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reach'd the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean :
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard, from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war !

The shadow of the dome of pleasure

Floated midway on the waves ;

Where was heard the mingled measure

From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice !

A damsel with a dulcimer

In a vision once I saw :

It was an Abyssinian maid,

And on her dulcimer she play'd,

Singing of Mount A bora.
•* Could I revive within me

Her symphony and song,

To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
T would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome ! those caves of ice !
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware ! Beware !
His flashing eyes, his floating hair !
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed
And drank the milk of Paradise.

THE PAINS OF SLEEP.

Ere on my bed my limbs I lay,

It hath not been my use to pray

With moving lips or bended knees ;

But silently, by slow degrees,

My spirit I to Love compose,

In humble Trust mine eye-lids close,

With reverential resignation,

No wish conceived, no thought express'd !

Only a sense of supplication, '

A sense o'er all my soul imprest

That I am weak, yet not unblest,

Since in me, round me, everywhere,
Eternal Strength and Wisdom are.

But yester-night I pray'd aloud

In anguish and in agony,

Up-starting from the fiendish crowd

Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me :

A lurid light, a trampling throng,

Sense of intolerable wrong,

And whom I scorn'd, those only strong !

Thirst of revenge, the powerless will

Still baffled, and yet burning still !

Desire with lothing strangely mix'd,

On wild or hateful objects fix'd.

Fantastic passions ! maddening brawl !

And shame and terror over all !

Deeds to be hid which were not hid,

Which all confused I could not know,

Whether I suffer'd, or I did :

For all seem'd guilt, remorse, or woe,

My own or others', still the same

Life-stifling fear, soul-stifling shame.

So two nights pass'd : the night's dismay
Sadden'd and stunn'd the coming day.
Sleep, the wide blessing, seem'd to me
Distemper's worst calamity.
The third night, when my own loud scream
Had waked me from the fiendish dream,
O'ercome with sufferings strange and wild,
I wept as I had been a child ;
And having thus by tears subdued
My anguish to a milder mood,
Such punishments, I said, were due
To natures deepliest stain'd with sin •
For aye entempesting anew
The unfathomable hell within,
The horror of their deeds to view,
To know and lothe, yet wish and do !
Such griefs with such men well agree,
But wherefore, wherefore fall on me ?
To be beloved is all I need,
And whom I love, I love indeed.

APPENDIX.

APOLOGETIC PREFACE

TO " FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER."
[See page 26]

At the house of a gentleman, who by the principles
and corresponding virtues of a sincere Christian con-
secrates a cultivated genius and the favorable acci-
dents of birth, opulence, and splendid connexions, it
was my good fortune to meet, in a dinner-party, with
more men of celebrity in science or polite literature,
than are commonly found collected round the same
table. In the course of conversation, one of the par-
ty reminded an illustrious Poet, then present, of some
verses which he had recited that morning, and which
had appeared in a newspaper under the name of a
War-Eclogue, in which Fire, Famine, and Slaughter
were introduced as the speakers. The gentleman so
addressed replied, that he was rather surprised that
65

56

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

none of us should have noticed or heard of the poem,
as it had been, at the time, a good deal talked of in
Scotland. It may be easily supposed, that my feel-
ings were at this moment not of the most comforta-
ble kind. Of all present, one only knew or suspect-
ed me to be the author : a man who would have
established himself in the first rank of England's
living Poets, if the Genius of our country had not
decreed that he should rather be the first in the first
ank of its Philosophers and scientific Benefactors,
t appeared the general wish to hear the lines. As my
friend chose to remain silent, I chose to follow his
example, and Mr. ***** recited the Poem. This he
could do with the better grace, being known to have
ever been not only a firm and active Anti-Jacobin and
Anti-Gallican, but likewise a zealous admirer of Mr.
Pitt, both as a good man and a great Statesman. As
a Poet exclusively, he had been amused with the
Eclogue ; as a Poet, he recited it ; and in a spirit,
which made it evident, that he would have read and
repeated it with the same pleasure, had his own
name been attached to the imaginary object or agent.

After the recitation, our amiable host observed,
that in his opinion Mr. ***** had overrated the merits
of the poetry ; but had they been tenfold greater,
they could not have compensated for that malignity
of heart, which could alone have prompted "Senti-
ments so atrocious. I perceived that my illustrious
friend became greatly distressed on my account; but
fortunately I was able to preserve fortitude and pres-
ence of mind enough to take up the subject without
exciting even a suspicion how nearly and painfully
it interested me.

What follows, is substantially the same as I then
replied, but dilated and in language less colloquial.
It was not my intention, I said, to justify the publi-
cation, whatever its author's feelings might have
been at the time of composing it. That they are
calculated to call forth so severe a reprobation from
a good man, is not the worst feature of such poems.
Their moral deformity is aggravated in proportion to
the pleasure which they are capable of affording
to vindictive, turbulent, and unprincipled readers.
Could it be supposed, though for a moment, that the
author seriously wished what he had thus wildly im-
agined, even the attempt to palliate an inhumanity so
monstrous would oe an insult to the hearers. But it
seemed to me w'orthy of consideration, whether the
mood of mind, and the general state of sensations,
in which a Poet produces such vivid and fantastic
images, is likely to coexist, or is even compatible,
with that gloomy and deliberate ferocity which a
serious wish to realize them would presuppose. It
had been often observed, and all my experience
tended to confirm the observation, that prospects of
pain and evil to others, and, in general, all deep feel-
ings of revenge, are commonly expressed in a few
wrords, ironically tame, and mild. The mind under
so direful and fiend-like an influence seems to take a
morbid pleasure in contrasting the intensity of its
wishes and feelings, with the slightness or levity of
the expressions by which they are hinted ; and in-
deed feelings so intense and solitary, if they were
not precluded (as in almost all cases they w:ould be)
by a constitutional activity of fancy and association,
and by the specific joyousness combined with it,
would assuredly themselves preclude such activity.
Passion, in its own quality, is the antagonist of ac-
tion ; though in an ordinary and natural degree the
former alternates with' the latter, and thereby revives

and strengthens it But the more intense and insane
the passion is, the fewer and the more fixed are the
correspondent forms and notions. A rooted hatred,
an inveterate thirst of revenge, is a sort of madness,
and still eddies round its favorite object, and exer-
cises as it were a perpetual tautology of mind in
thoughts and words, which admit of no adequate
substitutes. Like a fish in a globe of glass, it moves
restlessly round and round the scanty circumference,

hich it cannot leave without losing its vital ele-
ment.

There is a second character of such imaginary
representations as spring from a real and earnest de-
sire of evil to another, which we often see In real
life, and might even anticipate from the nature of
the mind. The images, I mean, that a vindictive
man places before his imagination, will most often be
taken from the realities of life : they will be images
of pain and suffering which he has himself seen in-
flicted on other men, and which he can fancy him-
self as inflicting on the object of his hatred. I will
suppose that we had heard at different times two
common sailors, each speaking of some one who had
wronged or offended him : that the first with appa-
rent violence had devoted every part of his adversa-
ry's body and soul to all the horrid phantoms and
fantastic places that ever Quevedo dreamt of, and
this in a rapid flow of those outre and wildly-com-
bined execrations, which too often with our lower
classes serve for escape-valves to carry off the excess
of their passions, as so much superfluous steam that
would endanger the vessel if it were retained. The
other, on the contrary, with that sort of calmness of
tone which is to the ear what the paleness of anger
is to the eye, shall simply say, " If I chance to be
made boatswain, as I hope I soon shall, and can but
once get that fellow under my hand (and 1 shall be
upon the watch for him), I '11 tickle his pretty skin !

I wont hurt him ! oh no ! I '11 only cut the to

the liver!" I dare appeal to all present, which of the
two they would regard as the least deceptive symp-
tom of deliberate malignity ? nay, whether it would
surprise them to see the first fellow, an hour or two
afterward, cordially shaking hands with the very
man, the fractional parts of whose body and soul he
had been so charitably disposing of; or even perhaps
risking his life for him. What language Shakspeare
considered characteristic of malignant disposition, we
see in the speech of the good-natured Gratiano, who
spoke " an infinite deal of nothing more than any
man in all Venice ;"

Too wild, too rude and bold of voice !

the skipping spirit, whose thoughts and words recip
rocally ran away with each other ;

O be thou damn'd, inexorable dog '

And for thy life let justice be accused!

and the wild fancies that follow, contrasted with Shy-
lock's tranquil " I stand here for law."

Or, to take a case more analogous to the presen'
subject, should we hold it either fair or charitable tc
believe it to have been Dante's serious wish, that all
the persons mentioned by him, (many recently de-
parted, and some even alive at the time), should ac-
tually suffer the fantastic and horrible punishments
to which he has sentenced them in his Hell and
Purgatory1? Or what shall we say of the passages
in which Bishop Jeremy Taylor anticipates the state
of those who, vicious themselves, have been *h?
66

SIBYLLINE LEAVES.

57

cause of vice and misery to their fellow-creatures ?
Could we endure for a moment to think that a spirit,
like Bishop Taylor's, burning with Christian love ;
that a man constitutionally overflowing with plea-
surable kindliness ; who scarcely even in a casual
illustration introduces the image of woman, child, or
bird but he embalms the thought with so rich a
tenderness, as makes the very words seem beauties
and fragments of poetiy from a Euripides or Simo-
nides ; — can we endure to think, that a man so na-
tured and so disciplined, did at the time of composing
this horrible picture, attach a sober feeling of reality
to the phrases ? or that he would have described in
the same tone of justification, in the same luxuriant
flow of phrases, the tortures about to be inflicted on
a living individual by a verdict of the Star-Chamber?
or the still more atrocious sentences executed on the
Scotch anti-prelatists and schismatics, at the com-
mand, and in some instances under the very eye of
the Duke of Lauderdale, and of that wretched bigot
who afterwards dishonored and forfeited the throne
of Great Britain ? Or do we not rather feel and un-
derstand, that these violent words were mere bubbles,
flashes and electrical apparitions, from the magic
caldron of a fervid and ebullient fancy, constantly
fuelled by an unexampled opulence of language ?

Were I now to have read by myself for the first
time the Poem in question, my conclusion, I fully
believe, would be, that the writer must have been
eome man of warm feelings and active fancy ; that
he had painted to himself the circumstances that ac-
c.ompany war in so many vivid and yet fantastic
forms, as proved that neither the images nor the
feelings were the result of observation, or in any
way derived from realities. I should judge, that they
were the product of his own seething imagination,
and therefore impregnated with that pleasurable ex-
ultation which is experienced in all energetic exer-
tion of intellectual power ; that in the same mood
he had generalized the causes of the war, and then
personified the abstract, and christened it by the
name which he had been accustomed to hear most
often associated with its management and measures.
1 should guess that the minister was in the author's
mind at the moment of composition, as completely
a-a$))s, avai/ioaapKog, as Anacreon's grasshopper, and
that he had as little notion of a real person of flesh
and blood,

Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb,

as Milton had in the grim and terrible phantoms (half
person, half allegory) which he has placed at the
gates of Hell. I concluded by observing, that the
Poem was not calculated to excite passion in any
mind, or to make any impression except on poetic
readers ; and that from the culpable levity, betrayed
at the close of the Eclogue by the grotesque union
of epigrammatic wit with allegoric personification,
in the allusion to the most fearful of thoughts, I
should conjecture that the " ranlin' Bardie," instead
of really believing, much less wishing, the fate spo-
ken of in the last line, in application to any human
individual, would shrink from passing the verdict
even on the Devil himself, and exclaim with poor
Burns,

Hut fare ye wee], auld Nickie-ben !

Oil ! wad ye tak a thought an' meu' '.

Ye sibling might — I dinna ken —

Stiil hae a stake —

1 'm wae to think upon yon den,

Ev'n for your sake !

I need not say that these thoughts, which are here
dilated, were in such a company only rapidly sug-
gested. Our kind host smiled, and with a courteous
compliment observed, that the defence was too good
for the cause. My voice faltered a little, for I was
somewhat agitated ; though not so much on my own
account as for the uneasiness that so kind and
friendly a man would feel from the thought that he
had been the occasion of distressing me. At length
I brought out these words : " I must now confess,
Sir ! that I am author of that Poem. It was written
some years ago. I do not attempt to justify my past
self, young as I then was ; but as little as I. would
now write a similar poem, so far was I even then
from imagining, that the lines would be taken as
more or less than a sport of fancy. At all events, if
I know my own heart, there was never a moment
in my existence in which I should have been more
ready, had Mr. Pitt's person been in hazard, to inter-
pose my own body, and defend his life at the risk of
my own."

I have prefaced the Poem with this anecdote, be-
cause to have printed it without any remark might
well have been understood as implying an uncondi-
tional approbation on my part, and this after many
years' consideration. But if it be asked why I re-
published it at all ? I answer, that the Poem had
been attributed at different times to different other
persons ; and what I had dared beget, I thought it
neither manly nor honorable not to dare father.
From the same motives I should have published
perfect copies of two Poems, the one entitled The
Devil's Thoughts, and the other The Two Round
Spaces on the Tomb-Stone, but that the three first
stanzas of the former, which were worth all the rest
of the poem, and the best stanza of the remainder,
were written by a friend of deserved celebrity; and
because there are passages in both, which might
have given offence to the religious feelings of certain
readers. I myself indeed see no reason why vulgar
superstitions, and absurd conceptions that deform the
pure faith of a Christian, should possess a greater
immunity from ridicule than stories of witches, or
the fables of Greece and Rome. But there are
those who deem it profaneness and irreverence to
call an ape an ape, if it but wear a monk's cowl on
its head ; and I would rather reason with this weak-
ness than offend it.

The passage from Jeremy Taylor to which I re-
ferred, is found in his second Sermon on Christ's
Advent to Judgment ; which is likewise the second
in his year's course of sermons. Among many re
markable passages of the same character in those
discourses, I have selected this as the most so. "But
when this Lion of the tribe of Judah shall appear,
then Justice shall strike and Mercy shall not hold
her hands; she shall strike sore strokes, and Pity
shall not break the blow As there are treasures of
good things, so hath God a treasure of wrath and
fury, and scourges and scorpions ; and ihen shall be
produced the shame of Lust and the malice of Envy,
and the groans of the oppressed and the persecutions
of the saints, and the cares of Covetousness and the
troubles of Ambition, and the indolence of traitors
and the violences of rebels, and the rage of anger and
the uneasiness of impatience, and the restlessness of
67

58

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

unlawful desires ; and by this time the monsters and
diseases will be numerous and intolerable, when
God's heavy hand shall press the sanies and the in-
tolerableness, the obliquity and the unreasonableness,
the amazement and the disorder, the smart and the
sorrow, the guilt and the punishment, out from all
our sins, and pour them into one chalice, and mingle
them with an infinite wrath, and make the wicked
drink of all the vengeance, and force it down their
unwilling throats with the violence of devils and
accursed spirits."

That this Tartarean drench displays the imagina-
tion rather than the discretion of the compounder ;
that, in short, this passage and others of the kind
are in a bad taste, few will deny at the present day.
It would doubtless have more behoved the good
bishop not to be wise beyond what is written, on a
subject in which Eternity is opposed to Time, and a
death threatened, not the negative, but the positive
Oppositive of Life ; a subject, therefore, which must
of necessity be indescribable to the human under-
standing in our present state. But I can neither find
nor believe, that it ever occurred to any reader to
ground on such passages a charge against Bishop
Taylor's humanity, or goodness of heart. I was
not a little surprised therefore to find, in the Pur-
suits of Literature and other works, so horrible a
sentence passed on Milton's moral character, for a
passage in his prose-writings, as nearly parallel to
this of Taylor's as two passages can well be con-
ceived to be. All his merits, as a poet forsooth — all
the glory of having written the Paradise Lost, are
light in the scale, nay, kick the beam, compared
with the atrocious malignity of heart expressed in
the offensive paragraph. I remembered, in general,
that Milton had concluded one of his works on Re-
formation, written in the fervor of his youthful im-
agination, in a high poetic strain, that wanted metre
only to become a lyrical poem. I remembered that
in the former part he had formed to himself a perfect
ideal of human virtue, a character of heroic, disin-
terested zeal and devotion for Truth, Religion, and
public Liberty, in Act and in Suffering, in the day
of Triumph and in the hour of Martyrdom. Such
spirits, as more excellent than others, he describes
as having a more excellent reward, and as distin-
guished by a transcendent glory : and this reward
and this glory he displays and particularizes with an
energy and brilliance that announced the Paradise
Lost as plainly as ever the bright purple clouds in
the east announced the coming of the sun. Milton
then passes to the gloomy contrast, to such men as
from motives of selfish ambition and the lust of per-
sonal aggrandizement should, against their own light,
persecute truth and the true religion, and wilfully
abuse the powers and gifts intrusted to them, to
bring vice, blindness, misery and slavery, on then-
native country, on the very country that had trusted,
enriched and honored them. Such beings, after that
speedy and appropriate removal from their sphere of
mischief which all good and humane men must of
course desire, will, he takes for granted by parity of
reason, meet with a punishment, an ignominy, and a
retaliation, as much severer than other wicked men,
as their guilt and its consequences were more enor-
mous. His description of this imaginary punishment
presents more distinct pictures to the fancy than the
extract from Jeremy Taylor ; but the thoughts in the
latter are incomparably more exaggerated and hor-
rific. All this 1 knew; but I neither remembered,

nor by reference and careful re-perusal could dis
cover, any other meaning, either in Milton or Taj lor
but that good men will be rewarded, and the impen-
itent wicked punished, in proportion to their disposi-
tions and intentional acts in this life ; and that if the
punishment of the least wicked be fearful beyond
conception, all words and descriptions must be so fai
true, that they must fall short of the punishment tha*.
awaits the transcendently wicked. Had Milton stated
either his ideal of virtue, or of depravity, as an indi-
vidual or individuals actually existing? Certainly not
Is this representation worded historically, or only hy-
pothetically ? Assuredly the latter ! Does he express
it as his own wish, that after death they should suffer
these tortures ? or as a general consequence, deduced
from reason and revelation, that such will be their
fate? Again, the latter only! His wish is expressly con-
fined to a speedy stop being put by Providence to
their power of inflicting misery on others ! But did he
name or refer to any persons, living or dead ? No!
But the calumniators of Milton dare say (for what
will calumny not dare say ?) that he had Laud and
Stafford in his mind, while writing of remorseless
persecution, and the enslavement of a free country,
from motives of selfish ambition. Now, what if a
stern anti-prelatist should dare say, that in speaking
of the insolencies of traitors and the violences of rebels.
Bishop Taylor must have individualized in his mind,
Hampden, Hollis, Pym, Fairfax, Ireton, and Mil-
ton ? And what if he should take the liberty of con-
cluding, that, in the after description, the Bishop was
feeding and feasting his party-hatred, and with those
individuals before the eyes of his imagination enjoy-
ing, trait by trait, horror after horror, the picture of
their intolerable agonies ? Yet this bigot would havo
an equal right thus to criminate the one good and
great man, as these men have to criminate the other
Milton has said, and I doubt not but that Taylor with
equal truth could have said it, " that in his whole
life he never spake against a man even that his skin
should be grazed." He asserted this when one of his
opponents (either Bishop Hall or his nephew) had
called upon the women and children in the streets
to take up stones and stone him (Milton). It is
known that Milton repeatedly used his interest to
protect the royalists ; but even at a time when all
lies would have been meritorious against him, no
charge was made, no story pretended, that he had
ever directly or indirectly engaged or assisted in
their persecution. Oh ! methinks there are other and
far better feelings, which should be acquired by the
perusal of our great elder writers. When I have
before me on the same table, the works of Hammond
and Baxter : when I reflect with what joy and dear
ness their blessed spirits are now loving each other
it seems a mournful thing that their names should
be perverted to an occasion of bitterness among us,
who are enjoying that happy mean which the human
too-much on both sides was perhaps necessary to
produce. " The tangle of delusions which stifled and
distorted the growing tree of our well-being has bee
torn away ! the parasite weeds that fed on its ve.
roots have been plucked up with a salutary vi#leno
To us there remain only quiet duties, the constant
care, the gradual improvement, the cautious un-
hazardous labors of the industrious though contented
gardener — to prune, to strengthen, to engraft, and
one by one to remove from its leaves and fresh
shoots the slug and the caterpillar. But far be
it from us to undervalue with light and senseless
68

SIBYLLINE LEAVES.

5!)

detraction the conscientious hardihood of our prede-
cessors, or even to condemn in them that vehemence,
to which the blessings it won for us leave us now
neither temptation or pretext. We antedate the
feelings, in order to criminate the authors, of our pres-
ent Liberty, Light and Toleration." (The Friend,
p. 54)

If ever two great men might seem, during their
whole lives, to have moved in direct opposition, though
neither of them has at any time introduced the
name of the other, Milton and Jeremy Taylor were
they. The former commenced his career by attack-
ing the Church-Liturgy and all set forms of prayer.
The latter, but far more successfully, by defending
both. Millon's next work was then against the Pre-
lacy and the then existing Church-Government —
Taylor's in vindication and support of them. Milton
became more and more a stern republican, or rather
an advocate for that religious and moral aristocracy
which, in his day, was called republicanism, and
which, even more than royalism itself, is the direct
antipode of modern jacobinism. Taylor, as more and
more sceptical concerning the fitness of men in general
for power, became more and more attached to the
prerogatives of monarchy. From Calvinism, with a
still decreasing respect for Fathers, Councils, and for
Church- Antiquity in general, Milton seems to have
ended in an indifference, if not a dislike, to all forms
of ecclesiastic government, and to have retreated
wholly into the inward and spiritual church-commu-
nion of his own spirit with the Light, that lighteth
every man that cometh into the world. Taylor, with
a growing reverence for authority, an increasing
sense of the insufficiency of the Scriptures without
the aids of tradition and the consent of authorized
interpreters, advanced as far in his approaches (not
indeed to Popery, but) to Catholicism, as a conscien-
tious minister of the English Church could well ven-
ture. Milton would be, and would utter the same,
to all, on all occasions: he would tell the truth, the
whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Taylor
would become all things to all men, if by any
means he might benefit any; hence he availed him-
self, in his popular writings, of opinions and repre-
sentations which stand often in striking contrast with
the doubts and convictions expressed in his more
philosophical works. He appears, indeed, not too
severely to have blamed that management of truth
(isiam falsitatem dispensativam) authorized and ex-
emplified by almost all the fathers : Integrum omnino
Docioribus et ccelus Chrisliani antistibas esse, ut dolos
vei sent, falsa veris inlermisceant et imprimis religionis
hastes fallant, dummodo veritalis commodis el utililati
inserviant.

The same antithesis might be carried on with the
elements of their several intellectual powers. Mil
ton, austere, condensed, imaginative, supporting hit
truth by direct enunciations of lofty moral senti
ment and by distinct visual representations, and ir
the same spirit overwhelming what he deemed false
hood by moral denunciation and a succession of pic
tures appalling or repulsive. In his prose, so many
metaphors, so many allegorical miniatures. Taylor,
eminently discursive, accumulative, and (to use one
of his own words) agglomerafive ; still more rich in
images than Milton himself, but images of Fanny
and presented to the common and passive eye, rather
than to the eye of the imagination. Whether sup
porting or assailing, he makes his way either by ar-

even by the Schoolmen in subtlety, agility and logic
wit, and unrivalled by the most rhetorical of the
fathers in the copiousness and vividness of his ex-
pressions and illustrations. Here words that con-
vey feelings, and words that flash images, and words
of abstract notion, flow together, and at once whirl
and rush onward like a stream, at once rapid and
full of eddies ; and yet still interfused here and there
we see a tongue or isle of smooth water, with some
picture in it of earth or sky, landscape or living
group of quiet beauty.

Differing, then, so widely, and almost contrariant-
ly, wherein did these great men agree? wherein
did they resemble each other? In Genius, in
Learning, in unfeigned Piety, in blameless Purity
of Life, and in benevolent aspirations and purposes
for the moral and temporal improvement of their fel-
low-creatures! Both of them wrote a Latin Acci-
dence, to render education more easy and less pain-
ful to children; both of them composed hymns and
psalms proportioned to the capacity of common con-
gregations; both, nearly at the same time, set the
glorious example of publicly recommending and sup-
porting general Toleration, and the Liberty both of
the Pulpit and the Press ! In the writings of neither
shall we find a single sentence, like those meek
deliverances to God's mercy, with which Laud ac-
companied his votes for the mutilations and lothe-
some dungeoning of Leighton and others ! — nowhere
such a pious prayer as we find in Bishop Hall's
memoranda of his own Life, concerning the subtle
and witty Atheist that so grievously perplexed and
gravelled him at Sir Robert Drury's, till he prayed to
the Lord to remove him, and behold ! his prayers
were heard; for shortly afterward this Philistine
combatant went to London, and there perished of
the plague in great misery ! In short, nowhere shall
we find the least approach, in the lives and writings
of John Milton or Jeremy Taylor, to that guarded
gentleness, to that sighing reluctance, with which
the holy Brethren of the Inquisition deliver over a
condemned heretic to the civil magistrate, recom-
mending him to mercy, and hoping that the magis-
trate will treat the erring brother with all possible
mildness ! — the magistrate, who too well knows what
would be his own fate, if he dared offend them by
acting on their recommendation.

The opportunity of diverting the reader from my-
self to characters more worthy of his attention, has
led me far beyond my first intention ; but it is not
unimportant to expose the false zeal which has occa-
sioned these attacks on our elder patriots. It has
been too much the fashion, first to personify the
Church of England, and then to speak of different
individuals, who in different ages have been rulers
in that church, as if in some strange way they con-
stituted its personal identity. Why should a clergy-
man of the present day feel interested in the defence
of Laud or Sheldon ? Surely it is sufficient for the
warmest partisan of our establishment, that he can
assert with truth, — when our Church persecuted, it
was on mistaken principles held in common by all
Christendom ; and, at all events, far less culpable
was this intolerance in the Bishops, who were main-
taining the existing laws, than the persecuting spirit
afterwards shown by their successful opponents, who
had no such excuse, and who should have been
taught mercy by their own sufferings, and wisdom by
the utter failure of the experiment in their own case.

pument or by appeal to the affections, unsurpassed J We can say, that our Church, apostolical in its faith

10 m

60

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

primitive in its ceremonies, unequalled in its liturgical
forms; that our Church, which has kindled and dis-
played more bright and burning lights of Genius and
Learning, than all other Protestant churches since
the Reformation, was (with the single exception of
the 'times of Laud and Sheldon) least intolerant,
when all Christians unhappily deemed a species of
intolerance their religious duty; that Bishops of our
church were among the first that contended against
this error; and finally, that since the Reformation,
when tolerance became a fashion, the Church of

England, in a tolerating age, has shown herself cm.
nently tolerant, and far more so, both in Spirit and in
fact, that many of her most bitter opponents, who
profess to deem toleration itself an insult on the
rights of mankind ! As to myself, who not only know
the Church-Establishment to be tolerant, but who
see in it the greatest, if not the sole safe bulwark of
Toleration, I feel no necessity of defending or pal-
liating oppressions under the two Charleses, in order
to exclaim with a full and fervent heart, esto pfi

PTTTTTA '

Kin Minn of tfte &utiiui

IN SEVEN PARTS.

aruier*

Facile credo, plures esse Naturas invisibiles quaro visibiles in rerum universitate. Sed horum omnium
familiam quis nobis enarrabit? et gradus et cognationes et discrimina et singulorum munera? Quid
agunt? quae loca habitant ? Harum rerum notitiam semper ambivit ingenium humanum, nunquam
atticit. Juvat, interea, non diffiteor, quandoque in animo, tanquam in tabula, majoris etmelioris mundi
imaginem contemplari: ne mens assuefacta hodierna? vitce minutiis se contrahat nimis, et totasubsidat
iu pusillas cogitationes. Sed veritati interea invigilandum est, modusque servandus, ut certa ab
incertis, diem anocte, distinguamus.— T. Bdrnet: Jlrchaol. Phil. p. 68.

PART I.

An ancient Man- It is an ancient Mariner,

ner mecteth three And he stoppeth one of three :

gallants bidden to , fi {} j beard and mter_

a wedding- feast, " J . J ° a J D

and detaineth mS eYe>

one Now wherefore stopp'st thou me ?

" The Bridegroom's doors are open'd

wide,
And I am next of kin ;
The guests are met, the feast is set :
Mayst hear the merry din."

*"" He holds him with his skinny hand :
" There was a ship," quoth he.
" Hold off! unhand me, gray-beard

loon ! "
Efisoons his hand dropt he.

The wedding- He holds him with his glittering eye —
guest is spell- The Wedding-Guest stood still,

of "he rid leaf/r- And listens like a three-years' child ;
The Mariner hath his will.

ingman.and con
strained to hear
his tale.

The Wedding-Guest, sat on a stone,
He cannot choose but hear ;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed mariner.

The ship was cheer'd, the harbor

clear'd,
Merrily did we drop
Below the kirk, below the hill,
Below the light-house top.

The Manner tells The Sun caijae up upon the left,

how the ship sail- Out of the sea came he !

cd southward And he ghone bright and on the rigllt
with a good wind • . . °

and fair weather, Went down into tne sea.
till it reached the „. , , , , , ,

fine Higher and higher every day,

Till over the mast at noon ■

The Wedding-Guest here beat his

breast,
For he heard the loud bassoon.

The bride hath paced into the hall,
Red as a rose is she ;
Nodding their heads before her goes
The merry minstrelsy.

The Wedding-Guest he beat his

breast,
Yet he cannot choose but hear ;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner.

And now the storm-blast came, and

he
Was tyrannous and strong :
He struck with his o'ertaking wings,
And chased us south along.

With sloping masts and dripping prow,
As who pursued with yell and blow
Still treads the shadow of his foe,
And forward bends his head,
The ship drove fast, loud roaf'd the

blast,
And southward aye we fled.

And now there came both mist and

snow,
Aud it grew wondrous cold;
And ice, mast-high, came floating by,
As green as emerald.

And through the drifts the snowy clifts

Did send a dismal sheen:

Nor shapes of men nor beasts we

ken —
The ice was all between.

The ice was here, the ice was there,

The ice was all around :

It crack'd and growl'd, and roar'd anu

huwl'd,
Like noises in a swoxmd !

At length did cross an Albatross :
Thorough the fog it came ;
As if it had been a Christian soul,
We haifd it in God's name.

70

The wedding-
guest heareth the
bridal music; but
the Mariner con-
tinueth his tale.

The ship drawn
by a storm to wars
the south pole

The land of ice,
and of fearful
sounds, whers r.#
living thing was
to be seen.

Till a great sea
bird, called the
Albatross, came
through i lie snow
fog, and was re-
ceived with great
joy and haspitaJ
ity

THE ANCIENT MARINER.

61

Ami lo ! the Al-
batross proveth
a bird of good
omen, and follow-
eth the ship as it
returned north-
ward through fog
and floating ice.

The ancient Mari-
ner inhospitably
killeth the pious
bird of good
omen.

It ate the food it ne'er had eat,
And round and round it flew.
The ice did split with a thunder-fit ;
The helmsman steer'd us through !

And a good south-wind sprung up,

behind ;
The Albatross did follow,
And every day, for food or play,
Came to the mariner's hollo !

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,
It perch'd for vespers nine ;
Whiles all the night, through fog-
smoke white,
Glimmer'd the white moon-shine.

" God save thee, ancient Mariner !
From the fiends, that plague thee

thus!
Why look'st thou so ? " — With my

cross-bow
I shot the Albatross.

PART II.

The Sun now rose upon the right :
Out of the sea came he,
Still hid in mist, and on the left
Went down into the sea.

And the good south-wind still blew

behind,
But no sweet bird did follow,
Nor any day for food or play
Came to the mariner's hollo !

His shipmates cry And I had done an hellish thing,
out against the And it would work 'em woe :

For all averr'd, I had kill'd the bird

That made the breeze to blow.

Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to
slay,

That made the breeze to blow !

But when the fog Nor dim nor red, like God's own
cleared off, they head

iter s» •■«*-' *»7*'.,-, wa

themselves ac- I hen all averr d, I had killd the bird
complices in the That brought the fog and mist.
mme- 'T was right, said they, sucli birds to

slay
That bring the fog and mist.

ancient Mariner,
for killing the bird
»f good-luck.

And the Alba*'-
tross beginsvto be
avenged.

The fair breeze The fair breeze blew, the white foam

continues ; the flow

ship enters the *ieW'

Pacific Ocean and The furrow follow d free ;

sails northward, We were the first that ever burst

even till it reach- Inl0 lhat silent sea>

es the Line.

The ship hath Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt

been suddenly down,

beca med. >T was sad as sad cou]d be .

And we did speak only to break
The silence of the sea!

All in a hot and copper sky,
The bloody Sun, at noon,
Right up above the mast did stand,
No bigger than the Moon.
G2

Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion ;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.

Water, water, everywhere,
And all the boards did shrink :
Water, water, everywhere,
Nor any drop to drink.

The very deep did rot : O Christ !
That ever this should be !
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs
Upon the slimy sea.

About, about, in reel and rout
The death-fires danced at night ;
The water, like a witch's oils,
Burnt green, and blue and white.

. , . , , A spirit had fol

And some in dreams assured were lowed them •. one
Of the spirit that plagued us so ; of the invisible in-

Nine fathom deep he had follow'd us habitants of this
From the land of mist and snow. JJg^SS'

nor angels ; con-
cerning whom the learned Jew, Josephus, and the Platonic
Constantinopolitan, Michael Psellus, may be consulted. They
are very numerous, and there is no climate or element without
one or more.

And every tongue, through utter

drought,
Was wither'd at the root ;
We could not speak, no more than if
We had been choked with soot.

Ah ! well-a-day ! what evil looks
Had I from old and young !
Instead of the cross, the Albatross
About my neck was hung.

The shipmates, in
their sore distress
would Tain throw
the whole guilt on
the ancient Mai-
iner :■ — in sign
whereof they
hang the dead
sea-bird round
his neck.

The anciem Ma-
riner beholdcth a
sign in the ele-
ment alar off

PART III

There pass'd a weary time. Each

throat
Was parch'd, and glazed each eye.
A weary time ! a weary time !
How glazed each weary eye,
When looking westward, I beheld
A something in the sky.

At first it seem'd a little speck,
And then it seem'd a mist ;
It moved and moved, and took at last
A certain shape, I wist.

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!
And still it near'd and near'd :
As if it dodged a water-sprite,
It plunged and tack'd ancLveer'd.

With throats unslaked, with black At its nearer ap-

lips baked, p™rh' ll 3f ,n

i i ii -i eth him to be

We could nor laugh nor wail ; ghip . and at

Through utter drought all dumb we dear' ransom he

stood ; freeth Iii.s speech

I bit my arm, I suck'd Hie blood,

And cried, A sail ! a sail !

thirst.

71

62

COLERTDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

A flash of joy.

And horror fol-
lows: for can it.be
a ship, that comes
onward without
wind or tide 1

It seemeth him
but the skeleton
of a ship.

And its ribs are
seen as bars on
the face of the
setting Sun.

The spectre-
woman and her
death-mate, and
no other on board
the skeleton-ship
Like vessel, like
crew !

With throats unslaked, with black

lips baked,
Agape they heard me call ;
Gramercy ! they for joy did grin,
And all at once their breath drew in,
As they were drinking all.

See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more!
Hither to work us weal ;
Without a breeze, without a tide,
She steadies with upright keel !

The western wave was all a flame,
The day was well-nigh done,
Almost upon the western wave
Rested the broad bright Sun ;
When that strange shape drove sud-
denly
Betwixt us and the Sun.

And straight the Sun was fleck'd

with bars,
(Heaven's Mother send us grace !)
As if through a dungeon-grate he

peer'd
With broad and burning face.

Alas ! (thought I, and my heart beat

loud)
How fast she nears and nears !
Are those her sails that glance in the

Sun,
Like restless gossameres ?

Are those her ribs through which the

Sun
Did peer, as through a grate ;
And is that woman all her crew ?
Is that a Death, and are tit ere two ?
Is Death that woman's mate ?

Her lips were red, her looks were
free,

-Her locks were yellow as gold :
Her skin was as white as leprosy,
The Night-Mare Life-in-Death was

she,
Who thicks man's blood with cold.-

Death, and IJ fe-
w-Death have
diced for the
ship's crew, and
she (the latter")
winneth the an-
cient Mariner.

No twilight
within the courts
of the sun.

At the rising of
he moon,

The naked hulk alongside came,
And the twain were casting dice ;
" The game is done ! I 've won, I 've^

won ! "
Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

The Sun's rim dips ; the stars rush

out:
At one stride comes the Dark ;
With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea
Off shot the spectre-bark.

We listen'd and look'd sideways up !
Fear at my heart, as at a cup,
'My life-blood seem'd to sip!
The stars ^fcr.e dim, and thick the

night,
The steersman's face by his lamp

gleam'd white ;
From the sails the dew did drip —
Till clomb above the eastern bar
The horned Moon, with one bright

star
Within the nether tip.

One after one, by the star-dogged One after ati
Moon, other,

Too quick for groan or sigh,

Each tum'd his face with a ghastly
pang,

And cursed me with his eye.

Four times fifty living men
(And I heard nor sigh nor groan),
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,
They dropp'd down one by one.

The souls did from their bodies fly, — gut jjfe.jn-
They fled to bliss or woe .'
And every soul, it pass'd me by
Like the whizz of my cross-bow !

PART IV.

" I fear thee, ancient Mariner !

I fear thy skinny hand !

And thou art long, and lank, and

brown,
As is the ribb'd sea-sand.*

" I fear thee and thy glittering eye,
And thy skinny hand so brown." —
Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-
Guest !
This body dropt not down.

Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on a wide wide sea !
And never a saint took pity on
My soul in agony.

The many men, so beautiful !

And they all dead did lie :

And a thousand thousand slimy

things
Lived on ; and so did I.

I look'd upon the rotting sea,
And drew my eyes away ;
I look'd upon the rotting deck,
And there the dead men lay.'

I look'd to Heaven, and tried to pray ;
But or ever a prayer had gush'd,
A wicked whisper came, and made
My heart as dry as dust.

I closed my lids, and kept them close,

And the balls like pulses beat ;

For the sky and the sea, and the sea

and the sky,
Lay like a load on my weary eye
And the dead were at my feet.

His shipmates
drop down dead

Death begins hei
work on the an-
cient Mariner.

The wedding-
guest fearetb that
a spirit is talking
to him ;

But the ancient
Mariner assureth
him of his bodily
life, and proceed-
ed to relate his
horrible penance.

He despise th the
creatures of the
calm.

And envieth that
they should live,
and so many lie .
dead.

The cold sweat melted from

limbs,
Nor rot nor reek did they ; [me

The look with which they look'd on
Had^never pass'd away.

their But the curse liv
eth for him in the
eye of the dead
men.

An orphan's curse would drag to Hell
A spirit from on high ;

* For the two last lines of this stanza, I am indebted to Mr.
Wordsworth. It was on a delightful walk from Nether Stowey
to Dulverton, with him and his sister, in the Autumn of 1797
that this Poem was planned, and in part composed.

72

THE ANCIENT MARINER.

63-

But oh ! more horrible than that
Is a curse in a dead man's eye !
Seven days, seven nights, I saw that

curse,
And yet I could not die.

ji his loneliness The moving Moon went up the sky,
and fixedness heAJ , j-J i_-j

yearneth towards And nowhere did abide .
the journeying Softly she was going up,
Moon, and the And a star or two beside—
stars that still so-
journ, yet still move onward ; and everywhere the blue sky
belongs to them, and is their appointed rest, and their native
country and their own natural homes, which they enter unan-
nounced, as lords that are certainly expected, and yet there is
a silent joy at their arrival.

Her beams bemock'd the sultry main,

Like April hoar-frost spread ;

But where the ship's huge shadow

lay,
The charmed water burnt alway
A still and awful red.

By the light of
the Moon he be-
holdeth God's
creatures of the
great calm.

to break.

Beyond the shadow of the ship

I watch'd the water-snakes :

They moved in tracks of shining

white,

And when they rear'd, the elfish light
Fell off in hoary flakes.

Within the shadow of the ship
I watch'd their rich attire :
Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,
They coil'd and swam ; and every

track
Was a flash of golden fire.

Their oeauty and O happy living things ! no tongue
their happiness, Their beauty might declare .

A spring of love gush'd from my
heart,
He blesseth them And I bless'd them unaware :
in his heart. g^re my kind saint took pity on me,

And I bless'd them unaware. '
The spell begins The self-same moment I could pray :

tn hr»nlr . r J 1

And from my neck so free
The Albatross fell off, and sank
Like lead into the sea.

PART V.

Oh Sleep ! it is a gentle thing,
Beloved from pole to pole !
To Mary Queen the praise be given!
She sent the gentle sleep from

Heaven,
That slid into my soul.

The silly buckets on the deck,
That had so long remain'd, [dew ;
I dreamt that they were fill'd with
And when I awoke, it rain'd.

My lips were wet, my throat was cold,
My garments all were dank ;
Sure I had drunken in my dreams,
And still my body drank.

I moved, and could not feel my

limbs :
T was so light — almost
I thought that T had died in sleep,
And was a blessed ghost.

By grace of the
holy Mother, the
ancient Mariner
is refreshed with
rain.

He heareth
sounds and seeth
strange sights
and commotions
in the sky and
the element.

And soon I heard a roaring wind
It did not come anear;
But with its sound it shook the sails,
That were so thin and sere.

The upper air burst into life !
And a hundred fire-flags sheen,
To and fro they were hurried about!
And to and fro, and in and out,
The wan stars danced between.

And the coming wind did roar more

loud,
And the sails did sigh like sedge ;
And the rain pour'd down from one

black cloud ;
The Moon was at its edge.

The thick black cloud was cleft, and

still
The Moon was at its side :
Like waters shot from some high crag,
The lightning fell with never a jag,
A river steep and wide.

The loud wind never reach'd the The bodies of the
ship, ship's crew are

Yet now the ship moved on ! l"sfed' and ths

_, ., ,.,. .. _« snip moves on-

Beneath the lightning and the Moon

The dead men gave a groan.

They groan'd, they stirr'd, they all

uprose,
Nor spake, nor moved their eyes ;
It had been strange, even in a dream,
To have seen those dead men rise.

The helmsman steer'd, the ship

moved on ,
Yet never a breeze up blew ,•
The mariners all 'gan work the ropes,
Where they were wont to do ;
They raised their limbs like lifeless

tools
— We were a ghastly crew.

The body of my brother's son
Stood by me, knee to knee :
The body and I pull'd at one rope,
But he said nought to me.

" I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! "

Be calm, thou Wedding-guest !

T was not those souls that fled in

pain,
Which to their corses came again
But a troop of spirits blest:

For when it dawn'd — they dropp'd

their arms,
And cluster'd round the mast ;
Sweet sounds rose slowly through

their mouths,
And from their bodies pass'd.

Around, around, flew each sweet

sound,
Then darted to the Sun ,■
Slowly the sounds came back again,
Now mix'd, now one by one.

But not by the
souls of the men,
nor by daemons o»
earth or middle
air, but, by a
blessed troop of
angelic spinta;
sent down by tho
invocation of the
guardian saint.

64

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

Sometimes, a-drooping from the sky,
I heard the sky-lark sing ;
Sometimes all little birds that are,
How they seem'd to fill the sea and

air,
With their sweet jargoning !

And now 't was like all instruments,
Now like a lonely flute ;
And now it is an angel's song,
That makes the Heavens be mute.

It ceased ; yet still the sails made on

A pleasant noise till noon,

A noise like of a hidden brook

In the leafy month of June,

That to the sleeping woods all night

Singeth a quiet tune.

Till noon we quietly sailed on,
Yet never a breeze did breathe :
Slowly and smoothly went the ship,
Moved onward from beneath.

The lonesome Under the keel nine fathom deep,

spirit from the From the land of mist and 'snow,

south-pole carries The irit glid . &nd k wag he

on the ship as tar ml „. r , n , .

as the line, in rhat made the ship to go.

obedience to the The sails at noon left off their tune,

angelic troop, but And the ship stood still also.

still requireth

The Sun, right up above the mast,
Had fix'd her to the ocean :
But in a minute she 'gan stir,
With a short uneasy motion —
Backwards and forwards half her

length
With a short uneasy motion.

Then like a pawing horse let go,
She made a sudden bound :
It flung the blood into my head,
And I fell down in a swound.

How long in that same fit I lay,
I have not to declare ;
But ere my living life return'd,
I heard and in my soul discern'd
Two voices in the air.

" Is it he ? " quoth one, " Is this the

man?
By him who died on cross,
With his cruel bow he laid full low
The harmless Albatross.

" The spirit who bideth by himself

In the land of mist and snow,

He loved the bird that loved the

man
Who shot him with his bow."

The other was a softer voice,

A.s soft as honey-dew :

Quoth he, " The man hath penance

done,
And penance more will do."

ThePolarSpirit's
fellow daemons,
the invisible in-
habitants of the
element, take part
in his wrong;
and two of them
relate, one to the
other, that pen-
ance long and
heavy for the an-
cient Mariner
hath been accord-
ed to the Polar
Spirit, who re-
turneth south-
ward.

PART VI.

FIRST VOICE.

But tell me, tell me

Thy soft response renewing —

What makes that ship drive on so

fast?
What is the ocean doing ?

SECOND VOICE.

Still as a slave before his lord,
The ocean hath no blast ;
His great bright eye most silently
Up to the Moon is cast —

If he may know which way to go ;
For she guides him smooth or grim.
See, brother, see ! how graciously
She looketh down on him.

first voice.
But why drives on that ship so fast,
Without or wave or wind ?

SECOND VOICE.

The air is cut away before,
And closes from behind.

Fly, brother, fly! more high, more

high!
Or we shall be belated :
For slow and slow that ship will go,
When the Mariner's trance is abated.

I woke, and we were sailing on

As in a gentle weather :

'T was night, calm night, the Moon

was high ,•
The dead men stood together.

All stood together on the deck, .
For a charnel-dungeon fitter : ■
All fix'd on me their stony eyes,
That in the Moon did glitter.

The pang, the curse, with which thev

died,
Had never pass'd away :
I could not draw my eyes from theirs,
Nor turn them up to pray.

And now this spell was snapt : once The curse is fi
more nally expiated.

I view'd the ocean green,

And look'd far forth, yet little saw

Of what had else been seen —

Like one, that on a lonesome road

Doth walk in fear and dread,

And having once turn'd round walks

on,
And turns no more his head ;
Because he knows, a frightful fient*.
Doth close behind him tread.

But soon there breathed a wind on me,
Nor sound nor motion made :
Its path was not upon the sea,
In ripple or in shade.

74

The Mariner hath
been cast into a
trance ; for the
angelic power
causeth the ves-
sel to drive north
ward faster than
human life coula
endure

The supernatura
motion is retard
ed ; the Mariner
awakes, and his
penance begins
anew.

s

THE ANCIENT MARINER.

65

— *

It raised my hair, it fann'd my cheek
Like a meadow-gale of spring —
It mingled strangely with my fears,
Yet it felt like a welcoming.

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,
Yet she sail'd softly too :
Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze —
On me alone it blew.

Ana the ancient Oh ! dream of joy ! is this indeed

Mariner behold
eth his native
country.

The angelic spir
ts leave the
iead bodies,

And appear in
their own forms
of light.

The light-house top I see '

Is this the hill ? is this the kirk ?

Is this mine own countree ?

We drifted o'er the harbor bar,
And I with sobs did pray —

0 let me be awake, my God !
Or let me sleep alway.

The harbor-bay was clear as glass,
So smoothly it was strewn !
And on the bay the moonlight lay,
And the shadow of the moon.

The rock shone bright, the kirk no

less
That stands above the rock :
The moonlight steep'd in silentness
The steady weathercock.

And the bay was white with silent

light,
Till, rising from the same,
Full many shapes that shadows were,
In crimson colors came.

A little distance from the prow
Those crimson shadows were :

1 turn'd my eyes upon the deck —
Oh, Christ ' what saw I there !

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat ;
And, by the holy rood !
A man all light, a seraph-man,
On every corse there stood.

This seraph band, each waved his

hand :
It was a heavenly sight !
They stood as signals to the land
Each one a lovely light ;

This seraph band, each waved his

hand,
No voice did they impart —
No voice ; but oh ! the silence sank
Like music on my heart.

But soon I heard the dash of oars,
I heard the Pilot's cheer ;
My head was turn'd perforce away,
And I saw a boat appear.

The Pilot and the Pilot's boy,
I heard them coming fast :
Dear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy
The dead men could not blast.

I saw a third — I heard his voice •
It is the Hermit good !

He singeth loud his godly hymns

That he makes in the wood.

He'll shrive my soul, he'll wash

away
The Albatross's blood.

PART VII.

This Hermit good lives in that wood The He*Mi> $f
Which slopes down to the sea tnft Wood,

How loudly his sweet voice he rears!
He loves to talk with marineres
That come from a far countree.

He kneels at morn, and noon, and

eve —
He hath a cushion plump :
It is the moss that wholly hides
The rotted old oak-stump.

The skiffboat near'd : I heard them

talk,
" Why this is strange, I trow !
Where are those lights so many and

fair,
That signal made but now ?"

" Strange, by my faith !" the Hermit Apprcachetn tne
said— smP with wonder

" And they answer not our cheer !

The planks look warp'd! and see
those sails,

How thin they are and sere !

I never saw aught like to them,

Unless perchance it were

" Brown skeletons of leaves that lag
My forest-brook along ;
When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow,
And the owlet whoops to the wolf

below,
That eats the she-wolf's young."

" Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look —
(The Pilot made reply)
I am a-fear'd " — " Push on, push on ! "
Said the Hermit cheerily.

The boat came closer to the ship,
But I nor spake nor stirr'd ;
The boat came close beneath the ship,
And straight a sound was heard.

The ship suddenly
sinketh

Under the water it rumbled on,
Still louder and more dread:
It reach'd the ship, it split the bay ;
The ship went down like lead.

Stunn'd by that loud and dreadful The ancient Ma

sound, r,inerJ? sf?d in

,IT1 . , , , . the Pilot s boat

Winch sky and ocean smote,

Like one that hath been seven days

drown'd

My body lay afloat ;

But swift, as dreams, myself I found

Within the Pilot's boat

Upon the whirl, where sank the ship,
The boat spun round and round ;
And all was still, save that the hill
Was telling of the sound.

7 •

66

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

The ancient Ma-
sner earnestly en-
createth the Her-
mit to shrive him :
and the penance
of life falls on
him.

And ever and
anon throughout
his future life an
agony constrain-
eth him to travel
from iand to land,

I moved my lips — the Pilot shriek'd,
And fell down in a fit ;
The holy Hermit raised his eyes,
And pray'd where he did sit.

I took the oars : the Pilot's boy,

Who now doth crazy go,

Laugh'd loud and long, and all the

while
His eyes went to and fro.
" Ha ! ha ! " quoth he, " full plain T see,
The Devil knows how to row."

And now, all in my own countree,

I stood on the firm land !

The Hermit stepp'd forth from the

boat,
And scarcely he could stand.

" 0 shrive me, shrive me, holy man ! "

The Hermit cross'd his brow.

" Say quick," quoth he, " I bid thee

say
— What manner of man art thou ? "

Forthwith this frame of mine was

wrench'd
With a woful agony,
Which forced me to begin my tale ;
And then it left me free.

Since then, at an uncertain hour,
That agony returns :
And till my ghastly tale is told,
This heart within me burns.

I pass, like night, from land to land ;
I have strange power of speech ;
That moment that his face I see,
I know the man that must hear me :
To him my tale I teach.

What loud uproar bursts from that

door!
The wedding-guests are there :

But in ihe garden-bower the bride
And bride-maids singing are :
And hark ! the little vesper-bell,
Which biddeth me to prayer.

O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been
Alone on a wide wide sea:
So lonely 'twas, that God himself
Scarce seemed there to be.

O sweeter than the marriage-feast,
'Tis sweeter far to me,
To walk together to the kirk,
With a goodly company ! —

To walk together to the kirk,
And all together pray,
Wliile each to his great Father bends.
Old men, and babes, and loving

friends,
And youths and maidens gay !

Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell
To thee, thou Wedding-Guest !
He prayeth well, who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast.

He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small ;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.

The Mariner, whose eye is bright,
Whose beard with age is hoar,
Is gone : and now the Wedding-Guest
Turn'd from the bridegroom's door.

He wrent like one that hath been

stunn'd,
And is of sense forlorn,
A sadder and a wiser man
He rose the morrow morn.

And to teach, by
his own example,
love and rever-
ence to all things
that God made
and loveth.

<£fttrf$taffitl»

PREFACE*

The first part of the following poem was written in
the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety-
seven, at Sto',vey in the county of Somerset. The
econd part, after my return from Germany, in the
/ear one thousand eight hundred, at Keswick, Cum-
berland. Since the latter date, my poetic powers
have been, till very lately, in a state of suspended
animation. But as, in my very first conception of the
tale, 1 had the whole present to my mind, with the
wholeness, no less than with the loveliness of a
vision, I trust that I shall yet be able to embody in
v-erse the three parts yet to come.

It is probable, that if the poem had been finished

* Tc- the edition of 1816

at either of the former periods, or if even the first
and second part had been published in the year 1800
the impression of its originality would have been
much greater than I dare at present expect. But
for this, I have only my own indolence to blame.
The dates are mentioned for the exclusive purpose
of prechvding charges of plagiarism or servile imi-
tation frcxi myself. For there is amongst us a set of
critics, who seem to hold, that every possible thought
and image is traditional ; who have no notion that there
are such things as fountains in the world, small as
well as great; and who would therefore charitably
derive every rill they behold flowing, from a perfora
tion made in some other man's tank. 1 am confident,
however, that as far as the present poem is concerned,
the celebrated poets whose writings I might be sus-
pected of having imitated, either in particular m
sages, or in the tone and the spirit of the wholV
would be among the first to vindicate rap from in
76

CHRISTABEL.

67

charge, and who, on any striking coincidence, would
permit me to address them in this doggrel version of
two monkish Latin hexameters.

'Tis mine and it is likewise yours;
But an' if this will not do.
Let it be mine, good friend ! for I
Am the poorer of the two.

I have only to add that the metre of the Christa-
bel is not, properly speaking, irregular, though it
may seem so from its being founded on a new prin-
ciple : namely, that of counting in each line the ac-
cents, not the syllables. Though the latter may vary
from s,even to twelve, yet in each line the accents
will be found to be only four. Nevertheless this oc-
casional variation in number of syllables is not in-
troduced wantonly, or for the mere ends of conveni-
ence, but in correspondence with some transition, in
the nature of the imagery or passion.

CHMSTABEL.

PART I.

'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,
And the owls have awaken'd the crowing cock

Tu-whit ! Tu-whoo !

And hark, again! the crowing cock,
How drowsily it crew.

Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,

Hath a toothless mastiff, which

From her kennel beneath the rock

Maketh answer to the clock,

Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour;

Ever and aye, by shine and shower,

Sixteen short howls, not over-loud ;

Some say, she sees my lady's shroud.

Is the night chilly and dark ?
The night is chilly, but not dark.
The thin gray cloud is spread on high,
It covers but not hides the sky.
The moon is behind, and at the full ;
And yet she looks both small and dull.
The night is chill, the cloud is gray :
'Tis a month before the month of May,
And the Spring comes slowly up this way.

The lovely lady, Christabel,

Whom her father loves so well,

What makes her in the wood so late,

A furlong from the castle gate ?

She had dreams all yesternight

Of her own betrothed knight ;

And she in the midnight wood will pray

For the weal of her lover that 's far away

She stole along, she nothing spoke,
The sighs she heaved were soft and low,
And naught was green upon the oak,
But moss and rarest misletoe :
She kneels beneath the huge oak-tree,
And in silence prayeth she.

The lady sprang up suddenly,

The lovely lady, Christabel '

It moan'd as near, as near can be,

But what it is, she cannot tell. —

On the other side it seems to be,

Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak-tree.

The night is chill ; the forest bare ;

Is it the wind that moaneth bleak ?

There is not wind enough in the air

To move away the ringlet curl

From the lovely lady's cheek —

There is not wind enough to twirl

The one red leaf, the last of its clan

That dances as often as dance it can,

Hanging so light, and hanging so high,

On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky

Hush, beating heart of Christabel !
Jesu, Maria, shield her well !
She folded her arms beneath her cloak,
And stole to the other side of the oak.
What sees she there ?

There she sees a damsel bright,

Drest in a silken robe of white,

That shadowy in the moonlight shone :

The neck that made that white robe wan,

Her stately neck, and arms, were bare ;

Her blue-vein'd feet unsandall'd were,

And wildly glitter'd here and there

The gems entangled in her hair.

I guess, 'twas frightful there to see

A lady so richly clad as she —

Beautiful exceedingly !

Mary mother, save me now !

(Said Christabel), And who art thou ?

The lady strange made answer meet,

And her voice was faint and sweet : —

Have pity oh my sore distress,

I scarce can speak for weariness :

Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear !

Said Christabel, How earnest thou here ?

And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet,

Did thus pursue her answer meet : —

My sire is of a noble line,
And my name is Geraldine :
Five warriors seized me yestermorn,
Me, even me, a maid forlorn :
They choked my cries with force and fright,
And tied me on a palfrey white.
The palfrey was as fleet as wind,
And they rode furiously behind.
They spurr'd amain, their steeds were white;
And once we cross'd the shade of night
As sure as Heaven shall rescue me,
I have no thought what men they be ;
Nor do I know how long it is
(For I have lain entranced I wis)
Since one, the tallest of the five,
Took me from the palfrey's back,
A weary woman, scarce alive.
Some mutter'd words his comrades spoke
He placed me underneath this oak
11 77

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COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

He swore they would return with haste :
Whither they went I cannot tell —
I thought I heard, some minutes past,
Sounds as of a castle-bell.
Stretch forth thy hand (thus ended she),
And help a wretched maid to flee.

llhen Christabel stretch'd forth her hand.

And comforted fair Geraldine :

O well, bright dame ! may you command

The service of Sir Leoline ;

And gladly our stout chivalry

Will he send forth and friends withal,

To guide and guard you safe and free

Home to your noble father's hall.

She rose ; and forth with steps they pass'd

That strove to be, and were not, fast.

Her gracious stars the lady blest,

And thus spake on sweet Christabel :

All our household are at rest,

The hall as silent as the cell ;

Sir Leoline is weak in health,

And may not well awaken'd be,

But we will move as if in stealth ;

And I beseech your courtesy,

This night, to share your couch with me.

They cross'd the moat, and Christabel

Took the key that fitted well ;

A little door she open'd straight,

All in the middle of the gate ;

The gate that was iron'd within and without,

Where an army in battle array had march'd oui

The lady sank, belike through pain,

And Christabel with might and main

Lifted her up, a weary weight,

Over the threshold of the gate :

Then the lady rose again,

And moved, as she were not in pain.

So free from danger, free from fear,

They cross'd the court : right glad they v* <-e.

And Christabel devoutly cried

To the lady by her side,

Praise we the Virgin all divine

Who hath rescued thee from thy distress !

Alas, alas ! said Geraldine,

I cannot speak for Weariness.

So free from danger, free from fear,

They cross'd the court : right glad they *ere.

Outside her kennel, the mastiff old
Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold.
The mastiff old did not awake,
Yet she an angry moan did make !
And what can ail the mastiff bitch ?
Never till now she utter'd yell
Beneath the eye of Christabel.
Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch:
For what can ail the mastiff bitch ?

They pass'd the hall, that echoes still,
Pass as lightly as you will !
The brands were flat, the brands were dying,
Amid their own white ashes lying :

But when the' lady pass'd, there came

A tongue of light, a fit of flame ;

And Christabel saw the lady's eye,

And nothing else saw she thereby,

Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall

Which hung in a murky old niche in the >mil

O softly tread ! said Christabel,

My father seldom sleepeth well.

Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare ,
And, jealous of the listening air,
They steal their way from stair to stair :
Now in glimmer, and now in gloom —
And now they pass the Baron's room,
As still as death with stifled breath!
And now have reach'd her chamber-door ;
And now doth Geraldine press down
The rushes of the chamber floor.

The moon shines dim in the open air,
And not a moonbeam enters here.
But ihey without its light can see
The chamber carved so curiously,
Curved with figures strange and sweet,
All made out of the carver's brain,
For a lady's chamber meet :
The lamp with twofold silver chain
Is fasten'd to an angel's feej.

The silver lamp burns dead and dim ;

But Christabel the lamp will trim.

She trimm'd the lamp, and made it bright,

And left it- swinging to and fro,

While Geraldine, in wretched plight

Sank down upon the floor below.

0 weary lady, Geraldine,

1 pray you, drink this cordial wine '
It is a wine of virtuous powers ;
My mother made it of wild flowers*

And will your mother pity me,
Who am a maiden most forlorn ?
Christabel answer' d — Woe is me !
She died the hour that I was born.
I have heard the gray-hair'd friar tell,
How on her death-bed she did say,
That she should hear the castle-bell
Strike twelve upon my wedding-day.

0 mother dear ! that thou wert here !

1 would, said Geraldine, she were !

But soon, with alter'd voice, said she —
" Off, wandering mother ! Peak and pine
I have power to bid thee flee."
Alas ! what ails poor Geraldine ?
Why stares she with unsettled eye ?
Can she the bodiless dead espy ?
And why with hollow voice cries she,
" Off woman, off! this hour is mine —
Though thou her guardian spirit be,
Off, woman, off! 'tis given to me."

Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side
And raised to heaven her eyes so blue —
Alas ! said she, this ghastly ride —
Dear lady ! it hath wilder'd you!

78

CHRISTABEL.

69

The lady wiped her moist cold brow,
And faintly said, " 'T is over now ! "

Again the wild-flower wine she drank :
Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright,
And from the floor whereon she sank,
The lofty lady stood upright ;
She was most beautiful to see,
Like a lady of a far countree.

And thus the lofty lady spake —
All they, who live in the upper sky,
Do love you, holy Christabel !
And you love them, and for their sake
And for the good which me befell,
Even I in my degree will try,
Fair maiden ! to requite you well.
But now unrobe yourself; for I
Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie.

Quoth Christabel, So let it be !
And as the lady bade, did she.
Her gentle limbs did she undress,
And lay down in her loveliness.

But through her brain of weal and woe
So many thoughts moved to and fro,
That vain it were her lids to close ;
St) half-way from the bed she rose,
And on her elbow did recline
To look at the Lady Geraldine.

Beneath the lamp the lady bow'd,
And slowly roll'd her eyes around ;
Then drawing in her breath aloud,
Like one that shudder 'd, she unbound
The cincture from beneath her breast :
Her silken robo, and inner vest,
Dropt to her feet, and full in view,
Behold ! her bosom and half her side
A sight to dream of, not to tell !
O shield her I shield sweet Christabel

Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs ;
Ah ! what a stricken look was hers !
Deep from within she seems half-way
To lift some weight with sick assay,
And eyes the maid and seeks delay ;
Then suddenly as one defied
Collects herself in scorn and pride,
And lay down by the Maiden's side ! —
And in her arms the maid she took,

Ah well-a-day !
And with low voice and doleful look
These words did say
hi the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell,
Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel !
Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow
This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow ;
But vainly thou warrest,

For this is alone in
Thy power to declare,

That in the dim forest
Thou heardest a low moaning,
A H

And foundest a bright lady, surpassingly fair :

And didst bring her home with thee in love and in

charity,
To shield her and shelter her from the damp an

THE CONCLUSION TO PART I.

It was a lovely sight to see
The lady Christabel, when she
Was praying at the old oak-tree.

Amid the jagged shadows

Of mossy leafless boughs,

Kneeling in the moonlight,

To make her gentle vows ;
Her slender palms together prest,
Heaving sometimes on her breast ;
Her face resign'd to bliss or bale —
Her face, O call it fair, not pale !
And boih blue eyes more bright than clear,
Each about to have a tear.

With open eyes (ah woe is me !)
Asleep, and dreaming fearfully,
Fearfully dreaming, yet I wis,
Dreaming that alone, which is —
O sorrow and shame ! Can this be she,
The lady, who knelt at the old oak-tree ?
And lo ! the worker of these harms,
That holds the maiden in her arms,
Seems to slumber still and mild,
As a mother with her child.

A star hath set, a star hath risen,
O Geraldine ! since arms of thine
Have been the lovely lady's prison.
O Geraldine ! one hour was thine —
Thou 'st had thy will ! By tairn and rill,
The night-birds all that hour were still.
But now they are jubilant anew,
From cliff and tower, tu-whoo ! tu-whoo !
Tu-whoo ! tu-whoo ! from wood and fell !

And see ! the lady Christabel
Gathers herself from out her trance ;
Her limbs relax, her countenance
Grows sad and soft ; the smooth thin lids
Close o'er her eyes ; and tears she sheds-
Large tears that leave the lashes bright !
And oft the while she seems to smile
As infants at a sudden light!

Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep,
Like a youthful hermitess,
Beauteous in a wilderness,
Who, praying always, prays in sleep,
And, if she move unquietly,
Perchance, 't is but the blood so free,
Comes back and tingles in her feet.
No doubt, she hath a vision sweet •
What if her guardian spirit 't were,
What if she knew her mother near ?
But this she knows, in joys and woes,
That saints will aid if men will call
For the blue sky bends over all !
79

70

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

PART n.

Each matin-bell, the Baron saith,
Knells us back to a world of death.
These words Sir Leoline first said,
When he rose and found his lady dead :
These words Sir Leoline will say,
Many a morn to his dying day !

Arid hence the custom and law began,
That still at dawn the sacristan,
Who duly pulls the heavy bell,
Five-and-forty beads must tell
Between each stroke — a warning knell,
Which not a soul can choose but hear
From Bratha Head to Wyndermere.

Saith Bracy the bard, So let it knell !
And let the drowsy sacristan
Still count as slowly as he can !
There is no lack of such, I ween,
As well fill up the space between.
In Langdale Pike and Witch's Lair
And Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent,
With ropes of rock and bells of air
Three sinful sextons' ghosts are pent,
Who all give back, one after t' other,
The death-note to their living brother ;
And oft too, by the knell offended,
Just as their one ! two ! three ! is ended,
The devil mocks the doleful tale
With a merry peal from Borrowdale.

The air is still ! through mist and cloud
That merry peal comes ringing loud ;
And Geraldine shakes off her dread,
And rises lightly from the bed ;
Puts on her silken vestments white.
And tricks her hair in lovely plight,
And, nothing doubting of her spell,
Awakens the lady Christabel.
" Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel ?
1 trust that you have rested well."

And Christabel awoke and spied

The same who lay down by her side—

O rather say, the same whom she

Raised up beneath the old oak-tree !

Psay, fairer yet ! and yet more fair !

For she belike hath drunken deep

Of all the blessedness of sleep !

And while she spake, her looks, her air

Such gentle thankfulness declare,

That (so it seem'd) her girded vests

Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts.

" Sure I have sinn'd," said Christabel,

" Now Heaven be praised if all be well

And in low faltering tones, yet sweet,

Did she the lofty lady greet

With such perplexity of mind

As dreams too lively leave behind.

So quickly she rose, and quickly array'd
Her maiden limbs, and having pray'd
That He, who on the cross dm groan,
Might wash away her sins unknown.

She forthwith led fair Geraldine
To meet her sire, Sir Leoline.

The lovely maid and the lady tall
Are pacing both into the hall,
And, pacing on through page and grocro
Enter the Baron's presence-room.

The Baron rose, and while he prest
His gentle daughter to his breast,
With cheerful wonder in his eyes
The lady Geraldine espies,
And gave such welcome to the same,
As might beseem so bright a dame !

But when he heard the lady's tale,
And when she told her father's name,
Why wax'd Sir Leoline so pale,
Murmuring o'er the name again,
Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine ?

Alas ! they had been friends in youth ;

But whispering tongues can poison truth ,

And constancy lives in realms above,

And life is thorny ; and youth is vain :

And to be wroth with one we love,

Doth work like madness in the brain.

And thus it chanced, as I divine,

With Roland and Sir Leoline.

Each spake words of high disdain

And insult to his heart's best brother •.

They partedr— ne'er to meet again !

But never either found another

To free the hollow heart from paining —

They stood aloof, the scars remaining,

Like cliffs which had been rent asunder ;

A dreary sea now flows between.

But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,

Shall wholly do away, I ween,

The marks of that which once hath been

Sir Leoline, a moment's space,

Stood gazing on the damsel's face s

And the youthful Lord of Tryermaine

Came back upon his heart again.

0 then the Baron forgot his age !

His noble heart swell'd high with rage ;

He swore by the wounds in Jesu's side,

He would proclaim it far and wide

With trump and solemn heraldry,

That they, who thus had wrong'd the dama

Were base as spotted infamy !

" And if they dare deny the same,

My herald shall appoint a week,

And let the recreant traitors seek

My tourney court — that there and then

1 may dislodge their reptile souls
From the bodies and forms of men ! "
He spake : his eye in lightning rolls !

For the lady was ruthlessly seized ; and he ktf.m d
In the beautiful lady the child of his friend !

And now the tears were on his face,
And fondly in his arms he took
Fair Geraldine, who met the embrace,
Prolonging it with joyous look.

80

CHRISTABEL.

71

Which when she view'd, a vision fell

Upon the soul of Christabel,

The vision of fear, the touch and pain !

She shrunk and shudder'd, and saw again —

'Ah, woe is me ! Was it for thee,

Thou gentle maid ! such sights to see ?)

Again she saw that bosom old,

Again she felt that bosom cold,

And drew in her breath with a hissing sound :

Whereat the knight turn'd wildly round,

And nothing saw but his own sweet maid

With eyes upraised, as one that pray'd.

The touch, the sight, had pass'd away,
And in its stead that vision blest,
Which comforted her after-rest,
While in the lady's arms she lay,
Had put a rapture in her breast,
And on her lips and o'er her eyes
Spread smiles like light !

With new surprise,
" What ails then my beloved child ? "
The Baron said — His daughter mild
'Made answer, " All will yet be well ! "
I ween, she had no power to tell
Aught else : so mighty was the spell.

Yet he, who saw this Geraldine,
Had deem'd her sure a thing divine.
Such sorrow with such grace she blended,
As if she fear'd she had offended
Sweet Christabel, that gentle maid !
And with such lowly tones she pray'd,
She might be sent without delay
Home to her father's mansion.

"Nay!
Nay, by my soul ! " said Leoline. -
" Ho ! Bracy the bard, the charge be thine :
Go thou, with music sweet and loud,
And take two steeds with trappings proud,
And take the youth whom thou lovest best
To bear thy harp, and learn thy song,
And clothe you both in solemn vest,
And over the mountains haste along,
Lest wandering folk, that are abroad,
Detain you on the valley road.
And when he has cross'd the Irthing flood,
My merry bard ! he hastes, he hastes
Up Knorren Moor, through Halegarth wood,
And reaches soon that castle good
Which stands and threatens Scotland's wTastes.

" Bard Bracy, bard Bracy ! your horses are fleet,

Ye must ride up the hall, your music so sweet,

More loud than your horses' echoing feet!

And loud and loud to Lord Roland call,

Thy daughter is safe in Langdale hall !

Thy beautiful daughter is safe and free —

Sir Leoline greets thee thus through me.

Fie bids thee come without delay

With all thy numerous array ;

And take thy lovely daughter home :

And he will meet thee on the way

With all his numerous array,
White with their panting palfreys' foam ;
And by mine honor ! I will say,
That I repent me of the day
When I spake words of high disdain
To Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine !
— For since that evil hour hath flown,
Many a summer's sun hath shone ;
Yet ne'er found I a friend again
Like Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine."

The Lady fell, and clasp'd his knees,
Her face upraised, her eyes o'erflowing ;
And Bracy replied, with faltering voice,
Her gracious hail on all bestowing ; —
Thy words, thou sire of Christabel,
Are sweeter than my harp can tell ;
Yet might I gain a boon of thee,
This day my journey should not be,
So strange a dream hath come to me ,
That I had vow'd with music loud
To clear yon wood from thing unblest,
Warn'd by a vision in my rest !
For in my sleep I saw that dove,
That gentle bird, whom thou dost love,
And call'st by thy own daughter's name —
Sir Leoline ! I saw the same,
Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan,
Among the green herbs in the forest alone.
Which when I saw and when I heard,
I wonder'd what might ail the bird :
For nothing near it could I see,
Save the grass and green herbs underneath (he
old tree.

And in my dream, methought, I went
To search out what might there be found ;
And what the sweet bird's trouble meant
That thus lay fluttering on the ground.
I went and peer'd, and could descry
No cause for her distressful cry ;
But yet for her dear lady's sake
I stoop'd, methought, the dove to take.
When lo ! I saw a bright green snake
Coil'd around its wings and neck.
Green as the herbs on which it couch'd,
Close by the dove's its head it crouch'd !
And with the dove it heaves and stirs,
Swelling its neck as she swell'd hers !
I woke ; it was the midnight hour,
The clock was echoing in the tower;
But though my slumber was gone by,
This dream it would not pass away —
It seems to live upon my eye !
And thence I vow'd this self-same day,
With music strong and saintly song
To wander through the forest bare,
Lest aught unholy loiter there.

Thus Bracy said : the Baron, the while,
Half-listening heard him with a smile ;
Then turn'd to Lady Geraldine,
His eyes made up of wonder and love ;
And said in courtly accents fine,
Sweet Maid ! Lord Roland's b.eauteous dove
With arms more strong than harp or song,
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72

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

Thy sire and I will crush the snake !
He kiss'd her forehead as he spake,
And Gerald ine in maiden wise,
Casting down her large bright eyes,
With blushing cheek and courtesy fine
She turn'd her from Sir Leoline ;
Softly gathering up her train,
That o'er her right arm fell again ;
And folded her arms across her chest,
And couch'd her head upon her breast,

And look'd askance at Christabel

Jesu, Maria, shield her well !

A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy,

And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her head,

Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye,

And with somewhat of malice and more of dread,

At Christabel she look'd askance : —

One moment — and the sight was fled !

But Christabel, in dizzy trance

Stumbling on the unsteady ground,

Shudder'd aloud, with a hissing sound ;

And Geraldine again turn'd round,

And like a thing, that sought relief,

Full of wonder and full of grief,

She roll'd her large bright eyes divine

Wildly on Sir Leoline.

The maid, alas ! her thoughts are gone,
She nothing sees — no sight but one !
The maid, devoid of guile and sin,
I know not how, in fearful wise
So deeply had she drunken in
That look, those shrunken serpent eyes,
That all her features were resign'd
To this sole image in her mind :
And passively did imitate
That look of dull and treacherous hate !
And thus she stood, in dizzy trance,
Still picturing that look askance
With forced, unconscious sympathy

Full before her father's view

As far as such a look could be,
In eyes so innocent and blue.
And when the trance was o'er, the maid
Paused awhile, and inly pray'd :
Then falling at the Baron's feet,
" By my mother's soul do I entreat
That thou this woman send aAvay ! "
She said : and more she could not say ;
For what she knew she could not tell,
O'ermaster'd by the mighty spell.

Why is thy cheek so wan and wild,
Sir Leoline ? Thy only child
Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride,
So fair, so innocent, so mild {

The same, for whom thy lady died.

0 by the pangs of her dear mother,
Think thou no evil of thy child !
For her, and thee, and for no other,
She pray'd the moment ere she died ;
Pray'd that the babe for whom she died
Might prove her dear lord's joy and pride !

That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled,

Sir Leoline !
And wouldst thou wrong thy only child,

Her child and thine ?

Within the Baron's heart and brain
If thoughts like these had any share,
They only swell'd his rage and pain,
And did but work confusion there.
His heart was cleft with pain and rage,
His cheeks they quiver'd, his eyes were wile
Dishonor'd thus in his old age ;
Dishonor'd by his only child,
And all his hospitality
To the insulted daughter of his friend
By more than woman's jealousy
Brought thus to a disgraceful end-
He roll'd his eye with stern regard
Upon the gentle minstrel bard,
And said in tones abrupt, austere,
Why, Bracy ! dost thou loiter here ?

1 bade thee hence ! The Bard obey'd ;
And, turning from his own sweet maid,
The aged knight, Sir Leoline,

Led forth the lady Geraldine I

THE CONCLUSION TO PART II.

A little child, a limber elf,

Singing, dancing to itself,

A fairy thing with red round cheeks

That always finds and never seeks,

Makes such a vision to the sight

As fills a father's eyes with light ;

And pleasures flow in so thick and fast

Upon his heart, that he at last

Must needs express his love's excess

With words of unmeant bitterness.

Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together

Thoughts so all unlike each other ;

To mutter and mock a broken charm,

To dally with wrong that does no harm.

Perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty

At each wild word to feel within

A sweet recoil of love and pity.

And what, if in a world of sin

(O sorrow and shame should this be true) !

Such giddiness of heart and brain

Comes seldom save from rage and pain,

So talks as it 's most used to do.

82

REMORSE.

73

Mvnwvm ;

A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.

DRAMATIS PERSONS.

Marquis Valdez, Father to the two brothers, and

Donna Teresa's Guardian.
Don Alvar, the eldest son.
Don Ordonio, the youngest son.
Monviedro, a Dominican and Inquisitor.
Zulimez, the faithful attendant on Alvar.
Isidore, a Moresco Chieftain, ostensibly a Christian.
Familiars of the Inquisition.
Naomi.

Moors, Servants, etc.
Donna Teresa, an Orphan Heiress.
Alhadra, Wife to Isidore.

Time. The reign of Philip IT., just at the close of
the civil wars against the Moors, and during the
heat of the persecution which raged against them,
shortly after the edict which forbade the wearing
of Moresco apparel under pain of death.

REMORSE.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

The Sea Shore on the Coast of Granada.

Don Alvar, wrapt in a Boat-cloak, and Zulimez
(a Moresco), both as just landed

ZULIMEZ.

No sound, no face of joy to welcome us !

ALVAR.

My faithful Zulimez, for one brief moment
Let me forget my anguish and their crimes.
If aught on earth demand an unmix'd feeling,
'Tis surely this — after long years of exile,
To step forth on firm land, and gazing round us,
To hail at once our country, and our birth-place.
Hail, Spain ! Granada, hail ! once more I press
Thy sands with filial awe, land of my fathers !

ZULIMEZ.

Then claim your rights in it ! O, revered Don Alvar,

Yet, yet give up your all too gentle purpose.

It is too hazardous ! reveal yourself,

And let the guilty meet the doom of guilt !

ALVAR.

Remember, Zulimez! I am his brother:
Injured, indeed ! O deeply injured ! yet
Ordonio's brother.

ZULIMEZ.

Nobly-minded Alvar!
This sure but gives his guilt a blacker dye.

ALVAR.

The more behoves it, I should rouse within him
Remorse ! that I should save him from himself.
H2

ZULIMEZ.

Remorse is as the heart in which it grows :
If that be gentle, it drops balmy dews
Of true repentance ; but if proud and gloomy,
It is a poison-tree that, pierced to the inmost,
Weeps only tears of poison.

ALVAR.

And of a brother,
Dare I hold this, unproved ? nor make one effort.
To save him ? — Hear me, friend ! I have yet to tell theft
That this same life, which he conspired to take,
Himself once rescued from the angry flood,
And at the imminent hazard of his own.
Add too my oath —

ZULIMEZ.

You have thrice told already
The years of absence and of secrecy,
To which a forced oath bound you : if in truth
A suborn'd murderer have the power to dictate
A binding oath —

ALVAR.

My long captivity
Left me no choice : the very Wish too languish'd
With the fond Hope that nursed it ; the sick babe
Droop'd at the bosom of its famish'd mother
But (more than all) Teresa's perfidy;
The assassin's strong assurance, when no interest,
No motive could have tempted him to falsehood :
In the first pangs of Ins awaken'd conscience,
When with abhorrence of his own black purpose
The murderous weapon, pointed at my breast,
Fell from his palsied hand —

ZULIMEZ.

Heavy presumption !

ALVAR.

It weigh'd not with me — Hark ! I will tell thee all :
As we pass'd by, I bade thee mark the base
Of yonder cliff —

ZULIMEZ.

That rocky seat you mean,
Shaped by the billows 1 —

ALVAR.

There Teresa met me,
The morning of the day of my departure.
We were alone : the purple hue of dawn
Fell from the kindling east aslant upon us,
And, blending with the blushes on her cheek,
Suffused the tear-drops there with rosy light.
There seem'd a glory round us, and Teresa
The angel of the vision! [Then with agitation

Hadst thou seen
How in each motion her most innocent soul
Beam'd forth and brighten'd, thou thyself wouldvl

tell me,
Guilt is a thing impossible in her !
She must be innocent !

zulimez {with a sigh)

Proceed, my Lord '
83

74

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

ALVAR.

A portrait which she had procured by stealth

(For ever then it seems her heart foreboded

Or knew Ordonio's moody rivalry),

A portrait of herself with thrilling hand

She tied around my neck, conjuring me

With earnest prayers, that I would keep it sacred

To my own knowledge : nor did she desist,

Till she had won a solemn promise from me,

That (save my own) no eye should e'er behold it

Till my return. Yet this the assassin knew,

Knew that which none but she could have disclosed.

ZULIMEZ.

A damning proof!

ALVAR.

My own life wearied me !
And but for the imperative Voice within,
With mine own hand I had thrown off the burthen.
Th?t Voice, which quell'd me, calm'd me : and I

sought
The Belgic states : there join'd the better cause ;
And there too fought as one that courted death!
Wounded, I fell among the dead and dying,
In death-like trance : a long imprisonment follow'd.
The fullness of my anguish by degrees
Waned to a meditative melancholy ;
And still, the more I mused, my soul became
More doubtful, more perplex'd; and still Teresa,
Night after night, she visited my sleep,
Now as a saintly sufferer, wan and tearful,
Now as a saint in glory beckoning to me !
Yes, still, as in contempt of proof and reason,
[ cherish the fond faith that she is guiltless !
Hear then my fix'd resolve : I '11 linger here
In the disguise of a Moresco chieftain. —
The Moorish robes 1 —

ZULIMEZ.

All, all are in the sea-cave,
Some furlong hence. I bade our mariners
Secrete the boat there.

ALVAR.

Above all, the picture
Of the assassination —

ZULIMEZ.

Be assured
That it remains uninjured.

ALVAR.

Thus disguised,
I will first seek to meet Ordonio's — wife !
If possible, alone too. This was her wonted walk,
And this the hour; her words, her very looks
Will acquit her or convict.

ZULIMEZ.

Will they not know you ?

ALVAR.

With your aid, friend, I shall unfearingly
Trust the disguise ; and as to my complexion,
My long imprisonment, the scanty food,
This scar, — and toil beneath a burning sun,
Have done already half the business for us.
Add too my youth, when last we saw each other.
Manhood has swoln my chest, and taught my voice
A hoarser note — Besides, they think me dead :
And what the mind believes impossible,
The bodily sense is slow to recognize.

ZULIMEZ.

Tis yours, Sir, to command ; mine to obey.

Now to the cave beneath the vaulted rock.
Where having shaped you to a Moorish chieftain,
I will seek our mariners ; and in the dusk
Transport whate'er we need to the small dell
In the Alpuxarras — there where Zagri lived.

ALVAR.

I know it well : it is the obscurest haunt

Of all the mountains — [Both stand listening

Voices at a distance ! '
Let us away ! [Exeunt

SCENE n.

Enter Teresa and Valdez.

TERESA.

I hold Ordonio dear ; he is your son
And Alvar's brother.

VALDEZ.

Love him for himself,
Nor make the living wretched for the dead.

TERESA.

I mourn that you should plead in vain, Lord Valdez
But heaven hath heard my vow, and I remain
Faithful to Alvar, be he dead or living.

VALDEZ.

Heaven knows with what, delight I saw your loves,
And could my heart's blood give him back to thee,
I would die smiling. But these are idle thoughts ;
Thy dying father comes upon my soul
With that same look, with which he gave thee to me
I held thee in my arms a powerless babe,
While thy poor mother with a mute entreaty
Fix'd her faint eyes on mine. Ah not for this,
That I should let thee feed thy soul with gloom,
And with slow anguish wear away thy life,
The victim of a useless constancy.
I must not see thee wretched.

TERESA.

There are woes
Ill-barter' d for the garishness of joy !
If it be wretched with an untired eye
To watch those skiey tints, and this green ocean;
Or in the sultry hour beneath some rock,
My hair dishevell'd by the pleasant sea-breeze,
To shape sweet visions, and live o'er again
All past hours of delight ! If it be wretched
To watch some bark, and fancy Alvar there,
To go through each minutest circumstance
Of the blest meeting, and to frame adventures
Most terrible and strange, and hear him tell them ;
* (As once I knew a crazy Moorish maid
Who drest her in her buried lover's clothes,
And o'er the smooth spring in the mountain cleft
Hung with her lute, and play'd the self-same tune
He used to play, and listen 'd to the shadow
Herself had made) — if this be wretchedness,
And if indeed it be a wretched thing
To trick out mine own death-bed, and imagine
That I had died, died just ere his return !
Then see him listening to my constancy,
Or hover round, as he at midnight oft

* Here Valdez bends back, and smiles at her wildness,
which Teresa noticing, checks her enthusiasm, and in a sooth-
ing half-playful tone and manner, apologizes for her fancy
by the little tale in the parenthesis.

84

REMORSE.

75

Sits on my grave and gazes at the moon ;

Or haply, in some more fantastic mood,

To be in Paradise, and with choice flowers

Build up a bower where he and I might dwell,

And there to wait his coming ! O my sire !

My Alvar's sire ! if this be .wretchedness

That eats away the life, what were it, think you,

If in a most assured reality

He should return, and see a brother's infant

Smile at him from my arms ?

Oh, what a thought ! [Clasping her forehead.

VALDEZ.

A thought? even so! mere thought! an empty thought.

The very week he promised his return

teresa (abruptly).
Was it not then a busy joy ? to see him,
After those three years' travels ! we had no fears —
The frequent tidings, the ne'er-failing letter,
Almost endear'd his absence ! Yet the gladness,
The tumult of our joy ! What then if now

VALDEZ.

0 power of youth to feed on pleasant thoughts,
Spite of conviction ! I am old and heartless !
Yes, I am old — I have no pleasant fancies-
Hectic and unrefresh'd with rest —

teresa (with great tenderness)

My father !

VALDEZ.

The sober truth is all too much for me !

1 see no sail which brings not to my mind

The home-bound bark in which my son was captured
By the Algerine — to perish with his captors !

TERESA.

Oh no ! he did not !

VALDEZ.

Captured in sight of land !
From yon hill point, nay, from our castle watch-tower
We might have seen

TERESA.

His capture, not his death.

VALDEZ.

Alas ! how aptly thou forgett'st a tale

Thou ne'er didst wish to learn ! my brave Ordonio

Saw both the pirate and his prize go down,

In the same storm that baffled his own valor,

And thus twice snatch'd a brother from his hopes :

Gallant Ordonio ! (pauses ; then tenderly). O beloved

Wouldst thou best prove thy faith to generous Alvar,
And most delight his spirit, go, make thou
His brother happy, make his aged father
Sink to the grave in joy.

TERESA.

For mercy's sake,
Press me no more ! I have no power to love him.
His proud forbidding eye, and his dark brow,
Chill me like dew damps of the unwholesome night :
My love, a timorous and tender flower,
Closes beneath his touch.

VALDEZ.

You wrong him, maiden !
You wrong him, by my soul ! Nor was it well
To character by such unkindly phrases
The stir and workings of that love for you
Which he has toil'd to smother, 'T was not well,
Nor is it grateful in you to forget

His wounds and perilous voyages, and how

With an heroic fearlessness of danger

He roam'd the coast of Afric for your Alvar.

It was not well — You have moved me even to tears

TERESA.

Oh pardon me, Lord Valdez ! pardon me !

It was a foolish and ungrateful speech,

A most ungrateful speech ! But I am hurried

Beyond myself, if I but hear of one

Who aims to rival Alvar. Were we not

Born in one day, like twins of the same parent ?

Nursed in one cradle ? Pardon me, my father !

A six years' absence is a heavy thing,

Yet still the hope survives

valdez (looking forward).
Hush! 'tis Monviedro.

TERESA

The Inquisitor ! on what new scent of blood ?

Enter Monviedro with Alhadra.

monviedro (having first made his obeisance tc
Valdez and Teresa).

Peace and the truth be with you ! Good my Lord,
My present need is with your son.

[Looking forward
We have hit the time. Here comes he ! Yes, 'tis he

Enter from the opposite side Don Ordonio.

My Lord Ordonio, this Moresco woman
(Alhadra is her name) asks audience of you.

ORDONIO.

Hail, reverend father ! what may be the business ?

MONVIEDRO.

My Lord, on strong suspicion of relapse

To his false creed, so recently abjured,

The secret servants of the inquisition

Have seized her husband, and at my command

To the supreme tribunal would have led him,

But that he made appeal to you, my Lord,

As surety for his soundness in the faith.

Though lessen'd by experience what small trust

The asseverations of these Moors deserve,

Yet still the deference to Ordonio's name,

Nor less the wish to prove, with what high honor

The Holy Church regards her faithful soldiers,

Thus far prevail'd with me that

ORDONIO.

Reverend father,
I am much beholden to your high opinion,
Which so o'erprizes my light services.

[Then to Alhadra
I would that I could serve you ; but in truth
Your face is new to me.

. MONVIEDRO.

My mind foretold me,
That such would be the event. In truth, Lord Valdez,
'Twas little probable, that Don Ordonio,
That your illustrious son, who fought so bravely
Some four years since to quell these rebel Moors,
Should prove the patron of this infidel !
The guarantee of a Moresco's faith !
Now I return.

alhadra.
My Lord, my husband's name
Is Isidore. (Ordonio starts.) — You may remember it
12 85

76

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

Three years ago, three years this very week,
You left him at Almeria.

MONVIEDRO.

Palpably false !
This very week, three years ago, my Lord
(You needs must recollect it by your wound),
You were at sea, and there engaged the pirates,
The murderers doubtless of your brother Alvar !

[Teresa looks at Monviedro with disgust and
horror. Ordonio's appearance to be collected
from wJuzt follows.
monviedro (to Valdez, and pointing at Ordonio).
What ! is he ill, my Lord ? how strange he looks !

valdez (angrily).
You press'd upon him too abruptly, father,
The fate of one, on whom, you know, he doted.

ordonio (starting as in sudden agitation).

0 Heavens ! I ? I — doted ? (then recovering himself)

Yes ! I doted on him.
[Ordonio walks to the end of the stage,
Valdez follows, soothing him.
teresa (her eye following Ordonio).

1 do not, can not, love him. Is my heart hard ?
Is my heart hard ? that even now the thought
Should force itself upon me ? — Yet I feel it !

MONVIEDRO.

The drops did start and stand upon his forehead !

I will return. In very truth, I grieve

To have been the occasion. Ho ! attend me, woman

ALHADRA (to TERESA).

0 gentle lady ! make the father stay,
Until my Lord recover. I am sure,

That he will say he is my husband's friend.

TERESA.

Stay, father ! stay ! my Lord will soon recover.

ordonio (as they return, to Valdez).
Strange, that this Monviedro
Should have the power so to distemper me !

VALDEZ.

Nay, 'twas an amiable weakness, son !

MONVIEDRO.

My Lord, I truly grieve

ORDONIO.

Tut ! name it not.
A sudden seizure, father ! think not of it.
As to this woman's husband, I do know him.

1 know him well, and that he is a Christian.

MONVIEDRO.

I hope, my Lord, your merely human pity
Doth not prevail

ORDONIO.

'Tis certain that he v>as a Catholic;

What changes may have happen'd in three years,

I cannot say ; but grant me this, good father :

Myself I'll" sift him: if I find him sound,

You '11 grant me your authority and name

To liberate his house.

MONVIEDRO.

Your zeal, my Lord,
And your late merits in this holy warfare,
Would authorize an ampler trust — you have it

ORDONIO.

I will attend you home within an hour.

VALDEZ.

Meantime, return with us and take refreshment.

ALHADRA.

jNot till my husband 's free ! I may not dc it.
I will stay here.

teresa (aside).
Who is this Isidore ?

VALDEZ.

Daughter !

TERESA.

With your permission, my dear Lord,

I '11 loiter yet awhile t' enjoy the sea breeze.

[Exeunt Valdez, Monviedro, and Ordonio

ALHADRA.

Hah! there he goes! a bitter curse go with him,
A scathing curse !

(Then as if recollecting herself, and with a timid look)
You hate him, don't you, lady ?
teresa (perceiving that Alhadra is conscious she has

spolcen imprudently).
Oh fear not me ! my heart is sad for you.

ALHADRA.

These fell inquisitors ! these sons of blood !
As I came on, his face so madden'd me,
That ever and anon I clutch'd my dagger
And half unsheathed it

TERESA.

Be more calm, I pray you

ALHADRA.

And as he walked along the narrow path

Close by the mountain's edge, my soul grew eager ;

'Twas with hard toil I made myself remember

That his Familiars held my babes and husband.

To have leapt upon him with a tiger's plunge,

And hurl'd him down the rugged precipice,

O, it had been most sweet !

TERESA.

Hush ! hush for shame !
Where is your woman's heart ?

ALHADRA.

O gentle lady !
You have no skill to guess my many wrongs,
Many and strange ! Besides (ironically), I am a Chris-
tian,
And Christians never pardon — 'tis their faith!

TERESA.

Shame fall on those who so have shown it to thee !

ALHADRA.

I know that man; 'tis well he knows not me.
Five years ago (and he was the prime agent),
Five years ago the holy brethren seized me.

TERESA.

What might your crime be ?

ALHADRA.

I was a Moresco !
They cast me, then a young and nursing mother,
Into a dungeon of their prison-house,
Where was no bed, no fire, no ray of light,
No touch, no sound of comfort ! The black air,
It was a toil to breathe it ! when the door,
Slow opening at the appointed hour, disclosed
One human countenance, the lamp's red flame
Cower'd as it enter'd, and at once sunk down.
Oh miserable ! by that lamp to see
My infant quarrelling with the coarse hard bread
Brought daily : for the little wretch was sickly—
My rage had dried away its natural food
In darkness I remain'd — the dull bell counting,
86

REMORSE.

n

Which haply told me, that all the all-cheering Sun
Was rising on our garden. When I dozed,
My infant's moanings mingled with my slumbers
And waked me. — If you were a mother, Lady,
I should scarce dare to tell you, that its noises
And peevish cries so fretted on my brain
That I have struck the innocent babe in anger.

O Heaven !

TERESA.

it is too horrible to hear.

ALHADRA.

What was it then to suffer? 'Tis most right
That sucli as you should hear it. — Know you not,
What Nature makes you mourn, she bids you heal ?
Great Evils ask great Passions to redress them,
And Whirlwinds fithest scatter Pestilence.

TERESA.

You were at length released ?

ALHADRA.

Yes, at length
I saw the blessed arch of the whole heaven !
'T was the first time my infant smiled. No more —
For if I dwell upon that moment, Lady,
A trance comes on which makes me o'er again
All I then was — my knees hang loose and drag,
And my tip falls with such an idiot laugh,
That you would start and shudder !

TERESA.

But your husband —

ALHADRA.

A month's imprisonment would kill him, Lady.

TERESA.

Alas, poor man !

ALHADRA.

He hath a lion's courage,
Fearless in act, but feeble in endurance;
Unfit for boisterous times, -with gentle heart
He worships Nature in the hill ana valley,
Not knowing what he loves, but loves it all —

Enter Alvar disguised as a Moresco, and in Moorish
garments.

TERESA.

Know you that stately Moor ?

ALHADRA.

I know him not
But doubt not he is some Moresco chieftain,
Who hides himself among the Alpuxarras.

TERESA.

The Alpuxarras ? Does he know his danger,
So near this seat ?

ALHADRA.

He wears the Moorish robes too,
As in defiance of the royal edict.

[Alhadra advances to Alvar, who has walked to
the back of the stage near the rocks. Teresa
drops her veil.

ALHADRA

Gallant Moresco ! An inquisitor,

Monviedro, of known hatred to our race

alvar {interrupting her).
You have mistaken me. I am a Christian.

ALHADRA.

He deems, that we are plotting to ensnare him :
Speak to him, Lady — none can hear you speak,
And not believe you innocent of guile.

TERESA.

If aught enforce you to concealment, Sir

ALHADRA.

He trembles strangely.

[Alvar sinks down and hides his face in his rohe.

TERESA.

See, we have disturb'd him.

[Approaches nearer to him.
I pray you think us friends — uncowl your face,
For you seem faint, and the night breeze blows healing
I pray you think us friends !

alvar {raising his head).

Calm, veiy calm !
'Tis all too tranquil for reality!
And she spoke to me with her innocent voice,
That voice, that innocent voice ! She is no traitress

TERESA.

Let us retire. {Haughtily to Alhadra).

[They advance to the front of the Stage
alhadra {with scorn).
He is indeed a Christian.

alvar {aside).
She deems me dead, yet wears no mourning garment!
Why should my brother's — wife — wear mourning
garments ?

[To Teresa.
Your pardon, noble dame ! that I disturb'd you :
I had just started from a frightful dream.

TERESA.

Dreams tell but of the Past, and yet, 'tis said,
They prophesy —

ALVAR.

The Past lives o'er again
In its effects, and to the guilty spirit
The ever-frowning Present is its image.

TERESA.

Traitress ! ( Then aside).

What sudden spell o'ermasters me ?
Why seeks he me, shunning the Moorish woman ?
[Teresa looks round uneasily, but gradually be

comes attentive as Alvar procteds in the

next speech.

ALVAR.

I dreamt I had a friend, on whom I leant
With blindest trust, and a betrothed maid,
Whom I was wont to call not mine, but me : l
For mine own self seem'd nothing, lacking her.
This maid so idolized that trusted friend
Dishonor'd in my absence, soul and body !
Fear, following guilt, tempted to blacker guilt,
And murderers were suborn'd against my life.
But by my looks, and most impassion'd words,
I roused the virtues that are dead in no man
Even in the assassins' hearts ! they made their terms
And thank'd me for redeeming them from murder.

ALHADRA.

You are lost in thought : hear him no more, sweet Lady '

TERESA.

From morn to night I am myself a dreamer,
And slight things bring on me the idle mood !
Well, Sir, what happen'd then ?

ALVAR.

On a rude rock,
A rock, methought, fast by a grove of firs,
Whose thready leaves to the low breathing gale
Made a soft sound most like the distant ocean,

87

78

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

I stay'd as though the hour of death were pass'd,
And I were sitting in the world of spirits —
For all things seem'd unreal ! There I sate —
The dews fell clammy, and the night descended,
Black, sultry, close ! and ere the midnight hour,
A storm came on, mingling all sounds of fear,
rhat woods, and sky, and mountains, seem'd one

havoc.
The second flash of lightning show'd a tree
Hard by me, newly scathed. I rose tumultuous :
My soul work'd high, I bared my head to the storm,
And, with loud voice and clamorous agony,
Kneeling I pray'd to the great Spirit that made me,
Pray'd that Remorse might fasten on their hearts,
And cling with poisonous tooth, inextricable
As the gored lion's bite .'

teresa {shuddering).

A fearful curse !

alh adr a {fiercely).
But dreamt you not that you return'd and kill'd them ?
Dreamt you of no revenge ?

alvar {his voice trembling, and in tones of deep distress).

She would have died,
Died in her guilt — perchance by her own hands !
And bending o'er her self-inflicted wounds,
I might have met the evil glance of frenzy,
And leapt myself into an unblest grave !
I pray'd for the punishment that cleanses hearts :
For still I loved her !

ALHADRA.

And you dreamt all tins ?

TERESA.

My soul is full of visions all as wild !

ALHADRA.

There is no room in this heart for puling love-tales.
teresa (lifts up her veil, and advances to Alvar).
Stranger, farewell ! I guess not who you are,
Nor why you so address'd your tale to me.
Your mien is noble, and, I own, perplex'd me
With obscure memory of something past,
Which still escaped my efforts, or presented
Tricks of a fancy pamper'd with long wishing.
If, as it sometimes happens, our rude startling
Whilst your full heart was shaping out its dream,
Drove you to this, your not ungentle wildness —
You have my sympathy, and so farewell '
But if some undiscover'd wrongs oppress you,
And you need strength to drag them into light,
The generous Valdez, and my Lord Ordonio,
Have arm and will to aid a noble sufferer ;
Nor shall you want my favorable pleading.

[Exeunt Teresa and Alhadra.

alvar {alone).
'Tis strange! It cannot be! my Lord Ordonio!
Her Lord Ordonio ! Nay, I will not do it !
I cursed him once — and one curse is enough !
How bad she look'd, and pale ! but not like guilt —
And her calm tones — sweet as a song of mercy!
If the bad spirit retain'd his angel's voice,
Hell scarce were Hell. And why not innocent ?
Who meant to murder me, might well cheat her ?
But ere she married him, he had stain'd her honor ;
Ah . there I am hamper'd. What if this were a lie
Framed by the assassin ? Who should tell it him,
If it were truth ? Ordonio would not tell him.
Yet why one lie ? all else, I know, wa's truth.

No start, no jealousy of stirring conscience !
And she referr'd to me — fondly, methought !
Could she walk here if she had been a traitress ?
Here, where we play'd together in our childhood ?
Here, where we plighted vows? where her cold

cheek
Received my last kiss, when with suppress'd feeling*
She had fainted in my arms? It cannot be!
'Tis not in Nature! I will die, believing
That I shall meet her where no evil is,
No treachery, no cup dash'd from the lips.
I '11 haunt this scene no more ! live she in peace !
Her husband — ay, her husband ! May this angel
New mould his canker'd heart ! Assist me, Heaven,
That I may pray for my poor guilty brother! [Exit

ACT II.
SCENE I.

A wild and mountainous Country. Ordonio and Isi-
dore are discovered, supposed at a little distance
from Isidore's house.

ordonio.

Here we may stop : your house distinct in view,

Yet we secured from listeners.

ISIDORE.

Now indeed
My house ! and it looks cheerful as the clusters
Basking in sunshine on yon vine-clad rock,
That over-brows it ! Patron ! Friend ! Preserver !
Thrice have you saved my life. Once in the battle
You gave it me : next rescued me from suicide,
When for my follies I was made to wander,
With mouths to feed, and not a morsel for them
Now, but for you, a dungeon's slimy stones
Had been my bed and pillow.

ORDONIO.

Good Isidore !
Why this to me ? It is enough, you know it

ISIDORE.

A common trick of Gratitude, my Lord,
Seeking to ease her own full heart

ORDONIO.

Enough
A debt repaid ceases to be a debt.
You have it in your power to serve me greatly.

ISIDORE.

And how, my Lord ? I pray you to name the thing.
I would climb up an ice-glaz'd precipice
To pluck a weed you fancied !

ordonio {with embarrassment and hesitation).

Why — that — Lady—

ISIDORE.

'T is now three years, my Lord, since last I saw you
Have you a son, my Lord?

ordonio.

O miserable — [Aside
Isidore ! you are a man, and know mankind.
I told you what I wish'd — now for the truth ! —
She lov'd the man you kill'd.

ISIDORE {looking as suddenly aJ/irmed).

You jest, my Lord ?

ORDONIO.

And till his death is proved, she will not wed me.

88

REMORSE.

i. U

ISIDORE.

You sport with me, my Lord ?

ORDONIO.

Come, come ! this foolery
Lives only in thy looks : thy heart disowns it !

ISIDORE.

I can bear this, and any thing more grievous

From you, my Lord — but how can I serve you here ?

ORDONIO.

Why, you can utter with a solemn gesture

Oracular sentences of deep no-meaning,

Wear a quaint garment, make mysterious antics —

ISIDORE.

I am dull, my Lord ! I do not comprehend you.

ORDONIO.

In blunt terms, you can play the sorcerer.
She hath no faith in Holy Church, 't is true :
Her lover school'd her in some newer nonsense !
Yet still a tale of spirits works upon her.
She is a lone enthusiast, sensitive,
Shivers, and cannot keep the tears in her eye :
And such do love the marvellous too well
Not to believe it. We will wind up her fancy
With a strange music, that she knows not of —
With fumes of frankincense, and mummery,
Then leave, as one sure token of his death,
That portrait, which from off the dead man's neck
I bade thee take, the trophy of thy conquest.

ISIDORE.

Will that be a sure sign ?

ORDONIO.

Beyond suspicion.
Fondly caressing him, her favor'd lover
(By some base spell he had bewitch'd her senses),
She whisper'd such dark fears of me, forsooth, *"
As made 'this heart pour gall into my veins.
And as she coyly bound it round his neck,
She made him promise silence ; and now holds
The secret of the existence of this portrait,
Known only to her lover and herself.
But I had traced her, stolen unnoticed on them,
And unsuspected saw and heard the whole.

ISIDORE.

But now I should have cursed the man who told me
You could ask aught, my Lord, and I refuse —
But this I cannot do.

ORDONIO.

Where lies your scruple ?

Isidore (with stammering).

Why — why, my Lord !
You know you told me that the lady loved you,
Had loved you with incautious tenderness ;
That if the young man, her betrothed husband,
Returned, yourself, and she, and the honor of both
Must perish. Now, though with no tenderer scruples
Than those which being native to the heart,
Than those, my Lord, which merely being a man —
ordonio (aloud, though to express his contempt
he speaks in (he third person).
This fellow is a Man — he kill'd for hire
One whom he knew not, yet has tender scruples !

[Then turning to Isidore.
These doubts, these fears, thy whine, thy stammer-
ing-
Pish, fool ! thou blunder'st through the book of guilt,
Spelling thy villanj^

ISIDORE.

My Lord — my Lord,
I can bear much — yes, very much from you !
But there 's a point where sufferance is meanness :
I am no villain — never kill'd for hire —
My gratitude

ORDONIO.

0 ay — your gratitude !
'T was a well-sounding word — what have you done
with it ?

ISIDORE.

Who proffers his past favors for my virtue —
ordonio (with bitter scorn).

Virtue !

ISIDORE.

Tries to o'erreach me — is a very sharper,
And should not speak of gratitude, my Lord.
I knew not 'twas your brother !

ordonio (alarmed).

And who told you ?

ISIDORE.

He himself told me.

ORDONIO.

Ha ! you talk'd with him !
And those, the two Morescoes who were with you ?

ISIDORE.

Both fell in a night-brawl at Malaga.
ordonio (in a low voice).

My brother—

ISIDORE.

Yes, my Lord, I could not tell you !

I thrust away the thought — it drove me wild.

But listen to me now — I pray you listen

V

illain ! no more !

ORDONIO.

I '11 hear no more of it.

ISIDORE.

My Lord, it much imports your future safety
That you should hear it.

ordonio (turning off from Isidore.)
Am not I a Man !
Tis as it should be! tut — the deed itself
Was idle, and these after-pangs still idler I

ISIDORE.

We met him in the very place you mention'd.
Hard by a grove of firs —

ORDONIO.

Enough — enough —

ISIDORE.

He fought us valiantly, and wounded all ;
In fine, compell'd a parley.

ordonio (sighing, as if lost in thought).
Alvar ! brother '

ISIDORE.

He offer'd me his purse —

ordonio (with eager suspicion).
Yes?
ISIDORE (indignanthj).

Yes — I spurn'd it. —
He promised us I know not what — in vair. .'
Then with a look and voice that overawed me,
He said, What mean you, friends ? My life is dear
I have a brother and a promised wife,
Who make life dear to me — and if I fall,
That brother will roam earth and hell for vengeance
There was a likeness in his face to yours •
I ask'd his brother's name : he said — Ordonio
89

80

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

Son of Lord Valdez ! I had well-nigh fainted.
At length I said (if that indeed / said it,
And that no Spirit made my tongue its organ),
That woman is dishonor'd by that brother,
And he the man who-sent us to destroy you.
He drove a thrust at me in rage. I told him,
He wore her portrait round his neck. He look'd
As he had been made of the rock that propt his

back —
Ay, just as you look now— only less ghastly!
At length, recovering from his trance, he threw
His sword away, and bade us take his life,
It was not worth his keeping.

ORDONIO.

And you kill'd him ?

Oh blood-hounds! may eternal wrath flame round
you!

He was his Maker's Image undefaced ! [A pause.

It seizes me — by Hell, I will go on !

What — wouldst thou stop, man ? thy pale looks won't
save thee ! [A pause.

Oh cold — cold — cold ! shot through with icy cold !
Isidore (aside).

Were he alive, he had return'd ere now —

The consequence the same — dead through his plot-
ting!

ORDONIO.

O this unutterable dying away — here —

This sickness of the heart ! [A pause.

What if I went
And lived in a hollow tomb, and fed on weeds ?
Ay ! that 's the road to heaven ! O fool ! fool ! fool !

[A pause.
What have I done but that which nature destined,
Or the blind elements stirr'd up within me ?
Jf good were meant, why were we made these Be-
ings ?
And if not meant —

ISIDORE.

You are disturb'd, my Lord !
ORDONIO (starts, looks at him urildly ; then, after a

pause, during which his features are forced into

a smile).
A gust of the soul ! i' faith, it overset me.

0 't was all folly — all ! idle as laughter !
Now, Isidore! I swear that thou shalt aid me.

Isidore (in a low voice).

1 '11 perish first !

ORDONIO.

What dost thou mutter of?

ISIDORE.

Some of your servants know me, I am certain.

ORDONIO.

There 's some sense in that scruple ; but we '11 mask
you.

ISIDORE.

They '11 know my gait : but stay ! last night I watch'd
A stranger near the ruin in the wood,
Who as it seem'd was gathering herbs and wild flow-
ers.
I had follow'd him at distance, seen him scale
Its western wall, and by an easier entrance
Stole after him unnoticed. There I mark'd,
That, 'mid the chequer-work of light and shade,
With curious choice he pluck'd no other flowers
But those on which the moonlight fell : and once
I heard him muttering o'er the plant. A wizard —
Some gaunt slave prowling here for dark employment.

ORDONIO.

Doubtless you question'd him ?

ISIDORE.

'Twas my intention
Having first traced him homeward to his haunt.
But lo ! the stern Dominican, whose spies
Lurk everywhere, already (as it seem'd)
Had given commission to his apt familiar
To seek and sound the Moor ; who now returning-
Was by this trusty agent stopp'd midway.
I, dreading fresh suspicion if found near him
In that lone place, again conceal'd myself,
Yet within hearing. So the Moor was question'd,
And in your name, as lord of this domain.
Proudly he answer'd, " Say to the Lord Ordonio,
He that can bring the dead to life again ! "

ORDONIO.

A strange reply !

ISIDORE.

Ay, all of him is strange.
He call'd himself a Christian, yet he wears
The Moorish robes, as if he courted death.

ORDONIO.

Where does this wizard live ?

Isidore (pointing to the distance).

You see that brooklet
Trace its course backward : through a narrow opening
It leads you to the place.

ORDONIO.

How shall I know it ?

ISIDORE.

You cannot err It is a small green dell
Built all around with high off-sloping hills,
And from its shape our peasants aptly call it
The Giant's Cradle. There's a lake in the midst,
And round its banks tall wood that branches over,
And makes a kind of faery forest grow
Down in the water. At the further end
A puny cataract falls on the lake ;
And there, a curious sight ! you see its shadow
For ever curling like a wreath of smoke,
Up through the foliage of those faery trees.
His cot stands opposite. You cannot miss it

ordonio (in retiring stops suddenly at the edge of the

scene, and then turning round to Isidore).
Ha ! — Who lurks there ? Have we been overheard ?
There, where the smooth high wall of slate-rock glit-
ters—

ISIDORE.

'Neath those tall stones, which, propping each the

other,
Form a mock portal with their pointed arch !
Pardon my smiles ! 'T is a poor Idiot Boy,
Who sits in the sun, and twirls a bough about,
His weak eyes seethed in most unmeaning tears.
And so he sits, swaying his cone-like head ;
And, staring at his bough from morn to sun-se«,
See-saws his voice in inarticulate noises !

ORDONIO.

'Tis well ! and now for this same Wizard's Lair.

ISIDORE.

Some three strides up the hill, a mountain ash
Stretches its lower boughs and scarlet clusters
O'er the old thatch.

ORDONIO.

I shall not fail to find it.
[Exeunt Orbonio and Isidore.
90

REMORSE.

81

SCENE II.

The Inside of a Collage, around which Flowers and
Plants of various kinds are seen. Discovers Alvar,
Zulimez, and Alhadra, as on the point of leaving

alhadra {addressing Alvar).
Farewell, then ! and though many thoughts perplex

me,
Aught evil or ignoble never can I
Suspect of thee ! If what thou seem'st thou art,
The oppressed brethren of thy blood have need
Of such a leader.

ALVAR.

Noble-minded woman!
Long time against oppression have I fought,
And for the native liberty of faith
Have bled, and suffer'd bonds. Of this be certain :
Time, as he courses onwards, still unrolls
The volume of Concealment. In the Future,
As in the optician's glassy cylinder,
The indistinguishable blots and colors
Of the dim Past collect and shape themselves,
Upstarting in their own completed image
To scare or to reward.

I sought the guilty,
And what I sought I found : but ere the spear
vlew from my hand, there rose an angel form
Betwixt me and my aim. With baffled purpose
To the Avenger I leave Vengeance, and depart !

Whate'er betide, if aught my arm may aid,
Or power protect, my word is pledged to thee : **r
For many are thy wrongs, and thy soul noble.
Once more, farewell.

[Exit Alhadra.
Yes, to the Belgic states
We will return. These robes, this stain'd complexion,
Akin to falsehood, weigh upon my spirit
Whate'er befall us, the heroic Maurice
Will grant us an asylum, in remembrance
Of our past services.

ZULIMEZ.

And all the wealth, power, influence which is yours,
You let a murderer hold ?

ALVAR.

O faithful Zulimez !
That my return involved Ordonio's death,
I trust, would give me an unmingled pang,
Yet bearable : — but when I see my father
Strewing his scant gray hairs, e'en on the ground,
Which soon must be his grave, and my Teresa —
Her husband proved a murderer, and her infants,
His infants — poor Teresa! — all would perish,
All perish — all ! and I (nay bear with me)
Could not survive the complicated ruin !

zulimez (much affected).
Nay now ! I have distress'd you — you well know,
I ne'er will quit your fortunes. True, 'tis tiresome !
You are a painter,* one of many fancies !
You can call up past deeds, and make them live
On the blank canvas! and each little herb,
That grows on mountain bleak, or tangled forest,
You have learnt to name

Hark ! heard you not some footsteps ?

Vide Appendix, Note 1

ALVAR.

What if it were my brother coming onwards ?
I sent a most mysterious message to him.

Enter Ordonio.

alvar {starling)
It is he !

ordonio {to himself, as he enters).
If I distinguished right her gait and stature,
It was the Moorish woman, Isidore's wife.
That pass'd me as I enter'd. A lit taper,
In the night air, doth not more naturally
Attract the night-flies round it. than a conjuror
Draws round him the whole female neighborhood.

[Addressing Alvar.
You know my name, I guess, if not my person.
I am Ordonio, son of the Lord Valdez.

alvar {with deep emotion).
The Son of Valdez !

[Ordonio walks leisurely round the room, and looks
attentively at the plants.

zulimez {to Alvar).

Why, what ails you now ?
How your hand trembles ! Alvar, speak ! what wish
you?

ALVAR.

To fall upon his neck and weep forgiveness !

ordonio {returning, and aloud).
Pluck'd in the moonlight from a ruin'd abbey —
Those only, which the pale rays visited !
O the unintelligible power of weeds,
When a few odd prayers have beenmutter'd o'er them.
Then they work miracles ! I warrant you,
There 's not a leaf, but underneath it lurks
Some serviceable imp.

There 's one of you
Hath sent me a strange message.

ALVAR.

I am he.

ORDONIO.

With you, then, I am to speak :

[Haughtily waving his hand to Zulimez.
And, mark you, alone. [Exit Zulimez.

" He that can bring the dead to life again ! " —
Such was your message, Sir ! You are no dullard,
But one that strips the outward 1,'nd of things!

ALVAR.

'Tis fabled there are fruits with tempting rinds,
That are all dust and rottenness within.
Wouldst thou I should strip such ?

ORDONIO.

Thou quibbling fool,
What dost thou mean? Think'st thou I journey'd

hither,
To sport with thee ?

ALVAR.

O no, my Lord ! to sport
Best suits the gaiety of innocence.
ordonio {aside).
O what a thing is man ! the wisest heart
A Fool ! a Fool that laughs at its own tolly,
Yet still a fool ! [Looks round the Cottage

You are poor !

ALVAR.

What follows thence ?

ordonio.

That you would fain be richer
91

82

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

The Inquisition, too — You comprehend me ?

You are poor, in peril. I have wealth and power,

Can quench the flames, and cure your poverty ;

And for the boon I ask of you, but this,

That you should serve me — once — for a few hours.

alvar {solemnly).
Thou art the son of Valdez ! would to Heaven
That I could truly and for ever serve thee.

ORDONIO.

fhe slave begins to soften. [Aside.

You are my friend,
" He that can bring the dead to life again."
Nay, no defence to me ! The holy brethren
Believe these calumnies — I know thee better.

(Then with great bitterness).
Thou art a man, and as a man I '11 trust thee !

alvar {aside).
Alas ! this hollow mirth — Declare your business.

ORDONIO.

I love a lady, and she would love me,
But for an idle and fantastic scruple.
Have you no servants here, no listeners ?

[Ordonio steps to the door.

ALVAR.

What, faithless too ? False to his angel wife ?
To such a wife ? Well mightst thou look so wan,
Ill-starr'd Teresa ! — Wretch ! my softer soul
Is pass'd away, and I will probe his conscience !

ORDONIO.

In truth this lady loved another man,
But he has perish'd.

ALVAR.

What ! you kill'd him ! hey ?

ORDONIO.

I '11 dash thee to the earth, if thou but think'st it !
Insolent slave ! how daredst thou —

[Turns abruptly from Alvar, and then to himself.
Why! what's this?
T was idiocy ! I '11 tie myself to an aspen,
And wear a fool's cap —

alvar {watching his agitation).
Fare thee well —
I pity thee, Ordonio, even to anguish.

[Alvar is retiring.

ordonio [having recovered himself).
Ho ! [Calling to Alvar.

alvar.
Be brief: what wish you?

ORDONIO.

You are deep at bartering — You charge yourself
At a round sum. Come, come, I spake unwisely.

alvar.
I listen to you.

ORDONIO.

In a sudden tempest,
Did Alvar perish — he, I mean — the lover —
The fellow,

ALVAR.

Nay, speak out! 'twill ease your heart
To call him villain ! — Why stand'st thou aghast !
Men think it natural to hate their rivals.

ordonio (hesitating).
Now, till she knows him dead, she will not wed me.

alvar (with eager vehemence).
Are you not wedded then ? Merciful Heaven !
Not wedded to Teresa ?

ORDONIO.

Why, what ails thee ?
What, art thou mad ? why look'st thou upward so ?
Dost pray to Lucifer, Prince of the Air ?

alvar (recollecting himself).
Proceed, I shall be silent.
[Alvar sits, and leaning on the table, hides his face

ORDONIO.

To Teresa?
Politic wizard ! ere you sent that message,
You had conn'd your lesson, made yourself proficient
In all my fortunes. Hah ! you prophesied
A golden crop ! Well, you have not mistaken —
Be faithful to me, and I '11 pay thee nobly.

alvar (lifting up his head)
Well ! and this lady ?

ORDONIO.

If we could make her certain of his death,
She needs must wed me. Ere her lover left her,
She tied a little portrait round his neck,
Entreating him to wear it.

alvar (sighing).

Yes ! he did so '

ORDONIO.

Why no ! he was afraid of accidents,
Of robberies, and shipwrecks, and the like.
In secrecy he gave it me to keep,
Till his return.

alvar.
What ! he was your friend, then '

ordonio (wounded and embarrassed).
I was his friend. —

Now that he gave it me
This lady knows not. You are a mighty wizard —
Can call the dead man up — he will not come —
He is in heaven then — there you have no influence •
Still there are tokens — and your imps may bring you
Something he wore about him when he died.
And when the smoke of the incense on the altar
Is pass'd, your spirits will have left this picture.
What say you now ?

alvar (after a pause).

Ordonio, I will do it.
ordonio.
We '11 hazard no delay. Be it to-night,
In the early evening. Ask for the Lord Valdez.
I will prepare him. Music too, and incense
(For I have arranged it — Music, Altar, Incense),
All shall be ready. Here is this same picture,
And here, what you will value more, a purse.
Come early for your magic ceremonies.

ALVAR.

I will not fail to meet you.

ordonio.
Till next we meet, farewell !

[Exit Ordonio

alvar (alone, indignantly flings the purse away, and
gazes passionately at the portrait).

And I did curse thee ?
At midnight ? on my knees ? and I believed
Thee perjured, thee a traitress ! Thee dishonor'^
O blind and credulous fool ! O guilt of folly !
Should not thy inarticulate Fondnesses,
Thy Infant Loves — should not thy Maiden Vows
Have come upon my heart ? And this sweet Image,
Tied round my neck with man}, a chaste endearment
92

REMORSE.

83

And thrilling hands, thatmade me weep and tremble —
Ah, coward dupe ! to yield it to the miscreant,
Who spake pollution of thee ! barter for Life
This farewell Pledge, which with impassion'd Vow
I had sworn that I would grasp — ev'n in my death-
pang!

I am unworthy of thy love, Teresa,

Of that unearthly smile upon those lips,

Which ever smiled on me ! Yet do not scorn me —

I lisp'd thy name, ere I had learnt my mother's.

Dear Portrait ! rescued from a traitor's keeping,
I will not now profane thee, holy Image,
To a dark trick. That worst bad man shall find
A picture, which will wake the hell within him,
And rouse a fiery whirlwind in his conscience.

ACT III.
SCENE I.

A Hall of Armory, with, an Altar at the lack of the
Stage. Soft Music from an instrument of Glass
or Steel.

Valdez, Ordonio, and Alvar in a Sorcerer's robe,
are discovered.

ORDONIO.

This was too melancholy, father.

VALDEZ.

Nay,
My Alvar loved sad music from a child.
Once he was lost ; and after weary search
We found him in an open place in the wood,
To which spot he had follow'd a blind boy,
Who breathed into a pipe of sycamore
Some strangely moving notes : and these, he said,
Were taught him in a dream. Him we first saw
Stretch'd on the broad top of a sunny heath-bank :
And lower down poor Alvar, fast asleep,
His head upon the blind boy's dog. It pleased me
To mark how he had fasten'd round the pipe
A silver toy his grandam had late given him.
Methinks I see him now as he then look'd —
Even so ! — He had outgrown his infant dress,
Yet still he wore it

ALVAR.

My tears must not flow !
I must not clasp his knees, and cry, My father !
Enter Teresa, and Attendants.

TERESA.

Lord Valdez, you have ask'd my presence here,
And I submit ; but (Heaven bear witness for me)
My heart approves it not! 'tis mockery.

ORDONIO.

Believe you then no preternatural influence ?
Believe you not that spirits throng around us ?

TERESA.

Say rather that I Have imagined it
A possible thing : and it has soothed my soul
As other fancies have ; but ne'er seduced mo
To traffic with the black and frenzied hope
That the dead Rar the voice of witch or wizard.
(To Alvar. Stranger, I mourn and blush to see you
here,

On such employment ! With far other thoughts
I left you.

ordonio (aside).
Ha ! he has been tampering with her \

ALVAR.

0 high-soul'd maiden ! and more dear to me
Than suits the Stranger's name ! —

I swear to thee

1 will uncover all concealed guilt.

Doubt, but decide not ! Stand ye from the altar.

[Here a strain of music is heard from behind the

scene.

ALVAR.

With no irreverent voice or uncouth charm
I call up the Departed !

Soul of Alvar !
Hear our soft suit, and heed my milder spell :
So may the Gates of Paradise, unbarr'd,
Cease thy swift toils ! since haply thou art one
Of that innumerable company
Who in broad circle, lovelier than the rainbow,
Girdle this round earth in a dizzy motion,
With noise too vast and constant to be h^ard :
Fitliest unheard ! For oh, ye numberless
And rapid travellers ! What ear unstunn'd,
What sense unmadden'd, might bear up against
The rushing of your congregated wings ?

[Music
Even now your living wheel turns o'er my head !
[Music expressive of the movements and images

that follow.
Ye, as ye pass, toss high the desert sands,
That roar and whiten, like a burst of waters,
A sweet appearance, but a dread illusion
To the parch'd caravan that roams by night I
And ye build upon the becalmed waves
That whirling pillar, which from Earth to Heaven
Stands vast, and moves in blackness ! Ye too split
The ice mount ! and with fragments many and huge
Tempest the new-thaw'd sea, whose sudden gulls
Suck in, perchance, some Lapland wizard skiff!
Then round and round the whirlpool's marge ye

dance,
Till from the blue swoln Corse the Soul toils out
And joins your mighty Army.

[Here behind the scenes a voice sings the three

words, "Hear, sweet Spirit."

Soul of Alvar !
Hear the mild spell, and tempt no blacker Charm !
By sighs unquiet, and the sickly pang
Of a half dead, yet still undying Hope,
Pass visible before our mortal sense !
So shall the Church's cleansing rites be thine,
Her knells and masses that redeem the Dead!

Behind the Scenes, accompanied by the same Tnstru*
ment as before

Hear, sweet spirit, hear the spell,
Lest a blacker charm compel !
So shall the midnight breezes swell
With thy deep long-lingering knell.

And at evening evermore,
In a Chapel on the shore,
Shall the Chanters sad and saintly.
Yellow tapers burning faintly,
13 Q3

84

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

Doleful Masses chant for thee,
Miserere Domine !

Hark ! the cadence dies away
On the yellow moonlight sea :

The boatmen rest their oars and say,

Miserere Domine ! [A long pause.

ORDONIO.

The innocent obey nor charm nor spell !

My brother is in heaven. Thou sainted spirit,

Burst on our sight, a passing visitant !

Once more to hear thy voice, once more to see thee,

O 't were a joy to me !

ALVAR.

A joy to thee !
What if thou heard'st him now ? What if his spirit
Re-enter'd its cold corse, and came upon thee
With many a stab from many a murderer's poniard 1
What if (his stedfast Eye still beaming Pity
And Brother's love) he rurn'd his head aside,
Lest he shoidd look at thee, and with one look
Hurl thee beyond all power of Penitence ?

VALDEZ. '

These are unholy fancies !

ordonio {struggling with Jus feelings).
Yes, my father,
He is in Heaven!

alvar {still to Ordonio).

But what if he had a brother,
Who had lived even so, that at his dying hour
The name of Heaven would have convulsed his face,
More than the death-pang ?

VALDEZ.

Idly prating man !
Thou hast guess'd ill : Don Alvar's only brother
Stands here before thee — a father's blessing on him !
He is most virtuous.

alvar {still to Ordonio).

What, if his very virtues
Had pamper'd his swoln heart and made him proud ?
And what if Pride had duped him into guilt ?
Yet still he stalk'd a self-created God,
Not very bold, but exquisitely cunning ;
And one that at his Mother's looking-glass
Would force his features to a frowning sternness ?
Young Lord ! I tell thee, that there are such Beings —
Yea, and it gives fierce merriment to the damn'd,
To see these most proud men, that lothe mankind,
At every stir and buzz of coward conscience,
Trick, cant, and lie, most whining hypocrites !
Away, away ! Now let me hear more music.

[Music again.

TERESA.

Tis strange, I tremble at my own conjectures!

But whatsoe'er it mean, I dare no longer

Be present at these lawless mysteries,

This dark provoking of the Hidden Powers !

Already I affront — if not high Heaven —

Yet Alvar's Memory! — Hark! I make appeal

Against the unholy rite, and hasten hence

To bend before a lawful shrine, and seek

That voice which whispers, when the still heart

listens,
Comiort and faithful Hope ! Let us retire.
alvar {to Teresa anxiously).
O full of faith and guileless love, thy Spirit

Still prompts thee wisely. Let the pangs of guilt
Surprise the guilty : thou art innocent !

[Exeunt Teresa and Attendant
{Music as before).
The spell is mutter'd — Come, thou wandering Shape
Who own'st no Master in a human eye,
Whate'er be this man's doom, fair be it, or foul
If he be dead, O come ! and bring with thee
That which he grasp'd in death ! but if he live,
Some token of his obscure perilous life.

[The whole Music clashes into a Chorus

CHORUS.

Wandering Demons, hear the spell!
Lest a blacker charm compel —
[The incense on the altar takes fire suddenly, and
an illuminated picture of Alvar's assassina-
tion is discovered, and having remained a
few seconds is then hidden by ascending
flames.
ordonio {starting in great agitation).
Duped ! duped ! duped ! — the traitor Isidore !

[At this instant the doors are forced open, Mon
viedro and the Familiars of the Inquisition,
Servants etc. enter and fill the stage.
monviedro.
First seize the sorcerer ! surfer him not to speak !
The holy judges of the Inquisition
Shall hear his first words. — Look you pale, Lord

Valdez ?
Plain evidence have we here of most foul sorcery.
There is a dungeon underneath this castle,
And as you hope for mild interpretation,
Surrender instantly the keys and charge of it.
ordonio {recovering himself as from stupor, to
Servants.)
Why haste you not ? Off with him to the dungeon !
[All rush out in tumult

SCENE n.

Interior of a Chapel, with painted Window*
Enter Teresa.

TERESA.

When first I enter'd this pure spot, forebodings
Press'd heavy on my heart: but as I knelt,.
Such calm unwonted bliss possess'd my spirit,
A trance so cloudless, that those sounds, hard by
Of trampling uproar fell upon mine ear
As alien and unnoticed as the rain-storm
Beats on the roof of some fair banquet-room,

While sweetest melodies are warbling

Enter Valdez.

VALDEZ.

Ye pitying saints, forgive a father's blindness,
And extricate us from this net of peril !

TERESA.

Who wakes anew my fears, and speaks of peril ?

VALDEZi

O best Teresa, wisely wert thou prompted !
This was no feat of mortal agency I
That picture — Oh, that picture tells me all !
With a flash of light it came, in flames it vanish 'a
Self-kindled, self-consumed : bright% thy Life,
Sudden and unexpected as thy Fate,
Alvar! Mv soh! My son ! — The. Inquisitor —
^ ^,* -94

REMORSE.

85

TERESA.

.Torture me not ! But Alvar — Oh of Alvar ?

VALDEZ.

How often would he plead for these Morescoes !
The brood accurst ! remorseless, coward murderers !
teresa {wildly).

So ? so ? — I comprehend you — He is

valdez (with averted countenance).

He is no more !

TERESA.

0 sorrow ! that a father's voice should say this,
^ father's heart believe it !

VALDEZ.

A worse sorrow
Are Fancy's wild hopes to a heart despairing !

TERESA.

These rays that slant in through those gorgeous

windows,
From yon bright orb — though color'd as they pass,
Are they not Light ? — Even so that voice, Lord

Valdoe !
Which whispers to my soul, though haply varied
By many a fancy, many a wishful hope,
Speaks yet the truth : and Alvar lives for me !

VALDEZ.

Yes, for three wasting years, thus and no other,
He has lived for thee — a spirit for thy spirit !
My child, we must not give religious faith
To every voice which makes the heart a listener
To its own wish.

TERESA.

I breathed to the Unerring
Permitted prayers. Must those remain unanswer'd,
Yet impious sorcery, that holds no commune
Save with the lying Spirit, claim belief?

VALDEZ.

O not to-day, not now for the first time
Was Alvar lost to thee —

[Turning off, aloud, but yet as to himself.
Accurst assassins !
Disarm'd, o'erpower'd, despairing of defence,
At his bared breast he seem'd to grasp some relict

More dear than was his life

teresa (with a faint shriek).

O Heavens ! my portrait !
And he did grasp it in his death-pang !

Off, false Demon,
That beat'st thy black wings close above my head !
' [Ordonio enters with the keys of the dungeon
in his hand.
Hush ! who comes here ? The wizard Moor's em-
ployer !
Moors were his murderers, you say ? Saints shield us

From wicked thoughts

[Valdez moves towards the back of the stage to
meet Ordonio, and during the concluding
lines of Teresa's speech appears as eagerly
conversing with him.

Is Alvar dead ? what then ?
The nuptial rites and funeral shall be one !
Here 's no abidin^place for thee, Teresa. —
Away! they see me not — TIiou seest me, Alvar!
To thee I bend my course. — But first one question,
One question to Ordonio. — My limbs tremble —
There I may si|j«nmark'd — a moment will restore me.
[Retires out of sight.
ordonio (as he advances with Valdez).
These are the dungeon keys. Monviedro knew not
That I too had received the wizard message,

" He that can bring the dead to life again."
But now he is satisfied, I plann'd this scheme
To work a full conviction on the culprit,
And he intrusts him wholly to my keeping.

VALDEZ.

'T is well, my son ! But have you yet discover'd
Where is Teresa ? what those speeches meant —
Pride, and Hypocrisy, and Guilt, and Cunning ?
Then when the wizard fix'd his eye on you,
And you, I know not why, look'd pale and trem-
bled—
Why — why, what ails you now ? —
ordonio (confused).

Me ? what ails me ?
A pricking of the blood — It might have happen'd
At any other time. — Why scan you me ?

VALDEZ

His speech about the corse, and stabs and murderers
Bore reference to the assassins

ORDONIO.

Duped ! duped ! duped
The traitor, Isidore ! [A pause ; then wildly.

I tell thee, my dear father !
I am most glad of this.

valdez (confused).

True — Sorcery
Merits its doom ; and this perchance may guide us
To the discovery of the murderers.
I have their statures and their several faces
So present to me, that but once to meet them
Would be to recognize.

ORDONIO.

Yes ! yes ! we recognize them
I was benumb'd, and stagger'd up and down
Through darkness without light — dark — dark — dark!
My flesh crept chill, my limbs felt manacled,
As had a snake coil'd round them ! — Now 't is sun-
shine,
And the blood dances freely through its channels !

[Turns off abruptly ; then to himself
This is my virtuous, grateful Isidore !

[Then mimicking Isidore's manner and voice.
" A common trick of gratitude, my Lord ! "
Oh Gratitude ! a dagger would dissect
His " own full heart" — 'twere good to see its color

valdez.
These magic sights ! O that I ne'er had yielded,
To your entreaties ! Neither had I yielded,
But that in spite of your own seeming faith
I held it for some innocent stratagem,
Which Love had prompted, to remove the doubts
Of wild Teresa — by fancies quelling fancies !

ordonio (in a slow voice, as reasoning to himself.)
Love ! Love ! and then we hate ! and what ? and

wherefore ?
Hatred and Love ! Fancies opposed by fancies .'
What, if one reptile sting another reptile !
Where is the crime ? The goodly face of Naturo
Hath one disfeaturing stain the less upon it.
Are we not all predestined Transiency,
And cold Dishonor ? Grant it, that this hand
Had given a morsel to the hungry worms
Somewhat too early — Where's the crime of this f
That this must needs bring on the idiocy
Of moist-eyed Penitence — 't is like a dream !
valdez.

Wild talk, my son' But thy excess of feeling

[Averting himself

36

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

Almost, I fear, it hath unhinged his brain.

ordonid (now in soliloquy, and now addressing

his father : and just after the speech has

commenced, Teresa reappears and advances

slowly).

Say, I had laid a body in the sun !

Well ! in a month there swarm forth from the corse

A thousand, nay, ten thousand sentient beings

In place of that one man.— Say, I had MlVd him !

[Teresa starts, and stops, listening.
Yet who shall tell me, that each one and all
Of these ten thousand lives is not as happy
As that one life, which being push'd aside,
Made room for these unnumber'd

valdez.

O mere madness !
[Teresa moves hastily forwards, and places herself
directly before Ordonio.
ORDONio (checking the feeling of surprise, and
forcing his tones into an expression of
playful courtesy).
Teresa ? or the Phantom of Teresa ?

TERESA.

Alas! the Phantom only, if in truth

The substance of her Being, her Life's life,

Have ta'en its flight through Alvar's death-wound —

(A pause.) Where —

(Even coward Murder grants the dead a grave)
O tell me, Valdez ! — answer me, Ordonio !
Where lies the corse of my betrothed husband ?

ORDONIO.

There, where Ordonio likewise would fain lie !

In the sleep-compelling earth, in unpierced dark-
ness!

For while we live —

An inward day that never, never sets,

Glares round the soul, and mocks the closing eye-
lids!

Over his rocky grave the Fir-grove sighs

A lulling ceaseless dirge ! 'T is well with him.

[Strides off in agitation towards the altar, hut
returns as Valdez is speaking.

teresa (recoiling with the expression appropriate to
the passion).

The rock ! the fir-grove ! [To Valdez.

Didst thou hear him say it ?

Hush ! I will ask him !

VALDEZ.

Urge him not — not now!
This we beheld. Nor He nor I know more,
Than w-hat the magic imagery reveal'd.
The assassin, who press'd foremost of the three

ORDONIO.

A tender-hearted, scrupulous, grateful villain,
Whom I will strangle !

valdez (looking with anxious disquiet at his Son, yet
attempting to proceed with his description).

While his two companions

ORDONIO.

Dead ! dead already ! what care we for the dead ?

valdez (to Teresa).
Pity him ! soothe him ! disenchant his spirit !
These supernatural shows, this strange disclosure,
And this too fond affection, which still broods
O'er Alvar's fate, and still burns to avenge it —
These, struggling with his hopeless love for you,
Distemper him, and give reality
To the creatures of his fancy —

ORDONIO.

Is it so ?
Yes ! yes ! even like a child, that, too abruptly
Roused by a glare of light from deepest sleep,
Starts up bewilder'd and 'talks idly.

(Then mysteriously.) Father!

What if the Moors that made my brother's grave
Even now were digging ours ? What if the bolt,
Though aim'd, I doubt not, at the son of Valdez,
Yet miss'd its true aim when it fell on Alvar i

valdez.
Alvar ne'er fought against the Moors, — say rather,
He was their advocate ; but you had march'd
With fire and desolation through their villages. —
Yet he by chance was captured.

ORDONIO.

Unknown, perhaps
Captured, yet, as the son of Valdez, murder'd.
Leave all to me. Nay, whither, gentle Lady ?

What seek you now i

To guide me-

A better, surer light

Both valdez and ordonio.
Whither ?

TERESA.

To the only place
Where life yet dwells for me, and ease of heart
These walls seem threatening to fall in upon me!
Detain me not ! a dim Power drives me hence,
And that will be my guide.

VALDEZ.

To find a lover !
Suits that a high-born maiden's modesty ?

0 folly and shame ! Tempt not my rage, Teresa !

TERESA.

Hopeless, I fear no human being's rage.

And am I hastening to the arms O Heaven !

1 haste but to the grave of my beloved !

[Exit, Valdez following after htr

ORDONIO.

This, then, is my reward ! and I must love her ?
Scorn'd ! shudder'd at ! yet love her still ? yes !

yes !
By the deep feelings of Revenge and Hate
I wrill still love her — woo her — win her too !
(A pause) Isidore safe and silent, and the portrait
Found on the wizard — he, belike, self-poison'd
To escape the crueller flames My soul shouts

triumph !
The mine is undermined ! Blood ! Blood ! Blood !
They thirst for thy blood ! thy blood, Ordonio !

[A pause.
The hunt is up! and in the midnight wood,
With lights to dazzle and with nets they seek
A timid prey : and lo ! the tiger's eye
Glares in the red flame of his hunter's torch !
To Isidore I will dispatch a message,
And lure him to the cavern! ay, that cavern!
He cannot fail to find it. Thither I '11 lure him,
Whence he shall never, never more return !

[Looks through the side window
A rim of the sun lies yet upon the sea,
And now 't is gone ! All shall be done to-night.

96

REMORSE.

87

ACT TV.

SCENE I.

A cavern, dark, except where a gleam of moonlight is
seen on one side at the further end of it; supposed
to be cast on it from a crevice in a part of the
cavern out of sight. Isidore alone, an extinguished
torch in his hand.

ISIDORE.

Faith 'twas a moving letter — very moving!
' His life in danger, no place safe but this !
Twas his turn now to talk of gratitude."
4nd yet — but no! there can't be such a villain,
ft cannot be !

Thanks to that little crevice,
Which lets the moonlight in ! I '11 go and sit by it.
To peep at a tree, or see a he-goat's beard,
Or hear a cow or two breathe loud in their sleep —
Any thing but this crash of water-drops !
These dull abortive sounds that fret the silence
With puny thwartings and mock opposition !
So beats the death-watch to a dead man's ear.

[He goes out of sight, opposite to the patch of

moonlight : returns after a minute's elapse,

in an ecstasy of fear.
A hellish pit ! The very same I dreamt of!
[ was just in — and those damn'd fingers of ice
Which clutch'd my hair up ! Ha ' —what's that — it

moved.

[Isidore stands staring at another recess in
the cavern. In the mean time Ordonio en-
ters with a torch, and halloos to Isidore.

ISIDORE.

[ swear that I saw something moving there !
The moonshine came and went like a flash of light-
ning-

[ swear, I saw it move.

ordonio {goes into the recess, then returns, and with
great scorn).

A jutting clay stone
Props on the long lank weed, that grows beneath :
And the weed nods and drips.

Isidore {forcing a laugh faintly).

A jest to laugh at !
It was not that which scared me, good my Lord.

ORDONIO.

What scared you, then ?

ISIDORE.

You see that little rift ?
But first permit me !
[Lights ?iis torch at Ordonio's, and while lighting it.
(A lighted torch in the hand,
Is no unpleasant object here — one's breath
Floats round the flame, and makes as many colors
As the thin clouds that travel near the moon.)
You see that crevice there ?
My torch extinguish'd by these water drops,
And marking that the moonlight came from thence,
I stept in to it, meaning to sit there;
But scarcely had I measured twenty paces —
My body bending forward, yea, overbalanced
Almost beyond recoil, on the dim brink
Of a huge chasm I stept. The shadowy moonshine
Filling the Void, so counterfeited Substance,
N

That my foot hung aslant adown the edge.
Was it my own fear ?

Fear too hath its instincts !
(And yet such dens as these are wildly told of,
And yet are Beings that live, yet not for the eye)
An arm of frost above and from behind me
Pluck'd up and snatch'd me backward. Merciful

Heaven!
You smile! alas, even smiles look ghastly here !
My Lord, I pray you, go yourself and view it.

ordonio.
It must have shot some pleasant feelings through you

ISIDORE.

If eveiy atom of a dead man's flesh
Should creep, each one with a particular life,
Yet all as cold as ever — 'twas just so!
Or had it drizzled needle points of frost
Upon a feverish head made suddenly bald —
ordonio {interrupting him).

Why, Isidore
I blush for thy cowardice. It might have startled,
I grant you, even a brave man for a moment —
But such a panic —

ISIDORE.

When a boy, my Lord !
I could have sate whole hours beside that chasm,
Push'd in huge stones, and heard them strike and

rattle
Against its horrid sides: then hung my head
Low down, and listen'd till the heavy fragments
Sank with faint crash in that still groaning well,
Which never thirsty pilgrim blest, which never
A living thing came near — unless, perchance,
Some blind-worm battens on the ropy mould
Close at its edge.

ORDONIO.

Art thou more coward now ?

ISIDORE.

Call him, that fears his fellow-man, a coward !
I fear not man — but this inhuman cavern,
It w7ere too bad a prison-house for goblins.
Beside (you'll smile, my Lord), but true it is,
My last night's sleep was veiy sorely haunted
By what had pass'd between us in the morning.

0 sleep of horrors ! Now run down and stared at
By Forms so hideous that they mock remembrance — «
Now seeing nothing and imagining nothing,

But only being afraid — stifled with Fear !

While every goodly or familiar form

Had a strange power of breathing terror round me

1 saw you in a thousand fearful shapes ;
And, I entreat your lordship to believe me,
In my last dream

ORDONIO.

Well ?

ISIDORE.

I was in the act
Of falling down that chasm, when Alhadra
Waked me : she heard my heart beat.

ORDONIO.

Strange enough1
Hid you been here before ?

ISIDORE.

Never, my Lord .
But mine eyes do not see it now more clearly,
Than in my dream I saw — that very chasm.
ORDONIO {stands lost in thought, then after a pause
I know not why it should be ! yet it is —

9?

88

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

What is, my Lord ?

To kill a man.-

ORDONIO.

Abhorrent from our nature,

ISIDORE.

Except in self-defence.

ORDONIO.

Why, that's my case ; and yet the soul recoils from it —
Tis so with me at least. But you, perhaps,
Have sterner feelings ?

ISIDORE.

Something troubles you.
How shall I serve you ? By the life you gave me,
By all that makes that life of value to me,
My wife, my babes, my honor, I swear to you,
Name it, and I will toil to do the thing,
If it be innocent ! But this, my Lord,
Is not a place where you could perpetrate,
No, nor propose, a wicked thing. The darkness,
When ten strides off, we know 'tis cheerful moonlight,
Collects the guilt, and crowds it round the heart.
It must be innocent.
[Ordonio darkly, and in the feeling of self -justifica-
tion, tells what he conceives of his own character and
actions, speaking of himself in the third person.
ordonio.
Thyself be judge.
One of our family knew this place well.

ISIDORE.

Who ? when ? my Lord ?

ORDONIO.

What boots it, who or when ?

Hang up thy torch — I '11 tell his tale to thee.

[They hang up their torches on some ridge in
the cavern.
He was a man different from other men,
And he despised them, yet revered himself.

Isidore {aside).
He ? He despised ? Thou 'rt speaking of thyself!
I am on my guard, however : no surprise.

\Then to Ordonio.
What ! he was mad ?

ordonio.
All men seem'd mad to him !
Nature had made him for some other planet,
And press'd his soul into a human shape
By accident or malice. In this world
He found no fit companion.

[Aside.

Of himself he speaks.

Alas! poor wretch!
Mad men are mostly proud.

ORDONIO.

He walk'd alone,
And phantom thoughts unsought-for troubled him.
Something within would still be shadowing out
All possibilities ; and with these shadows
His mind held dalliance. Once, as so it happen'd,
A fancy eross'd him wilder than the rest :
To this in moody murmur and low voice
He yielded utterance, as some talk in sleep:
The man who heard him. —

Why didst thou look round 1

ISIDORE.

I have a prattler three years old, my Lord !
In truth he is my darling. As I went
From forth my door, he made a moan in sleep-
But I am talking idly — pray proceed !
And what did this man ?

ORDONIO.

With his human hand
He gave a substance and reality
To that wild fancy of a possible thing. —
Well it was done ! [ Then very wildly

Why babblest thou of guilt ?
The deed was done, and it pass'd fairly off
And he whose tale I tell thee — dost thou listen ?

ISIDORE.

I would, my Lord, you were by my fire-side,
I 'd listen to you with an eager eye,
Though you began this cloudy tale at midnight ,
But I do listen — pray proceed, my Lord.

ORDONIO.

Where was I ?

ISIDORE.

He of whom you tell the tale —

ORDONIO.

Surveying all things with a quiet scorn,
Tamed himself down to living purposes,
The occupations and the semblances
Of ordinary men — and such he seem'd !
But that same over-ready agent — he —

ISIDORE.

Ah ! what of him, my Lord ?

ORDONIO

He proved a tmitor,
Betray'd the mystery to a brother traitor,
And they between them hatch'd a damned plot
To hunt him down to infamy and death.
What did the Valdez ? I am proud of the name,
Since he dared do it. —

[Ordonio grasps his sword, and turns off froth
Isidore ; then after a pause returns
Our links burn dimly.

ISIDORE.

A dark tale darkly finish'd ! Nay, my Lord !
Tell what he did.

ORDONIO.

That which his wisdom prompted —

He made that Traitor meet him in this cavern,

And here he kill'd the Traitor.

ISIDORE.

No ! the fool !
He had not wit enough to be a traitor.
Poor thick-eyed beetle ! not to have foreseen
That he who gull'd thee with a whimper'd lie
To murder his own brother, would not scruple
To murder thee, if e'er his guilt grew jealous,
And he could steal upon thee in the dark !

ORDONIO.

Thou wouldst not then have come, if

ISIDORE.

Oh yes, my Lord !
would have met him arm'd, and scared the coward
[Isidore throws off his robe ; shows himself armed
and draws his sword.

ordonio.
Now this is excellent, and warms the blood !
My heart was drawing back, drawing me back

98

REMORSE.

89

With weak and womanish scruples. Now my Ven-
geance
Beckons me onwards with a warrior's mien,
And claims that life, my pity robb'd her of—
Now will I kill thee, thankless slave ! and count it
Among my comfortable thoughts hereafter.

ISIDORE.

And all my little ones fatherless —

Die thou first.
[They fight ; Ordonio disarms Isidore, and in dis-
arming him throws his sword up that recess oppo-
site to which they were standing. Isidore hurries
into the recess with historch, Ordonio follows him ;
a loud cry of " Traitor ! Monster ! " is heard
from the cavern, and in a moment Ordonio returns
alone.

ordonio.
I have hurl'd him down the chasm ! Treason for trea-
son.
He dreamt of it : henceforward let him sleep
A dreamless sleep, from which no wife can wake him.
His dream too is made out — Now for his friend.

[Exit Ordonio.

valdez.
Hush, thoughtless woman !

TERESA*

Nay, it wakes within me
More than a woman's spirit.

VALDEZ.

No more of this —
What if Monviedro or his creatures hear us !
I dare not listen to you.

TERESA

My honor 'd Lord,
These were my Alvar's lessons ; and whene'ei
I bend me o'er his portrait, I repeat them,
As if to give a voice to the mute image.

VALDEZ.

We have mourn'd for Alvar.

SCENE II.

The interior Court of a Saracenic or Gothic Castle,
with the Iron Gate of a Dungeon visible.

TERESA.

Heart-chilling Superstition ! thou canst glaze
Even Pity's eye with her own frozen tear.
In vain I urge the tortures that await him ;
Even Selma, reverend guardian of my childhood,
My second mother, shuts her heart against me !
Well, I have won from her what most imports
The present need, this secret of the dungeon,
Known only to herself. — A Moor ! a Sorcerer !
No, I have faith, that Nature ne'er permitted
Baseness to wear a form so noble. True,
I doubt not, that Ordonio had suborn'd him
To act some part in some unholy fraud ;
As little doubt, that for some unknown purpose
He hath baffled his suborner, terror-struck him,
And that Ordonio meditates revenge !
But my resolve is fix'd ! myself will rescue him,
And learn if haply he know aught of Alvar. •

Enter Valdez.

valdez.
Still sad ? — and gazing at the massive door
Of that fell Dungeon which thou ne'er hadst sight of,
Save what, perchance, thy infant fancy shaped it,
When the nurse still'd thy cries with unmeant threats.
Now by my faith, Girl ! this same wizard haunts thee !
A stately man, and eloquent and tender —

[ With a sneer.
Who then need wonder if a lady sighs
Even at the thought of what these stern Dominicans —

teresa {with solemn indignation).
The horror of their ghastly punishments
Doth so o'ertop the height of all compassion,
That I should feel too little for mine enemy,
If it were possible I could feel more,
Even though the dearest inmates of our household
Were doom'd to suffer them. That such things are —

* Vide Apoendix, Note 2.

Of his sad fate there now remains no doubt.
Have I no other son ?

TERESA.

Speak not of him !
That low imposture ! That mysterious picture !
If this be madness, must I wed a madman ?
And if not madness, there is mystery,
And guilt doth lurk behind it

VALDEZ.

Is this well ?

TERESA.

Yes, it is truth : saw you his countenance ?
How rage, remorse, and scorn, and stupid fear,
Displaced each other with swift interchanges ?

0 that I had indeed the sorcerer's power ! — —

1 would call up before thine eyes the image
Of my betrothed Alvar, of thy first-bom !

His own fair countenance, his kingl/ ■roilehead,
His tender smiles, love's day-dawn on i.is lips !
That spiritual and almost heavenly light
In his commanding eye — his mien heroic,
Virtue's own native heraldry ! to man
Genial, and pleasant to his guardian angel.
Whene'er he gladden'd, how the gladness spread
Wide round him ! and when oft with swelling tears.
Flash'd through by indignation, he bewail'd
The wrongs of Belgium's martyr'd patriots,
Oh, what a grief was there — for joy to envy,
Or gaze upon enamour'd !

O my father !
Recall that morning when we knelt together,
And thou didst bless our loves ! O even now,
Even now, my sire ! to thy mind's eye present him.
As at that moment he rose up before thee,
Stately, with beaming look ! Place, place beside him
Ordonio's dark perturbed countenance !
Then bid me (Oh thou couldst not) bid me turn
From him, the joy, the triumph of our kind !
To take in exchange that brooding man, who never
Lifts up his eye from the earth, unless to scowl.

VALDEZ.

Ungrateful woman ! I have tried to stifle
An old man's passion ! was it not enough
That thou hadst made my son a restless man,
Banish'd his health, and half unhinged his reason .
But that thou wilt insult him with suspicion '(
And toil to blast his honor ? I am old,
A comfortless old man !

TERESA.

O Grief! to hear
Hateful entreaties from a voice we love '
99

90

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WOUKS.

Enter a Peasant and presents a letter to Valdez.

valdez {reading it).
" He dares not venture hither!" Why what can this

mean?
* Lest the Familiars of the Inquisition,
That watch around my gates, should intercept him ;
But he conjures me, that without delay
I hasten to him — for my own sake entreats me
To guard from danger him I hold imprison'd —
He will reveal a secret, the joy of which
Will even outweigh the sorrow." — Why what can

this be ?
Perchance it is some Moorish stratagem,
To have in me a hostage for his safety.
Nay, that they dare not ? Ho ! collect my servants !
I will go thither — let them arm themselves.

[Exit Valdez.

teresa (alone).
The moon is high in heaven, and all is hush'd.
Yet, anxious listener ! I have seem'd to hear
A low dead thunder mutter through the night,
As 'twere a giant angiy in his sleep.
O Alvar ! Alvar ! that they could return,
Those blessed days that imitated heaven,
When we two wont to walk at even-tide ;
Wnen we saw naught but beauty ; when we heard
The voice of that Almighty One who loved us
In every gale that breathed, and wave that mur-
mur'd !

0 we have listen'd, even till high-wrought pleasure
Hath half assumed the countenance of grief,

And the deep sigh seem'd to heave up a weight
Of bliss, that press'd too heavy on the heart.

[A pause.
And this majestic Moor, seems he not one
Who oft and long communing with my Alvar
Hath drunk in kindred lustre from his presence,
And guides me to him with reflected light ?
What if in yon dark dungeon coward Treachery
Be groping for him with envenom'd poniard —
Hence, womanish fears, traitors to love and duty —

1 '11 free him. [Exit Teresa

SCENE III.

The Mountains by moonlight. Alhadra alone in a
Moorish dress.

ALHADRA.

Yon hanging woods, that touch'd by autumn seem
As they were blossoming hues of fire and gold ;
The flower-like woods, most lovely in decay,
The many clouds, the sea, the rock, the sands,
Lie in the silent moonshine : and the owl,
'Strange ! very strange !) the screech-owl only wTakes !
Sole voice, sole eye of all this world of beauty !
Unless, perhaps, she sing her screeching song
To a herd of wolves, that skulk athirst for blood.
Why such a thing am I ? — Where are these men ?
I need the sympathy of human faces,
To beat away this deep contempt for all things,
Which quenches my revenge. Oh ! would to Alia,
The raven, or the sea-mew, were appointed
To bring me food ! or rather that my soul
Could drink in life from the universal air !
ft were a lot divine in some small skiff
Along some Ocean's boundless solitude,

To float for ever with a careless course,
And think myself the only being aiive !

My children ! — Isidore's children ! — Son of Valdez,
This hath new-strung mine arm. Thou coward tyrant
To stupify a woman's heart with anguish,
Till she forgot — even that she was a mother !
[She fixes her eye on the earth. Then drop in one after
another, from different parts of the stage, a con-
siderable number of Morescoes, all in Moorish gai-
ments and Moorish armor. They form a circle ai
a distance round Alhadra, and remain silent till
the second in command, Naomi, enters, distinguished
by his dress and armor, and by the silent obeisance
paid to him on his entrance by the other Moors.

NAOMI.

Woman ! may Alia and the Prophet bless thee !
We have obey'd thy call. Where is our chief?
And why didst thou enjoin these Moorish garments \

Alhadra (raising her eyes, and looking round on tfie

circle).
Warriors of Mahomet ! faithful in the battle !
My countrymen ! Come ye prepared to work
An honorable deed ? And would ye work it
In the slave's garb ? Curse on those Christian robes
They are spell-blasted : and whoever wears them
His arm shrinks wither'd, his heart melts away,
And his bones soften.

NAOMI.

Where is Isidore ?
alhadra (in a deep low voice).
This night I went from forth my house, and left
His children all asleep: and he was living !
And I return'd and found them still asleep,
But he had perish'd

ALL THE MORESCOES.

Perish'd ?

ALHADRA.

He had perish'd !
Sleep on, poor babes ! not one of you doth know
That he is fatherless — a desolate orphan !
Why should we wake them ? can an infant's arm
Revenge his murder ?

one morescoe (to another).

Did she say his murder 1

NAOMI.

Murder ? Not murder'd ?

ALHADRA.

Murder'd by a Christian !
[They all at once draw their sabres
alhadra (to Naomi, who advances from the drcle\
Brother of Zagri ! fling away thy sword
This is thy chieftain's ! [He steps forward to take it

Dost thou dare receive it ?
For I have sworn by Alia and the Prophet,
No tear shall dim these eyes, this woman's heart
Shall heave no groan, till I have seen that sword
Wet with the life-blood of the son of Valdez !

[A pau
Ordonio was your chieftain's murderer !

NAOMI.

He dies, by Alia.
ALL (kneeling.)

By \11*

ALHADRA.

This night your chieftain arm'd himself,
100

REMORSE.

91

And hurried from me. But I follow'd him .
At distance, till I saw him enter — there !

NAOMI.

The cavern ?

ALHADRA.

Yes, the mouth of yonder cavern.

After a while I saw the son of Valdez

Rush by with flaring torch ; he likewise enter'd.

There was another and a longer pause ;

And once, methought I heard the clash of swords !

And soon the son of Valdez reappear'd :

He flung his torch towards the moon in sport,

And seem'd as he were mirthful ! I stood listening,

Impatient for the footsteps of my husband !

NAOMI.

Thou calledst him?

ALHADRA.

I crept into the cavern —
'Twas dark and very silent [Then wildly.

What saidst thou ?
No ! no ! I did not dare call, Isidore,
Lest I should hear no answer ! A brief while,
Belike, I lost all thought and memory
Of that for which I came ! After that pause,

0 Heaven ! I heard a groan, and follow'd it :
And yet another groan, which guided me
Into a strange recess — and there was light,

A hideous light ! his torch lay on the ground ;
Its flame burnt dimly o'er a chasm's brink :

1 spake ; and whilst I spake, a feeble groan

Came from that chasm ! it was his last ! his death-
groan !

NAOMI.

Comfort her, Alia.

ALHADRA.

I stood in unimaginable trance
And agony that cannot be remember'd,
Listening with horrid hope to hear a groan !
But I had heard his last : my husband's death-groan !

NAOMI.

Haste ! let us onward.

ALHADRA.

I look'd far down the pit —
My sight was bounded by a jutting fragment:
And it was stain'd with blood. Then first I shriek'd:
My eye-balls burnt, my brain grew hot as fire,
And all the hanging drops of the wet roof
Turn'd into blood — I saw them turn to blood !
And I was leaping wildly down the chasm,
When on the farther brink I saw his sword,
And it said, Vengeance ! — Curses on my tongue !
The moon hath moved in Heaven, and I am here,
And he hath not had vengeance ! Isidore !
Bpirit of Isidore ! thy murderer lives !
Away! away!

ALL.

Away ! away !

[She rushes off, all following her.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

A Dungeon.

ALVAR (alone) rises slowly from a led of reeds.

ALVAR.

And this place my forefathers made for man •

This is the process of our love and wisdom

To each poor brother who offends against us —

Most innocent, perhaps — and what if guilty ?

Is this the only cure ? Merciful God !

Each pore and natural outlet shrivell'd up,

By ignorance and parching poverty,

His energies roll back upon his heart,

And stagnate and corrupt, till, changed to poison,

They break out on him, like a lothesome plague

spot!
Then we call in our pamper'd mountebanks :
And this is their best cure ! un comforted
And friendless solitude, groaning and tears,
And savage faces, at the clanking hour,
Seen through the steam and vapors of his dungeon
By the lamp's dismal twilight ! So he lies
Circled with evil, till his very soul
Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deform'd
By sights of evermore deformity!
With other ministrations thou, O Nature !
Healest thy wandering and distemper'd child :
Thou pourest on him thy soft influences,
Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets ;
Thy melodies of words, and winds, and waters !
Till he relent, and can no more endure
To be a jarring and a dissonant thing
Amid this general dance and minstrelsy ;
But, bursting into tears, wins back his way
His angry spirit heal'd and harmonized
By the benignant touch of love and beauty.
I am chill and weary ! Yon rude bench of stone,
In that dark angle, the sole resting-place !
But the self-approving mind is its own light,
And life's best warmth still radiates from the heart
Where Love sits brooding, and an honest purpose.

[Retires out of sight.

Enter Teresa with a Taper.

TERESA.

It has chill'd my veiy life — my own voice scares me .

Yet when I hear it not, I seem to lose

The substance of my being — my strongest grasp

Sends inwards but weak witness that I am.

I seek to cheat the echo. — How the half sounds

Blend with this strangled light ! Is he not here —

[Looking round
O for one human face here — but to see
One human face here to sustain me. — Courage !
It is but my own fear ! The life within me,
It sinks and wavers like this cone of flame,
Beyond which I scarce dare look onward ! Oh !

[Shuddering
If I faint ! If this inhuman den should be
At once my death-bed and my burial vault !

[Faintly screams as Alvar emerges from the rece

alvar (rushes towards her, and catches her as she
is falling).

0 gracious Heaven ! it is, it is Teresa !

1 shall reveal myself? The sudden shock
Of rapture will blow out this spark of life,
And Joy complete what Terror has begun.

0 ye impetuous beatings here, be still !
Teresa, best beloved ! pale, pale, and cold !
Her pulse doth flutter ! Teresa ! my Teresa !

teresa (recovering, looks round wildly).

1 heard a voice ; but often in my dreams

I hear that voice ! and wake and try — and try —

H 101

92

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

To hear it waking ! but I never could —
And 'tis so now — even so! Well: he is dead —
Murder'd, perhaps ! And I am faint, and feel
As if it were no painful thing to die !

ALVAR {eagerly).
Believe it not, sweet maid ! Believe it not.
Beloved woman ! 'T was a low imposture,
Framed by a guilty wretch.

Teresa {retires from him, and feebly supports herself
against a pillar of the dungeon).

Ha ! Who art thou ?
alvar {exceedingly affected).
Suborn'd by his brother —

TERESA.

Didst thou murder him ?
And dost thou now repent ? Poor troubled man,
I do forgive thee, and may Heaven forgive thee !

ALVAR.

Ordonio — he —

TERESA.

If thou didst murder him —
His spirit ever at the throne of God
Asks mercy for thee : prays for mercy for thee,
With tears in Heaven !

ALVAR.

Alvar was not murder'd.
Be calm ! Be calm, sweet maid !

teresa {wildly).
Nay, nay, but tell me !

[A pause ; then presses her forehead.
O 'tis lost again!
This dull confused pain —

[A pause, she gazes at Alvar.
Mysterious man !
Methinks I can not fear thee : for thine eye
Doth swim with love and pity — Well ! Ordonio —
Oh my foreboding heart ! and lie suborn'd thee,
And thou didst spare his life ? Blessings shower on

thee,
As many as the drops twice counted o'er
In the fond faithful heart of his Teresa !

ALVAR.

I can endure no more. The Moorish Sorcerer
Exists but in the stain upon his face.
That picture —

teresa {advances towards him).
Ha ! speak on !

ALVAR.

Beloved Teresa!
It told but half the truth. O let this portrait
Tell all — that Alvar lives — that he is here !
Thy much deceived but ever faithful Alvar.

[Takes her portrait from his neck, and gives it her.
teresa {receiving the portrait).
The same — it is the same. Ah ! who art thou ?
Nay I will call thee, Alvar ! [She falls on his neck.

ALVAR.

O joy unutterable !
But hark ! a sound as of removing bars
At the dungeon's outer door. A brief, brief while
Conceal thyself, my love ! It is Ordonio.
For the honor of our race, for our dear father ;
0 for himself too (he is still my brother)
Let me recall him to his nobler nature,
That he may wake as from a dream of murder !
O let me reconcile him to himself.

Open the sacred source of penitent tears,
And be once more his own beloved Alvar.

TERESA.

O my all virtuous love ! I fear to leave thee
With that obdurate man.

ALVAR.

Thou dost not leave me !
But a brief while retire into the darkness :

0 that my joy could spread its sunshine round tnee

TERESA.

The sound of thy voice shall be my music !

[Retiring, she returns hastily and embraces Alvar.
Alvar ! my Alvar ! am I sure I hold thee ?
Is it no dream ? thee in my arms, my Alvar! [Exit
[A noise at the Dungeon door. It opens, and
Ordonio enters, with a goblet in his hand

ORDONIO.

Hail, potent wizard ! in my gayer mood

1 pour'd forth a libation to old Pluto,

And as I brimm'd the bowl, I thought on thee.

Thou hast conspired against my life and honor,

Hast trick'd me foully ; yet I hate thee not.

Why should I hate thee ? this same world of ours,

'T is but a pool amid a storm of rain,

And we the air-bladders that course up and down,

And joust and tilt in merry tournament;

And when one bubble runs foul of another,

[ Waving his hand to Alvar.
The weaker needs must break.

ALVAR.

I see thy heart !
There is a frightful glitter in thine eye
Which doth betray thee. Inly-tortured man !
This is the revelry of a drunken anguish,
Which fain would scoff away the pang of guilt,
And quell each human feeling.

ORDONIO.

Feeling! feeling!
The death of a man — the breaking of a bubble —
'Tis true I cannot sob for such misfortunes ;
But faintness, cold and hunger — curses on me
If willingly I e'er inflicted them !
Come, take the beverage ; this chill place demands it
[Ordonio proffers the goblet

ALVAR.

Yon insect on the wall,

Which moves this way and that its hundred limbs,

Were it a toy of mere mechanic craft,

It were an infinitely curious thing !

But it has life, Ordonio ! life, enjoyment !

And by the power of its miraculous will

Wields all the complex movements of its frame

Unerringly to pleasurable ends !

Saw I that insect on this goblet's brim,

I would remove it with an anxious pity !

What meanest thou ?

ORDONIO.
ALVAR.

There's poison in the wine

ORDONIO.

Thou hast guess'd right ; there's poison in the wine
There 's poison in 't — which of us two shall drink it ?
For one of us must die !

ALVAR.

Whom dost thou think me ?
102

REMORSE.

93

ORDONIO.

The accomplice and sworn friend of Isidore.

ALVAR.

I know him not.
And yet methinks I have heard the name but lately.
Means he the husband of the Moorish woman ?
Isidore ? Isidore ?

ORDONIO.

Good ! good ! that lie ! by heaven it has restored me.
Now I am thy master ! Villain ! thou shall drink it,
Or die a bitterer death.

ALVAR.

What strange solution
Hast thou found out to satisfy thy fears,
And drug them to unnatural sleep ?
[Alvar takes the goblet, and throwing it to the ground
with stern contempt.

My master !

ORDONIO.

Thou mountebank!

ALVAR.

Mountebank and villain !
What then art thou ? For shame, put up thy sword !
What boots a weapon in a wither'd arm ?
I fix mine eye upon thee, and thou tremblest !
I speak, and fear and wonder crush thy rage,
And turn it to a motionless distraction !
Thou blind self- worshipper ! thy pride, thy cunning,
Thy faith in universal villany,
Thy shallow sophisms, thy pretended scorn
For all thy human brethren — out upon them !
What have they done for thee ? have they given thee

peace ?
Cured thee of starting in thy sleep 1 or made
The darkness pleasant when thou wakest at midnight?
Art happy when alone ? Canst walk by thyself
With even step and quiet cheerfulness ?
Yet, yet thou mayest be saved

ORDONIO {vacantly repeating the words).

Saved ? saved ?

ALVAR.

One pang!
Could I call up one pang of true Remorse !

ORDONIO.

He told me of the babes that prattled to him,

His fatherless little ones ! Remorse! Remorse!

Where gott'st thou that fool's word ? Curse on Remorse !

Can it give up the dead, or recompact

A mangled body ? mangled — dash'd to atoms !

Not all the blessings of a host of angels

Can blow away a desolate widow's curse !

And though thou spill thy heart's blood for atonement,

It will not weigh against an orphan's tear !

alvar (almost overcome by his feelings).
But Alvar —

ORDONIO.

Ha ! it chokes thee in the throat,
Even thee ; and yet I pray thee speak it out !
Still Alvar! Alvar! — howl it in mine ear,
Heap it like coals of fire upon my heart,
And shoot it hissing through my brain !

Alas!
That day when thou didst leap from off the rock
Into the waves, and grasp'd thy sinking brother,
And bore hirn to the strand ; then, son of Valdez,
K

How sweet and musical the name of Alvar !
Then, then, Ordonio, he was dear to thee,
And thou wert dear to him ; Heaven only knows
How very dear thou wert ! Why didst thou hate him ?

0 heaven ! how he would fall upon thy neck,
And weep forgiveness !

ORDONIO.

Spirit of the dead !
Methinks I know thee ! ha ! my brain turns wild
At its own dreams ! — off- — off, fantastic shadow !

ALVAR.

1 fain would tell thee what I am ! but dare not !

ORDONIO.

Cheat ! villain ! traitor ! whatsoever thou be —
I fear thee, man !

teresa (rushing out and falling on Alvar's neck).
Ordonio! 'tis thy brother.

[Ordonio with frantic mildness runs upon Alvar
with his sword. Teresa flings herself on
Ordonio and arrests his arm.

Stop, madman, slop.

ALVAR.

Does then this thin disguise impenetrably
Hide Alvar from thee ? Toil and painful wounds
And long imprisonment in unwholesome dungeons,
Have marr'd perhaps all trait and lineament
Of what I was ! But chiefly, chiefly, brother,
My anguish for thy guilt !

Ordonio — Brother !
Nay, nay, thou shalt embrace me.
ordonio {drawing back and gazing at Alvar with a
countenance of at once awe and terror).

Touch me not!
Touch not pollution, Alvar ! I will die.
[He attempts to fall on his sword: Alvar and Teresa
prevent him.

ALVAR.

We will find means to save your honor. Live,
Oh live, Ordonio ! for our father's sake !
Spare his gray hairs !

TERESA.

And you may yet be happy

ORDONIO.

O horror! not a thousand years in heaven

Could recompose this miserable heart,

Or make it capable of one brief joy !

Live ! Live ! Why yes ! 't were well to live with you .

For is it fit a villain should be proud ?

My brother ! I will kneel to you, my brother !

[Kneeling
Forgive me, Alvar ! — Curse me with forgiveness !

ALVAR.

Call back thy soul, Ordonio, and look round thee :
Now is the time for greatness ! Think that Heaven

TERESA.

O mark his eye ! he hears not what you say.

ordonio (pointing at the vacancy).
Yes, mark his eye ! there's fascination in it !
Thou saidst thou didst not know him — That is he
He comes upon me !

ALVAR.

Heal, O heal him, Heaven '
ordonio.
Nearer and nearer! and I cannot stir!
Will no one hear these stifled groans, and wake me?
103

34

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

He would have died to save me, and I kill'd him —
A husband and a father ! —

TERESA.

Some secret poison
Drinks up his spirits !

ordonio {fiercely recollecting himself).
Let the eternal Justice
Prepare my punishment in the obscure world —
[ will not bear to live — to live — O agony !
And be myself alone my own sore torment !

[The doors of the dungeon are broken open, and in
rush Alhadra, and the hand of Morescoes.

ALHADRA.

Seize first that man !

[Alvar presses onward to defend Ordonio.

ORDONIO.

Off, ruffians ! I have flung away my sword.
Woman, my life is thine ! to thee I give it !
Off! he that touches me with his hand of flesh,
I '11 rend his limbs asunder ! I have strength
With this bare arm to scatter you like ashes.

My husband —

ALHADRA.
ORDONIO.

Yes, I murder'd him most foully.

ALVAR and TERESA.

0 horrible !

ALHADRA.

Why didst thou leave his children ?
Demon, thou shouldst have sent thy dogs of hell
To lap their blood ! Then, then I might have harden'd
My soul in misery, and have had comfort.

1 would have stood far off, quiet though dark,
And bade the race of men raise up a mourning
For a deep horror of desolation,

Too great to be one soul's particular lot !
Brother of Zagri ! let me lean upon thee.

[Struggling to suppress her feelings.
The time is not yet come for woman's anguish.
I have not seen his blood — Within an hour
Those little ones will crowd around and ask me,
Where is our father ? I shall curse thee then !
Wert thou in heaven, my curse would pluck thee
thence !

TERESA.

He doth repent! See, see, I kneel to thee !

0 let him live ! That aged man, his father

alhadra {sternly)
Why had he such a son ?

[Shouts from the distance of, Rescue ! Rescue !

Alvar ! Alvar ! and the voice of Valdez heard.

ALHADRA.

Rescue ? — and Isidore's Spirit unavenged ?
The deed be mine ! [Suddenly stabs Ordonio.

Now take my life !

ordonio {staggering from the wound).

Atonement!
Alvar {while with Teresa supporting Ordonio).
Arm of avenging Heaven,

Thou hasft snatch'd from me my most cherish'd hope.
But go ! my word was pledged to thee.
ordonio.

Away!
Brave not my father's rage ! I thank thee ! Thou —
[Then turning his eyes languidly to Alvar.

She hath avenged the blood of Isidore !
I stood in silence like a slave before her,
That I might taste the wormwood and the gall,
And satiate this self-accusing heart
With bitterer agonies than death can give
Forgive me, Alvar !

Oh ! couldst thou forget me ! [Dies
[Alvar and Teresa bend over the body of Ordonio

alhadra {to the Moors).
I thank thee, Heaven ! thou hast ordain'd it wisely,
That still extremes bring their own cure. That point
Tn misery, which makes the oppressed Man
Regardless of his own life, makes him too
Lord of the Oppressor's — Knew I a hundred men
Despairing, but not palsied by despair,
This arm should shake the Kingdoms of the World ,
The deep foundations of iniquity
Should sink ayvay, earth groaning from beneath them ;
The strong-holds of the cruel men should fall,
Their Temples and their mountainous Towers should

fall;
Till Desolation seem'd a beautiful thing,
And all that were, and had the Spirit of Life,
Sang a new song to her who had gone forth,
Conquering and still to conquer !

[Alhadra hurries off with the Moors ; the stage fills
with armed Peasants and Servants, Zulimez
and Valdez at their head. Valdez rushes into
Alvar's arms.

ALVAR.

Turn not thy face that way, my father ! hide,
Oh hide it from his eye ! Oh let thy joy
Flow in unmingled stream through thy first blessing
[Both kneel to Valdez

VALDEZ.

My Son ! My Alvar ! bless, Oh bless him, Heaven !

TERESA.

Me too, my Father ?

VALDEZ.

Bless, Oh bless my children !

[Both rise.

ALVAR.

Delights so full, if unalloy'd with grief
Were ominous. In these strange dread events
Just Heaven instructs us with an awful voice,
That Conscience rules us e'en against our choice.
Our inward monitress to guide or warn,
If listen'd to ; but if repell'd with scorn,
At length as dire Remorse, she reappears,
Works in our guilty hopes, and selfish fears !
Still bids, Remember ! and still cries, Too late !
And while she scares us, goads us to our fate.

APPENDIX.

Note 1, page 81, col. 1

You are a painter

The following lines I have preserved in this place,
not so much as explanatory of the picture of the
assassination, as (if I may say so without disrespect
to the Public) to gratify my own feelings, the passage
being no mere fancy portrait 5 but a slight, yet not
104

REMORSE.

95

unfaithful profile of one,* who still lives, nobilitate
felix, arte clarior, vita colendissimus.

zulimez {speaking o/Alvar in the third per ion).
Buch was the noble Spaniard's own relation.
He told me, too, how in his early youth,
And his first travels, 'twas his choice or chance
To make long sojourn in sea-wedded Venice ;
There won the love of that divine old man,
Courted by mightiest kings, the famous Titian 1
Who, like a second and more lovely Nature,
By the sweet mystery of lines and colors,
Changed the blank canvas to a magic mirror,
That made the Absent present ; and to Shadows
Gave light, depth, substance, bloom, yea, thought and

motion.
He loved the old man, and revered his art :
And though of noblest birth and ample fortune,
The young enthusiast thought it no scorn
But this inalienable ornament,
To be his pupil, and with filial zeal
By practice to appropriate the sage lessons,
Which the gay, smiling old man gladly gave.
The Art, hehonor'd thus, requited him :
And in the following and calamitous years
Beguiled the hours of his captivity.

ALHADRA.

And then he framed this picture? and unaided
By arts unlawful, spell, or talisman!

ALVAR.

A potent spell, a mighty talisman!

The imperishable memory of the deed

Sustain'd by love, and grief, and indignation!

So vivid were the forms within his brain,

His very eyes, when shut, made pictures of them !

Note 2, page 89, col. 1.
The following Scene, as unfit for the stage, was taken
from the Tragedy, in the year 1797, and published
in the Lyrical Ballads. But this work having been
long out of print, I have been advised to reprint it,
as a Note to the second Scene of Act the Fourth, p.
89.

Enter Teresa and Selma.

'Tis said, he spake of you familiarly,

As mine and Alvar's common foster-mother.

SELMA.

Now blessings on the man, whoe'er he be,

That join'd your names with mine! O my sweet Lady,

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—

'Tis more like heaven to come, than what has been!

TERESA.
But that entrance, Selma ?

SELMA.

Can no one hear? It is a perilous talc!

TERESA.

No one.

* Sir George Beaumont. (Written 1814.)

SELMA.
My husband's father told it me,
Poor old Sesina— angels rest his soul !
He was a woodman, and could fell and saw
With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam
Whicli 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 woo!
As hang on brambles. Well, he brought himftomc,
And reared him at the then Lord Valdez' cost.
And so the babe grew up a pretty boy,
A pretty boy, but most unteachable —
He never learnt a prayer, nor told a bead,
But knew the names of birds, and mock'd their notes,
And whistled, as he were a bird himself:
And all the autumn 't was his only play
To gather seeds of wild flowers, and to plant them
With earth and water on the stumps of trees.
A Friar, who gather'd simples in the wood,
A gray-hair'd man, he loved this little boy:
The boy loved 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.
So he became a rare and learned youth :
But O ! 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 pray'd, he never loved to pray
With holy men, nor in a holy place.
But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet,
The late Lord Valdez ne'er was wearied with him.
And once, as by the north side of the chapel
They stood together, chain'd in deep discourse,
The earth heaved 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 seized him, and he made confession
Of all the heretical and lawless talk
Which brought this judgment : so the youth was seized
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 near this dungeon,
He heard a voice distinctly; 'twas the youth's,
Who sung a doleful song about green fields,
How sweet it were on lake or wide savanna
To hunt for food, and be a naked man,
And wander up and down at liberty.
He always doted on the youth, and now
His love grew desperate ; and defying death,
He made that cunning entrance I described,
And the young man escaped.

TERESA.

'Tis a sweet tale:
Such as would lull a listening child to sleep,
His rosy face besoil'd with unwiped tears.
And what became of him ?

SELMA.

He went on shipboard
With those bold voyagers who made discovery
Of golden lands. Sesina's younger brother
Went likewise, and when he return'd to Spain,
He told Sesina, that the poor mad youth,
Soon after they arrived in that new world,
In spite of his dissuasion, seized 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 supposed,
He lived and died among the savage men.
105

96

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

A CHRISTMAS TALE.

IN TWO PARTS.

Uccp TTvpl %p?i roiavTa \iyeiv p^gtjuwvoj ev wpq.

Apud Athen^um.

ADVERTISEMENT.

The form of the following dramatic poem is in hum-
ble imitation of the Winter's Tale of Shakspeare,
except that I have called the first part a Prelude in-
stead of a first Act, as a somewhat nearer resem-
blance to the plan of the ancients, of which one
specimen is left us in the iEschylian Trilogy of the
Agamemnon, the Orestes, and the Eumenides. Though
a matter of form merely, yet two plays, on different
periods of the same tale, might seem less bold, than
an interval of twenty years between the first and
second act. This is, however, in mere obedience to
custom. The effect does not, in reality, at all de-
pend on the Time of the interval ; but on a very dif-
ferent principle. There are cases in which an inter-
val of twenty hours between the acts would have a
worse effect (i. e. render the imagination less disposed
to take the position required) than twenty years in
other cases. For the rest, I shall be well content if
my readers will take it up, read and judge it, as a
Christmas tale.

CHARACTERS.

MEN.
Emerjck, usurping King of Illyria.
Raab Kiuprili, an IUyrian Chieftain.
Casimir, Son of Kiuprili.
Chef Ragozzi, a Military Commander

WOMAN.
Zapolya, Queen of Illyria.

ZAPOLYA

PART I.

THE PRELUDE, ENTITLED, " THE USURP-
ER'S FORTUNE."
SCENE I.

Front of the Palace with a magnificent Colonnade. On
one side a military Guard-House. Sentries pacing
backward and forward before the Palace. Chef
Ragozzi, at the door of the Guard-House, as looking
forwards at some object in the distance.
CHEF ragozzi

My eyes deceive me not, it must be he !

Who but our chief, my more than father, who

But Raab Kiuprili moves with such a gait ?
Lo ! e'en this eager and unwonted haste
But agitates, not quells, its majesty.
My patron! my commander! yes, 'tis he!
Call out the guards. The Lord Kiuprili comes.

Drums beat, etc. the Guard turns out. Enter Raab

Kiuprili.
raab kiuprili (making a signal to stop the drums, etc.)
Silence ! enough! This is no time, young friend!
For ceremonious dues. This summoning drum,
Th' air-shattering trumpet, and the horseman's clatter,
Are insults to a dying sovereign's ear.
Soldiers, 'tis well! Retire! your general greets you,
His loyal fellow-warriors. [Guards retire.

chef ragozzi.

Pardon my surprise.
Thus sudden from the camp, and unattended !
What may these wonders prophesy ?

RAAB KIUPRILI.

Tell me first,
How fares the king ? His majesty still lives ?

chef ragozzi.
We know no otherwise ; but Emerick's friends
(And none but they approach him) scoff at hope. .

RAAB KIUPRILI.

Ragozzi ! I have rear'd thee from a child,

And as a child I have rear'd thee. Whence this air

Of mystery ? That face was wont to open

Clear as the morning to me, showing all things

Hide nothing from me.

CHEF RAGOZZI.

0 most loved, most honor'd,

The mystery that struggles in my looks,
Betray'd my whole tale to thee, if it told thee
That I am ignorant ; but fear the worst.
And mystery is contagious. All things here
Are full of motion : and yet all is silent :
And bad men's hopes infect the good with fears.
RAAB kiuprili {his hand to his heart).

1 have trembling proof within, how true thou speakest

CHEF RAGOZZI.

That the prince Emerick feasts the soldiery,
Gives splendid arms, pays the commanders' debts,
And (it is whisper'd) by sworn promises
Makes himself debtor — hearing this, thou hast heard

All (Then in a subdued and saddened voice.)

But what my Lord will learn too soon himself.

RAAB KIUPRILI.

Ha ! — Well then, let it come ! Worse scarce can

come.
This letter, written by the trembling hand
Of royal Andreas, calls me from the camp
106

ZAPOLYA.

97

To his immediate presence. It appoints me,

The Queen, and Emerick, guardians of the realm,

And of the royal infant. Day by day,

Robb'd of Zapolya's soothing cares, the king

Yearns only to behold one precious boon,

And with his life breathe forth a father's blessing.

CHEF RAGOZZI.

Remember you, my Lord, that Hebrew leech,
Whose face so much distemper'd you ?

RAAB KIUPRILI.

Barzoni ?
1 held him for a spy : but the proof failing
;More courteously, I own, than pleased myself),
I sent him from the camp.

CHEF RAGOZZI.

To him in chief
Prince Emerick trusts his royal brother's health.

RAAB KIUPRILI.

Hide nothing, I conjure you ! What of him ?

CHEF RAGOZZI.

With pomp of words beyond a soldier's cunning,
And shrugs and wrinkled brow, he smiles and whis-
pers !
Talks in dark words of women's fancies ; hints
That 'twere a useless and cruel zeal
To rob a dying man of any hope,
However vain, that soothes him : and, in fine,
Denies all chance of offspring from the Queen.

RAAB KIUPRILI.

The venomous snake ! My heel was on its head,
And (fool !) I did not crush it !

CHEF RAGOZZI.

• Nay, he fears
Zapolya will not long survive her husband.

RAAB KIUPRILI.

Manifest treason ! Even this brief delay

Half makes me an accomplice (If he live),

[Is moving toward the palace,
If he but live and know me, all may— —

CHEF RAGOZZI.

Halt ! [Stops him.
On pain of death, my Lord ! am I commanded
To slop all ingress to the palace.

RAAB KIUPRILI.

Thou!

CHEF RAGOZZI.

No place, no name, no rank excepted —

RAAB KIUPRILI.

Thou !

CHEF RAGOZZI.

This life of mine, O take it, Lord Kiuprili !

I give it as a weapon to thy hands,

Mine own no longer. Guardian of Illyria,

Useless to thee, 'tis worthless to myself.

Thou art the framer of my nobler being :

Nor does there live one virtue in my soul,

One honorable hope, but calls thee father.

Yet ere thou dost resolve, know that yon palace

Is guarded from within, that each access

Is throng'd by arm'd conspirators, watch'd by ruffians

Pamper'd with gifts, and hot upon the spoil

Which that false promiser still trails before them.

I ask but this one boon — reserve my life

Till I can lose it for the realm and thee !

RAAB KIUPRILI.

My heart is rent asunder. O my country,
O fallen Illyria ! stand I here spell-bound ?
8 K2

Did my King love me ? Did I earn his love ?

Have we embraced as brothers would embrace?

Was I his arm, his thunder-bolt ? And now

Must I, hag-ridden, pant as in a dream ?

Or, like an eagle, whose strong wings press up

Against a coiling serpent's folds, can I

Strike but for mockery, and with restless beak

Gore my own breast ? — Ragozzi, thou art faithful

CHEF RAGOZZI.

Here before Heaven I dedicate my faith
To the royal line of Andreas.

RAAB KIUPRILI.

Hark, Ragozzi!
Guilt is a timorous thing ere perpetration :
Despair alone makes wicked men be bold.
Come thou with me ! They have heard my voice in

flight,
Have faced round, terror-struck, and fear'd no longer
The whistling javelins of their fell pursuers.
Ha ! what is this ?

[Black Flag displayed from the Tower of the Pal-
ace : a death-bell tolls, etc.
Vengeance of Heaven ! He is dead.

CHEF RAGOZZI.

At length then 'tis announced. Alas! I fear,
That these black death-flags are but treason's signals

raab kiuprili (looking forwards anxiously).
A prophecy too soon fulhll'd ! See yonder !

0 rank and ravenous wolves! the death-bell echoes
Still in the doleful air — and see ! they come.

CHEF RAGOZZI.

Precise and faithful in their villany,

Even to the moment, that the master traitor

Had preordain'd them.

RAAB KIUPRILI.

Was it over-haste,
Or is it scorn, that in this race of treason
Their guilt thus drops its mask, and blazons foith
Their infamous plot even to an idiot's sense.

CHEF RAGOZZI.

Doubtless they deem Heaven too usurp'd ! Heaven '8

justice
Bought like themselves !

[During this conversation music is heard, at first
solemn and funereal, and then changing to
spirited and triumphal.

Being equal all in crime,
Do you press on, ye spotted parricides !
For the one sole pre-eminence yet doubtful,
The prize of foremost impudence in guilt ?

RAAB KIUPRILI.

The bad man's cunning still prepares the way
For its own outwitting. I applaud, Ragozzi !

[Musing to himself — then —
Ragozzi ! I applaud,
In thee, the virtuous hope that dares look onward
And keeps the life-spark warm of future action
Beneath the cloak of patient sufferance.
Act and appear as time and prudence prompt thee ,

1 shall not misconceive the part thou playest.
Mine is an easier part — to brave the Usurper.

[Enter a procession of Emerick's Adherents
Nobles, Chieftains, and Soldiers, with Music.
They advance toward the front of the Stage,

Kiuprili makes the signal for them to stop

The Music ceases.

107

98

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

LEADER OF THE PROCESSION.

The Lord Kiuprili ! — Welcome from the camp.

RAAB KIUPRILI.

Grave magistrates and chieftains of Illyria !

In good time come ye hither, if ye come

As loyal men with honorable purpose

To mourn what can alone be mourn'd ; but chiefly

To enforce the last commands of royal Andreas,

And shield the queen, Zapolya : haply making

,The mother's joy light up the widow's tears.

LEADER.

Our purpose demands speed. Grace our procession ;
A warrior best will greet a warlike lung.

RAAB KIUPRILI.

This patent, written by your lawful king
(Lo ! his own seal and signature attesting)
Appoints as guardians of his realm and offspring,
The Queen, and the Prince Emerick, and myself.

[ Voices of Live King Emerick ! an Emerick ! an
Emerick !
What means this clamor? Are these madmen's voices ?
Or is some knot of riotous slanderers leagued
To infamize the name of the king's brother
With a lie black as Hell ? unmanly cruelty,
Ingratitude, and most unnatural treason ! [Murmurs.
What mean these murmurs ? Dare then any here
Proclaim Prince Emerick a spotted traitor ?
One that has taken from you your sworn faith,
And given you in return a Judas' bribe,
Infamy now, oppression in reversion,
And Heaven's inevitable curse hereafter ?

[Loud murmurs, followed by cries — Emerick ! No
Baby Prince ! No Changelings !
Yet bear with me awhile ! Have I for this
Bled for your safety, conquer'd for your honor !
Was it for this, Illyrians ! that I forded
Your thaw-swoln torrents, when the shouldering ice
Fought with the foe, and stain'd its jagged points
With gore from wounds, I felt not ? Did the blast
Beat on this body, frost-and-famine-numb'd,
Till my hard flesh distinguish'd not itself
From the insensate mail, its fellow-warrior ?
And have I brought home with me Victory,
And with her, hand in hand, firm-footed Peace,
Her countenance twice lighted up with glory,
As if I had charm'd a goddess down from Heaven ?
But these will flee abhorrent from the throne
Of usurpation !
[Murmurs increase — and cries of Onward ! onward !

Have you then thrown off shame,
And shall not a dear friend, a loyal subject,
Throw off all fear ? I tell ye, the fair trophies
Valiantly wrested from a valiant foe,
Love's natural offerings to a rightful king,
Will hang as ill on this usurping traitor,
This brother-blight, this Emerick, as robes
Of gold pluck'd from the images of gods
Upon a sacrilegious robber's back.

[During the last four lines, enter Lord Casimir,
with expressions of anger and alarm.
casimir.
Who is this factious insolent, that dares brand
The elected King, our chosen Emerick ?

[Starts — then approaching with timid respect.
My father !

raab kiuprili (turning away).

Casimir ! He, he a traitor !

Too soon indeed, Ragozzi ! have I learnt it. 'Aside

casimir (with reverence).
My father and my Lord !

RAAB KIUPRILI.

I know thee not !

LEADER.

Yet the remembrancing did sound right filial.

RAAB KIUPRILI.

A holy name and words of natural duty
Are blasted by a thankless traitor's utterance.

CASIMIR.

O hear me, Sire ! not lightly have I sworn

Homage to Emerick. Illyria' s sceptre

Demands a manly hand, a warrior's grasp.

The queen Zapolya's self-expected offspring

At least is doubtful : and of all our nobles,

The king inheriting his brother's heart,

Hath honor'd us the most. Your rank, my Lord !

Already eminent, is — all it can be —

Confirmed : and me the king's grace hath appointed

Chief of his council and the lord high-steward.

RAAB KIUPRILI.

(Bought by a bribe !) I know thee now still less.

casimir (struggling with his passion).
So much of Raab Kiuprili's blood flows here,
That no power, save that holy name of father,
Could shield the man who so dishonor'd me.

RAAB KIUPRILI.

The son of Raab Kiuprili ! a bought bond-slave,
Guilt's pander, treason's mouth-piece, a gay parrot,
School'd to shrill forth his feeder's usurp'd titles,
And scream, Long live king Emerick !

LEADER.

Ay, King Emerick
Stand back, my Lord ! Lead us, or let us pass.

SOLDIER.

Nay, let the general speak !

SOLDIERS.

Hear him ! Hear him '

RAAB KIUPRILI.

Hear me,
Assembled lords and warriors of Illyria,
Hear, and avenge me ! Twice ten years have I
Stood in your presence, honor'd by the king,
Beloved and trusted. Is there one among you,
Accuses Raab Kiuprili of a bribe ?
Or one false whisper in his sovereign's ear ?
Who here dare charge me with an orphan's rights
Outfaced, or widow's plea left undefended ?
And shall I now be branded by a traitor,
A bought bribed wretch, who, being called my son
Doth libel a chaste matron's name, and plant
Hensbane and aconite on a mother's grave ?
The underling accomplice of a robber,
That from a widow and a widow's offspring
Would steal their heritage ? To God a rebel,
And to the common father of his country
A recreant ingrate !

CASIMIR.

Sire ! your words grow dangerous.
High-flown romantic fancies ill-beseem
Your age and wisdom. 'T is a statesman's virtue,
To guard his country's safety by what means
108

ZAPOLYA.

99

It best may be protected-
Of these monks' morals !

-come what will

raab kiuprili (aside).

Ha ! the elder Brutus
Made his soul iron, though his sons repented.
They boasted not their baseness.

[Starts, and draws his sword.
Infamous changeling !
Recant this instant, and swear loyalty,
And strict obedience to thy sovereign's will ;
Or, by the spirit of departed Andreas,

Thou diest

[Chiefs, etc. rush to interpose ; during the tumult
enter Emerick, alarmed.

EMERICK.

Call out the guard ! Ragozzi ! seize the assassin.

Kiuprili ? Ha ! [ With lowered voice, at the same

time with one hand making signs to the guard
to retire.

Pass on, friends ! to the palace.
[Music recommences. — The Procession passes into
the Palace. — During which time Emerick and
Kiuprili regard each other stedfastly.

EMERICK.

What! Raab Kiuprili? What! a father's sword
Against his own son's breast ?

RAAB KIUPRILI.

'T would be best excuse him,
Were he thy son, Prince Emerick. I abjure him.

EMERICK.

This is my thanks, then, that I have commenced
A reign to which the free voice of the nobles
Hath call'd me, and the people, by regards
Of love and grace to Raab Kiuprili's house ?

RAAB KIUPRILI.

What right hadst thou, Prince Emerick, to bestow
them I

EMERICK.

By what right dares Kiuprili question me ?

RAAB KIUPRILI.

By a right common to all loyal subjects —
To me a duty ! As the realm's co-regent,
Appointed by our sovereign's last free act,
Writ by himself — [Grasping the Patent.

emerick {with a contemptuous sneer).
Ay ! — Writ in a delirium !

RAAB KIUPRILI.

I likewise ask, by whose authority

The access to the sovereign was refused me ?

EMERICK.

By whose authority dared the general leave
His camp and army, like a fugitive ?

RAAB KIUPRILI.

A fugitive, who, with victory for his comrade,
Ran, open-eyed, upon the face of death !
A fugitive, with no other fear, than bodements
To be belated in a loyal purpose —
At the command, Prince ! of my king and thine,
Hither I came ; and now again require
Audience of Queen Zapolya; and (the States
Forthwith convened) that thou dost show at large,
On what ground of defect thou 'st dared annul
This thy King's last and solemn act — hast dared
Ascend the throne, of which the law had named,
And conscience should have made thee, a protector.

A sovereign's ear ill brooks a subject's questioning !
Yet for thy past well-doing — and because
'Tis hard to erase at once the fond belief
Long cherish'd, that Illyria had in thee
No dreaming priest's slave, but a Roman lover
Of her true weal and freedom — and for this, too,
That, hoping to call forth to the broad day-light
And fostering breeze of glory, all deservings,
I still had placed thee foremost.

RAAB KIUPRILI.

Prince ! I listen.

EMERICK.

Unwillingly I tell thee, that Zapolya,

Madden'd with grief, her erring hopes proved idle —

CASIMIR.

Sire! speak the whole truth! Say, her frauds detected!

EMERICK.

According to the sworn attests in council

Of her physician

raab kiuprili (aside).

Yes ! the Jew, Barzoni

EMERICK.

Under the imminent risk of death she lies,

Or irrecoverable loss of reason,

If known friend's face or voice renew the frenzy.

casimir (to Kiuprili).
Trust me, my Lord ! a woman's trick has duped you —
Us loo — but most of all, the sainted Andreas.
Even for his own fair fame, his grace prays hourly
For her recoveiy that (the States convened)
She may take coimsel of her friends.

EMERICK.

Right, Casimir!
Receive my pledge, Lord General ' shall stand
In her own will to appear and voice her claims ;
Or (which in truth I hold the wiser course)
With all the past pass'd by, as family quarrels,
Let the Queen-Dowager, with unblench'd honors,
Resume her state, our first Ulyrian matron*

RAAB KIUPRILI.

Prince Emerick! you speak fairly, and your pledge too
Is such, as well would suit an honest meaning.

CASIMIR.

My Lord ! you scarce know half his grace's goodness.

The wealthy heiress, high-born fair Sarolta,

Bred in the convent of our noble ladies,

Her relative, the venerable abbess,

Hath, at his grace's urgence, woo'd and won for me.

EMERICK.

Long may the race, and long may that name flourish,
Which your heroic deeds, brave chief, have render'd
Dear and illustrious to all true Illyrians !

raab kiuprili (sternly).
The longest line, that ever tracing herald
Or found or feign'd, placed by a beggar's soul,
Hath but a mushroom's date in the comparison :
And with the soul, the conscience is coeval,
Yea, the soul's essence.

EMERICK.

Conscience, good my Lord,
Is but the pulse of reason. Is it conscience,
That a free nation should be handed down,
Like the dull clods beneath our feet, by chance
And the blind law of lineage ? That whether infant.
Or man matured, a wise man or an idiot,
15 109

100

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

Hero or natural coward, shall have guidance

Of a free people's destiny ; should fail out

In the mere lottery of a reckless nature,

Where few the prizes and the blanks are countless i

Or haply that a nation's fate should hang

On the bald accident of a midwife's handling

The unclosed sutures of an infant's skull ?

CASIMIR.

What better claim can sovereign wish or need,
Than the free voice of men who love their country ?
Those chiefly who have fought for 't ? Who, by right
Claim for their monarch one, who having obey'd
So hath best learnt to govern ; who, having suffer'd,
Can feel for each brave sufferer and reward him ?
Whence sprang the name of Emperor ? Was it not
By Nature's fiat? In the storm of triumph,
'Mid warriors' shouts, did her oracular voice
Make itself heard : Let the commanding spirit
Possess the station of command !

KAAB KIUPRILI.

Prince Emerick,
Your cause will prosper best in your own pleading.

emerick (aside to Casimir).
Ragozzi was thy school-mate — a bold spirit !
Bind him to us ! — Thy father thaws apace !

[Then aloud.
Leave us awhile, my Lord ' — Your friend, Ragozzi,
Whom you have not yet seen since his return,
Commands the guard to-day.

[Casimir retires to the Guard-House ; and after a
time appears before it with Chef Ragozzi.
We are alone.
What further pledge or proof desires Kiuprili ?
Then, with your assent

RAAB KIUTRILI.

Mistake not for assent
The unquiet silence of a stern Resolve,
Throttling the impatient *oice. I have heard thee,

Prince !
And I have watch'd thee, too ; but have small faith in
A plausible tale told with a flitting eye.

[Emerick turns as about to call for the Guard.
In the next moment I am in thy power,
In this thou art in mine. Stir but a step,
Or make one sign — I swear by this good sword,
Thou diest that instant

Ha, ha ! — Well, Sir ! — Conclude your homily.

raab kiuprili (in a somewhat suppressed voice.)
A tale which, whether true or false, comes guarded
Against all means of proof, detects itself.
The Queen mew'd up — this too from anxious care
And love brought forth of a sudden, a twin birth
With the discovery of her plot to rob thee
Of a rightful throne ! — Mark how the scorpion, False-
hood,
Coils round in its own perplexity, and fixes
Its sting in its own head !

emerick.

Ay ! to the mark !
Raab Kiuprili (aloud) .- [he and Emerick stand-
ing at equi-distance from the Palace and
the Guard-House.
Hadst thou believed thine own tale, hadst thou fancied
' ''hyself the rightful successor of Andreas,

Wouldst thou have pilfer'd from our schoolboys

themes
These shallow sophisms of a popular choice ?
What people ? How convened ? or, if convened,
Must not the magic power that charms together
Millions of men in council, needs have power
To win or wield them ? Better, O far better
Shout forth thy titles to yon circling mountains,
And with a thousand-fold reverberation
Make, the rocks flatter thee, and the volleying air,
Unbribed, shout back to thee, King Emerick !
By wholesome laws to embank the sovereign power
To deepen by restraint, and by prevention
Of lawless will to amass and guide the flood
In its majestic channel, is man's task
And the true patriot's glory ! In all else
Men safelier trust to Heaven, than to themselves
When least themselves in the mad whirl of crowds
Where folly is contagious, and too oft
Even wise men leave their better sense at home,
To chide and wonder at them when return'd.

emerick (aloud).
Is 't thus, thou scoff 'st the people ! most of all,
The soldiers, the defenders of the people ?

raab kiuprili (aloud).

0 most of all, most miserable nation,

For whom th' Imperial power, enormous bubble !
Is blown and kept aloft, or burst and shatter'd
By the bribed breath of a lewd soldiery !
Chiefly of such, as from the frontiers far
(Which is the noblest station of true warriors),
In rank licentious idleness beleaguer
City and court, a venom'd thorn i' the side
Of virtuous kings, the tyrant's slave and tyrant,
Still ravening for fresh largess ! but with such
What title claim'st thou, save thy birth ? What merits
Which many a liegeman may not plead as well,
Brave though I grant thee ? If a life outlabor'd
Head, heart, and fortunate arm, in watch and war,
For the land's fame and weal ; if large acquests,
Made honest by th' aggression of the foe
And whose best praise is, that they bring us safety ;
If victory, doubly-wreathed, whose under-garland
Of laurel-leaves looks greener and more sparkling
Through the gray olive-branch ; if these, Prince Eme-
rick !
Give the true title to the throne, not thou —
No ! (let Illyria, let the infidel enemy
Be judge and arbiter between us !) I,

1 were the rightful sovereign !

emerick.

I have faith
That thou both think'st and hopest it. Fair Zapolya
A provident lady —

RAAB KIUPRILI.

Wretch, beneath all answer '

EMERICK.

Offers at once the royal bed ant* throne !

RAAB KIUPRILI.

To be a kingdom's bulwark, a king's glory,
Yet loved by both, and trusted, and trust-worthy,
Is more than to be lung ; but see ! thy rage
Fights with thy fear. I will relieve thee ! Ho !

[To the Guard

EMERICK.

Not for thy sword, but to entrap thee, ruffian '

110

ZAPOLYA.

101

Thus long I have listen'd — Guard — ho ! from the ! And let this darkness
Palace.
The Guard post from the Guard-House v:ith
Chef Ragozzi at their head, and then a
number from the Palace — Chef Ragozzi de-
mands Kiuprili's sword, and apprehends him.

CASIMIR.

0 agony ! {To Emerick). Sire, hear me !

[To Kiuprili, who turns from him.
Hear me, Father !

EMERICK.

Take in arrest that traitor and assassin !

Who pleads for his life, strikes at mine, his sovereign's.

RAAB KIUPRILI.

As the co-regent of the realm, 1 stand
Amenable to none save to the States,
Met in due course of law. But ye are bond-slaves,
Yet witness ye that before God and man

1 here impeach Lord Emerick of foul treason,
And on strong grounds attaint him with suspicion
Of murder —

EMERICK.

Hence with the madman!

RAAB KIUPRILI.

Your Queen's murder,
The royal orphan's murder : and to the death
Defy him, as a tyrant and usurper.

[Hurried off by Ragozzi and the Guard.
emerick.
Ere twice the sun hath risen, by my sceptre
This insolence shall be avenged.
casimir.

O banish him !
Tills infamy will crush me. 0 for my sake,
Banish him, my liege lord !

emerick (scornfully).

What.' to the army?
Be calm, young friend ! Nought shall be done in anger.
The child o'erpowers the man. In this emergence
I must take counsel for us both. Retire.

[Exit Casimir in agitation.
emerick (alone, looks at a Calendar).
The changeful planet, now in her decay,
Dips down at midnight, to be seen no more.
With her shall sink the enemies of Emerick,
Cursed by the last look of the waning moon ;
And my bright destiny, with sharpen'd horns,
Shall greet me fearless in the new-born crescent.

[Exit.
Scene changes to another view, namely, the back of the
Palace — a Wooded Park, and Mountains.

Enter Zapolya, with an Infant in her arms.

ZAPOLYA.

Hush, dear one ! hush ! My trembling arm disturbs

thee!
Thou, the Protector of the helpless ! thou,
The widow's Husband and the orphan's Father,
Direct my steps ! Ah whither ? O send down
Thy angel to a houseless babe and mother,
Driven forth into the cruel widerness !
Hush, sweet one! Thou art no Hagar's offspring:

thou art
The rightful heir of an anointed long !
What sounds are those ? It is the vesper chant
Of laboring men returning to their home !
Their queen has no home ! Hear me, heavenly Father !

Be as the shadow of thy outspread wings

To hide and shield us ! Start's! thou in thy slumbers ?

i Thou canst not dream of savage Emerick. Hush !

I Betray not thy poor mother ! For if they seize thee,
I shall grow mad indeed, and they'll believe
Thy wicked uncle's lie. Ha ! what ? A soldier ?

[She starts back — and enter Chef Ragozzi.

CHEF RAGOZZI.

Sure Heaven befriends us. Well ! he hath escaped

0 rare tune of a tyrant's promises
That can enchant the serpent treachery

From forth its lurking-hole in the heart. " Ragozzi !

" O brave Ragozzi! Count! Commander ! What notV

And all this too for nothing ! a poor nothing !

Merely to play the underling in the murder

Of my best friend Kiuprili ! His own son — monstrous !

Tyrant ! I owe thee thanks, and in good hour

Will I repay thee, for that thou thought's! me too

A serviceable villain. Could I now

But gain some sure intelligence of the queen :

Heaven bless and guard her !

zapolya (coming fearfully forward).

Art thou not Ragozzi ?

CHEF RAGOZZI.

The Queen ! Now then the miracle is full !

1 see Heaven's wisdom in an over-match

For the devil's cunning. This way, madam, haste !

ZAPOLYA.

Stay ! Oh, no ! Forgive me if I wrong thee !

This is thy sovereign's child : Oh, pity us,

And be not treacherous! [Kneeling

chef ragozzi (raising her).
Madam ! For mercy's sake !

ZAPOLYA.

But tyrants have a hundred eyes and arms !

CHEF RAGOZZI.

Take courage, madam ! 'T were too horrible,
(I can not do 't) to swear I 'm not a monster ! —
Scarce had I barr'd the door on Raab Kiuprili —

ZAPOLYA.

Kiuprili! how?

CHEF RAGOZZI.

There is not time to tell it.
The tyrant call'd me to him, praised my zeal
(And be assured I overtopt his cunning ♦

And seem'd right zealous). But time wastes : in fine
Bids me dispatch my trustiest friends, as couriers
With letters to the army. The thought at once
Flash'd on me. I disguised my prisoner —

ZAPOLYA.

What! Raab Kiuprili?

CHEF RAGOZZI.

Yes ! my noble general '
I sent him off) with Emerick's own packet,
Haste, and post haste — Prepared to follow him

ZAPOLYA.

Ah, how? Is it joy or fear? My limbs seem sinking! —

chef ragozzi (supporting her).
Heaven still befriends us. I have left my charger
A gentle beast and fleet, and my boy's mule,
One that can shoot a precipice like a bird,
Just where the wood begins to climb the mountains.
The course we'll thread will mock the tyrant's guesses
Or scare the followers. Ere we reach the main roan
The Lord Kiuprili will have sent a troop

111

102

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

To escort me. Oh, thrice happy when he finds
The treasure which I convoy !

One brief moment,
That, praying for strength I may have strength. This

babe,
Heaven's eye is on it, and its innocence
Is, as a prophet's prayer, strong and prevailing !
Through thee, dear babe! the inspiring thought

possess'd me,
When the loud clamor rose, and all the palace
Emptied itself — (They sought my life, Ragozzi !)
Like a swift shadow gliding, I made way
To the deserted chamber of my Lord. —

[Then to the infant.
And thou didst kiss thy father's lifeless lips,
And in thy helpless hand, sweet slumberer !
Still clasp'st the signet of thy royalty.
As I removed the seal, the heavy arm
Dropt from the couch aslant, and the stiff finger
Seem'd pointing at my feet. Provident Heaven!
Lo, I was standing on the secret door,
Which, through a long descent where all sound

perishes,

Let out beyond the palace. Well I knew it

But Andreas framed it not! He was no tyrant !

CHEF RAGOZZI.

Haste, madam ! Let me take this precious burden !
[He kneels as he takes the child.

Take him ! And if we be pursued, I charge thee,
Flee thou and leave me ! Flee and save thy king !

[Then as going off, she looks back on the palace.
Thou tyrant's den, be call'd no more a palace !
The orphan's angel at the throne of Heaven
Stands up against thee, and there hover o'er thee
A Queen's, a Mother's, and a Widow's curse.
Henceforth a dragon's haunt, fear and suspicion
Stand sentry at thy portals ! Faith and honor,
Driven from the throne, shall leave the attainted na-
tion:
And, for the iniquity that houses in thee,
False glory, thirst of blood, and lust of rapine
(Fateful conjunction of malignant planets),
Shall shoot their blastments on the land. The fathers
Henceforth shall have no joy in their young men,
And when they cry : Lo! a male child is born !
The mother shall make answer with a groan.
For bloody usurpation, like a vulture,
Shall clog ite beak within Illyria's heart.
Remorseless slaves of a remorseless tyrant !
They shall be mock'd with sounds of liberty,
And liberty shall be proclaim'd alone
To thee, O Fire ! O Pestilence ! O Sword !
Till Vengeance hath her fill. — And thou, snatch'd

hence,
Again to the infant.) poor friendless fugitive ! with

Mother's wailing,
Offspring of Royal Andreas, shalt return
With trump and timbrel clang, and popular shout
n triumph to the palace of thy fathers ! [Exeunt.

PART n.

THE SEQUEL, ENTITLED "THE USURPER'S
FATE."

ADDITIONAL CHARACTERS.
MEN.

Old Bathory, a Mountaineer.

Bethlen Bathory, the Young Prince Andreas, sup-
posed Son of Old Bathory.

Lord Rudolph, a Courtier, but friend to the Queen's
party.

Laska, Steward to Casimir, betrothed to Glycine.

Pestalutz, an Assassin, in Emerick's employ.

WOMEN.
Lady Sarolta, Wife of Lord Casimir.
Glycine, Orphan Daughter of Chef Ragozzi.

Between the flight of the Queen, and the civil war
which immediately followed, and in which Emericl?
remained the victor, a space of twenty years is sup-
posed to have elapsed.

That last cottage

ACT I.

SCENE I.

A Mountainous Country. Bathory's Dwelling at
the end of the Stage.

Enter Lady Sarolta and Glycine.

GLYCINE.

Well, then ! our round of charity is finish'd.
Rest, Madam ! You breathe quick.

SAROLTA.

What! tired, Glycine?
No delicate court dame, but a mountaineer
By choice no less than birth, I gladly use
The good strength Nature gave me.

GLYCINE.

Is built as if an eagle or a raven
Had chosen it for her nest.

SAROLTA.

So many are
The sufferings which no human aid can reach,
It needs must be a duty doubly sweet
To heal the few we can. Well ! let us rest.

GLYCINE.

There ? [Pointing to Bathory's dwelling Sarolta
answering, points to where she tlien stands
sarolta.
Here ! For on this spot Lord Casimir
Took his last leave. On yonder mountain ridge
I lost the misty image which so long
Linger'd or seem'd at least to linger on it.

GLYCYNE.

And what if even now, on that same ridge,

A speck should rise, and still enlarging, lengthening

As it clomb downwards, shape itself at last .

To a numerous cavalcade, and spurring foremost,

Who but Sarolta's own dear Lord retum'd

From his high embassy ?

112

ZAPOLYA.

103

SAROLTA.

Thou hast hit my thought !
All the long day, from yester-morn to evening,
The restless hope flutter'd about my heart.
Oh, we are querulous creatures ! Little less
Than all things can suffice to make us happy ;
And little more than nothing is enough
To discontent us. — Were he come, then should I
Repine he had not arrived just one day earlier
To keep his birth-day here, in his own birth-place.

GLYCINE.

But our best sports belike, and gay processions
Would to my Lord have seem'd but work-day sights
Compared with those the royal court affords.

SAROLTA.

I have small wish to see them. A spring morning,

With its wild gladsome minstrelsy of birds,

And its bright jewelry of flowers and dew-drops

(Each orbed drop an orb of glory in it),

Would put them all in eclipse. This sweet retirement

Lord Casimir's wish alone would have made sacred :

But in good truth, his loving jealousy

Did but command, what I had else entreated.

GLYCINE.

And yet had I been born Lady Sarolta,
Been wedded to the noblest of the realm,
So beautiful besides, and yet so stately ■

SAROLTA.

Hush ! innocent flatterer !

GLYCINE.

Nay ! to my poor fancy
The royal cnirt would seem an earthly heaven,
Made for sucn stars to shine in, and be gracious.

SAROLTA.

So doth the ignorant distance still delude us !

Thy fancied heaven, dear girl, like that above thee,

In its mere self, a cold, drear, colorless void,

Seen from below and in the large, becomes

The bright blue ether, and the seat of gods !

Well ! but this broil that scared you from the dance 1

And was not Laska there : he, your betroth'd ?

GLYCINE.

Yes, madam ! he was there. So was the maypole,
For we danced round it.

SAROLTA.

Ah, Glycine ! why,
Why did you then betroth yourself?

GLYCINE.

Because
My own dear lady wish'd it ! 't was you ask'd me !

SAROLTA.

Yes, at my Lord's request, but never wish'd,
My poor affectionate girl, to see thee wretched.
Thou know'st not yet the duties of a wife.

GLYCINE.

Oh, yes ! It is a wife's chief duty, madam,
To stand in awe of her husband, and obey him;
And, I am sure, I never shall see Laska
But I shall tremble.

SAROLTA.

Not with fear, I think,
For you still mock him. Bring a seat from the cottage.
[Exit Glycine info the cottage, Sarolta continues
her speech, looking after her.
Something above thy rnnk there hangs about thee,
And in thy countenance, thy voice, and motion,

Yea, e'en in thy simplicity, Glycine,
A fine and feminine grace, that makes me feel
More as a mother than a mistress to thee !
Thou art a soldier's orphan ! that — the courage,
Which rising in thine eye, seems oft to give
A new soul to its gentleness, doth prove thee
Thou art sprung too of no ignoble blood,
Or there 's no faith in instinct !
[Angry voices and clamor within, re-enter Glycine

GLYCINE.

Oh, madam ! there 's a party of your servants,
And my Lord's steward, Laska, at their head,
Have come to search for old Bathory's son,
Bethlen, that brave young man ! 'twas he, my lady,
That took our parts, and beat off the intruders ;
And in mere spite and malice, now they charge him
With bad words of Lord Casimir and the king.
Pray don't believe them, madam! This way! This

way!
Lady Sarolta 's here. [Calling without

SAROLTA.

Be calm, Glycine.
Enter Laska and Servants with Old Bathory.
laska (to Bathory).
We have no concern with you ! What needs your
presence ?

OLD BATHORY.

What ! Do you think I '11 surfer my brave boy
To be slander'd by a set of coward-ruffians,
And leave it to their malice, — yes, mere malice ! —
To tell its own tale ?

[Laska and Servants bow to Lady Sarolta

SAROLTA.

Laska ! What may this mean ?
laska (pompously, as commencing a set speech).
Madam ! and may it please your ladyship !
This old man's son, by name Bethlen Bathory,
Stands charged, on weighty evidence, that he,
On yester-eve, being his lordship's birth-day,
Did traitorously defame Lord Casimir :
The lord high-steward of the realm, moreover

SAROLTA.

Be brief! We know his titles !
laska.

And moreover
Raved like a traitor at our liege King Emerick.
And furthermore, said witnesses make oath,
Led on the assault upon his lordship's servants ;
Yea, insolently tore, from this, your huntsman,
His badge of livery of your noble house,
And trampled it in scorn.

sarolta (to the Servants who offer to speak).

You have had your spokesman .
Where is the young man thus accused ?

old bathory.

I know not :
But if no ill betide him on the mountains,
He will not long be absent!

SAROLTA.

Thou art his father ?
OLD bathory.
None ever with more reason prized a son :
Yet I hate falsehood more than I love him.
But more than one, now in my lady's presence,
Witness'd the affray, besides these men of malice

And if I swerve from truth

113

104

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

GLYCINE.

Yes ! good old man !
My lady ! pray believe him !
sarolta.

Hush, Glycine !
Be silent, I command you. [Then to Bathory.

Speak ! we hear you !

OLD BATHORY.

My tale is brief. During our festive dance,

Your servants, the accusers of my son,

Offer'd gross insults, in unmanly sort,

To our village maidens. He (could he do less ?)

Rose in defence of outraged modesty,

And so persuasive did his cudgel prove

(Your hectoring sparks so over brave to women

Are always cowards), that they soon took flight,

And now in mere revenge, like baffled boasters,

Have framed this tale, out of some hasty words

Which their own threats provoked.

SAROLTA.

Old man ! you talk
Too bluntly! Did your son owe no respect
To the livery of our house ?

OLD BATHORY.

Even such respect
As the sheep's skin should gain for the hot wolf
That hath begun to worry the poor lambs !

LASKA.

Old insolent ruffian !

GLYCINE.

Pardon ! pardon, madam !
I saw the whole affray. The good old man
Means no offence, sweet lady ! — You, yourself,
Laska ! know well, that these men were the ruffians !
Shame on you !

sarolta (speaks with affected anger).
What ! Glycine ! Go, retire !

[Exit Glycine, mournfully.
Be it then that these men faulted. Yet yourself,
Or better still belike the maidens' parents,
Might have complain'd to us. Was ever access
Denied 5^ou ? Or free audience ? Or are we
Weak and unfit to punish our own servants ?

OLD BATHORY.

So then ! So then ! Heaven grant an old man patience !
And must the gardener leave his seedling plants,
Leave his young roses to the rooting swine,
While he goes ask their master, if perchance
His leisure serve to scourge them from their ravage ?

LASKA.

Ho ! Take the rude clown from your lady's presence !
I will report her further will !

SAROLTA.

Wait, then,
Till thou hast learnt it ! Fervent, good old man !
Forgive me that, to try thee, I put on
A face of sternness, alien to my meaning !

[Then speaks to the Servants.
Hence ! leave my presence ! and you, Laska ! mark

me !
Those rioters are no longer of my household !
If we but shake a dew-drop from a rose,
[n vain would we replace it, and as vainly
Restore the tear of wounded modesty
To a maiden's eye familiarized to license. —
But these men, Laska —

laska (aside).

Yes, now 'tis coming

SAROLTA

Brutal aggressors first, then baffled dastards,
That they have sought to piece out their revenge
With a tale of words lured from the lips of ange.
Stamps them most dangerous ; and till I want
Fit means for wicked ends, we shall not need
Their services. Discharge them ! You, Bathory !
Are henceforth of my household ! I shall place you
Near my own person. When your son returns,
Present him to us.

OLD BATHORY.

Ha ! what, strangers* here !
What business have they in an old man's' eye ?
Your goodness, lady — and it came so sudden —
I cannot — must not — let you be deceived.
I have yet another tale, but — [Then to Sarolta aside.
Not for all ears !

SAROLTA.

I oft have pass'd your cottage, and still praised
Its beauty, and that trim orchard-plot, whose blossoms
The gusts of April shower'd aslant its thatch.
Come, you shall show it me ! And while you bid it
Farewell, be not ashamed that I should witness
The oil of gladness glittering on the water
Of an ebbing grief.

[Bathory bowing, shows her into his cottage
laska (alone).

Vexation ! baffled ! school'd !
Ho ! Laska ! wake ! why ? what can all this mean ?
She sent awajr that cockatrice in anger !
Oh the false witch ! It is too plain, she loves him
And now, the old man near my lady's person,
She '11 see this Bethlen hourly !

[Laska flings himself into the seal Glycine
peeps in timidly.

Laska! Laska!

Is my lady gone

laska (surlily).
Gone.

GLYCINE.

Have you yet seen him 1
Is he return'd ?

[Laska starts up from his seat.
Has the seat stung you, Laska ?

LASKA.

No. serpent! no; 'tis you that sting me; you!
What ! you would cling to him again !

GLYCINE.

Whom?

LASKA.

Bethlen! Bethlen
Yes ; gaze as if your veiy eyes embraced him !
Ha ! you forget the scene of yesterday !
Mute ere he came, but then — Out on your screams,
And your pretended fears !

GLYCINE.

Your fears, at least,
Were real, Laska ! or your trembling limbs
And white cheeks play'd the hypocrites most vilely !

* Refers to the tear, which he fee/s starting: in his eye. The
following line was borrowed unconsciously from Mr. Wor
worth's Excursion.

114

ZAPOLYA.

105

LASKA.

I fear! whom? What?

GLYCINE.

I know, what I should fear,
Were I in Laska's place.

LASKA.

What?

GLYCINE.

My own conscience,
For having fed my jealousy and envy
With a plot, made out of other men's revenges,
Against a brave and innocent young man's life !
Yet, yet, pray tell me I

LASKA {malignantly).

You will know too soon.

GLYCINE.

Would I could find my lady ! though she chid me —
Yet this suspense — [Going.

LASKA.

Stop ! stop ! one question only —
I am quite calm —

GLYCINE.

Ay, as the old song says,
Calm as a tiger, valiant as a dove.
Nay now, I have marr'd the verse : well ! this one
question —

LASKA.

Are you not bound to me by your own promise ?
And is it not as plain —

GLYCINE.

Halt! that's two questions.

LASKA.

Pshaw ! Is it not as plain as impudence,

That you're in love with this young swaggering

beggar,
Bethlen Bathory ? When he was accused,
Why press'd you forward ? Why did you defend him ?

GLYCINE.

Question meet question : that 's a woman's privilege.

Why, Laska, did you urge Lord Casimir

To make my lady force that promise from me ?

LASKA.

So then, you say, Lady Sarolta forced you ?

GLYCINE.

Could I look up to her dear countenance,

And say her nay ? As far back as I wot of,

All her commands were gracious, sweet requests.

How could it be then, but that her requests

Must needs have sounded to me as commands ?

And as for love, had I a score of loves,

I 'd keep them all for my dear, kind, good mistress.

Not one for Bethlen !

GLYCINE.

Oh! that's a different thing.
To be sure he 's brave, and handsome, and so pious
To his good old father. But for loving him —
May, there, indeed you are mistaken, Laska!
Poor youth ! I rather think I grieve for him ;
For I sigh so deeply when I think of him !
And if I see him, the tears come in my eyes,
And my heart beats ; and all because I dreamt
That the war-wolf* had gored him as he hunted
In the haunted forest !

* For the best account of the War-wolf or Lycanthropus, sec
Drayton's Muon-calf, Chalviers' English Poets, vol. iv. p.
13 e-

LASKA.

You dare own all this ?
Your lady will not warrant promise-breach.
Mine, pamper'd Miss ! you shall be ; and I '11 make

you
Grieve for him with a vengeance. Odds, my fingers
Tingle already ! [Makes threatening signs.

glycine (aside).
Ha ! Bethlen coming this way !
[Glycine then cries out as if afraid of being beaten
Oh, save me ! save me ! Pray don't kill me, Laska !
Enter Bethlen in a Hunting Dress.

BETHLEN.

What, beat a woman !

laska (to Glycine).

O you cockatrice !

BETHLEN.

Unmanly dastard, hold !

laska (pompously).

Do you chance to know
Who — I — am, Sir ? — (S'death how black he looks ')

BETHLEN.

I have started many strange beasts in my time,
But none less like a man, than this before me
That lifts his hand against a timid female.

laska.
Bold youth ! she 's mine.

GLYCINE.

No, not my master yet,
But only is to be ; and all because
Two years ago my lady ask'd me, and
I promised her, not him ; and if she 11 let me,
I '11 hate you, my Lord's steward.

BETHLEN.

Hush, Glycine '

GLYCINE.

Yes, I do, Bethlen ; for he just now brought
False witnesses to swear away your life :
Your life, and old Bathory's too.

BETHLEN.

Bathory's !

Where is my father ? Answer or Ha ! gone !

[Laska during this time slinks off the Stage, using
threatening gestures to Glycine.

GLYCINE.

Oh, heed not him ! I saw you pressing onward,
And did but feign alarm. Dear gallant youth,
It is your life they seek !

BETHLEN.

My life ?

GLYCINE.

Alas !
Lady Sarolta even —

BETHLEN.

She does not know me !

GLYCINE.

Oh that she did ! she could not then have spoken
With such stern countenance. But though she spurn

me,
I will kneel, Bethlen —

BETHLEN.

Not for me, Glycine !
What have I done ? or whom have I offended ?

GLYCINE.

Rash words, 'tis said, and treasonous, of the king.
[Bethlen mutters to himself indignantly
glycine (aside).
So looks the statue, in our hall, o' the god,
The shaft just flown that killed Lie st-rpent!
115

106

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

bethlen (muttering aside).

King!

GLYCINE.

Ah, often have I wish'd youjxere a king.

You would protect the helpless everywhere,

As yov did us. And I, too, should not then

Grieve for you, Bethlen, as I do ; nor have

The tears come in my eyes; nor dream bad dreams

That you were kill'd in the forest; and then Laska

Would have no right to rail at me, nor say

/Yes, the base man, he says) that I — I love you.

BETHLEN.

Pretty Glycine ! wert thou not betrothed —
But in good truth I know not what I speak.
This luckless morning I have been so haunted
With my own fancies, starting up like omens,
That I feel like one, who waking from a dream
Both asks and answers wildly — But Bathory ?

GLYCINE.

Hist! 'tis my lady's step! She must not see you!

[Bethlen retires.
Enter from the Cottage Sarolta and Bathory.

sarolta.
Go, seek your son ! I need not add, be speedy —
You here, Glycine ? [Exit Bathory.

GLYCINE.

Pardon, pardon, Madam !
If you but saw the old man's son, you would not,
You could not have him harm'd.

SAROLTA.

Be calm, Glycine !

GLYCINE.

No, I shall break my heart. [Sobbing.

sarolta (taking her hand).

Ha ! is it so ?
O strange and hidden power of sympathy,
That of like fates, though all unknown to each,
Dost make blind instincts, orphan's heart to orphan's
Drawing by dim disquiet !

GLYCINE.

Old Bathory—

SAROLTA.

Seeks his brave son. Come, wipe away thy tears.
Yes, in good truth, Glycine, this same Bethlen
Seems a most noble and deserving youth.

GLYCINE.

My lady does not mock me ?

SAROLTA.

Where is Laska ?
Has he not told thee ?

GLYCINE.

Nothing. In his fear —
Anger, I mean — stole off- — I am so flutter'd —
Left me abruptly —

SAROLTA,

His shame excuses him !
He is somewhat hardly task'd ; and in discharging
His own tools, cons a lesson for himself.
Bathory and the youth henceforward live
Safe in my Lord's protection.

GLYCINE.

The saints bless you !
Shame on my graceless heart ! How dared I fear
iadv Sarolta could be cruel '

SAROLTA.

Come,
Be yourself, girl !

GLYCINE.

O, 'tis so full here. [At her heart
And now it cannot harm him if I tell you.
That the old man's son —

SAROLTA.

Is not that old man s son .

A destiny, not unlike thine own, is his.
For all I know of thee is, that thou art
A soldier's orphan : left when rage intestine
Shook and ingulf 'd the pillars of Illyria.
This other fragment, thrown back by that same earth-
quake,
This, so mysteriously inscribed by Nature,
Perchance may piece out and interpret thine.

Command thyself! Be secret ! His true father ■-

Hear'st thou ?

glycine (eagerly).
O tell—
bethlen (who had overheard the last few words, now
rushes out).
Yes, tell me, Shape from Heaven '
Who is my father ?

sarolta (gazing with surprise).

Thine ? Thy father ? Rise

GLYCINE.

Alas ! He hath alarm'd you, my dear lady !

sarolta.
His countenance, not his act !

GLYCINE.

Rise, Bethlen ! Rise !

BETHLEN.

No ; kneel thou too ! and with thy orphan's tongue

Plead for me ! I am rooted to the earth,

And have no power to rise ! Give me a father !

There is a prayer in those uplifted eyes

That seeks high Heaven ! But I will overtake it,

And bring it back, and make it plead for me

In thine own heart ! Speak ! speak ! Restore to me

A name in the world !

SAROLTA,

By that blest Heaven I gazed at
I know not who thou art. And if I knew,
Dared I — But rise !

BETHLEN.

Blest spirits of my parents,
Ye hover o'er me now ! Ye shine upon me !
And like a flower that coils forth from a ruii...
I feel and seek the light, I cannot see !

SABOLTA.

Thou see'st yon dim spot on the mountain's ridge,
But what it is thou know'st not Even such
Is all I know of thee — haply, brave youth,
Is all Fate makes it safe for thee to know !

BETHLEN.

Safe ? safe ? O let me then inherit danger,
And it shall be my birth-right !

sarolta (aside).

That look again ! —
The wood which first incloses, and then skirts
The highest track that leads across the mountains-
Thou know'st it, Bethlen ?

BETHLEN.

Lady, 'twas my wont
116

ZAPOLYA.

107

To roam there in my childhood oft alone,
And mutter to myself the name of father.
For still Bathory (why, till now I guess'd not)
Would never hear it from my lips, but sighing
Gazed upward. Yet of late an idle terror

GLYCINE. •

Madam, that wood is haunted by the war-wolves,

Vampires, and monstrous ■

sarolta (with a smile).

Moon-calves, credulous girl
Haply some o'ergrown savage of the forest
Hath his lair there, and fear hath framed the rest.

[Then speaking again to Bethlen.
After that last great battle (O young man !
Thou wakest anew my life's sole anguish), that
Which fix'd Lord Emerick on his throne, Bathory
Led by a cry, far inward from the track,
In the hollow of an old oak, as in a nest,
Did find thee, Bethlen, then a helpless babe :
The robe, that wrapt thee, was a widow's mantle.

BETHLEN.

An infant's weakness doth relax my frame.

0 say — I fear to ask

SAROLTA.

And I to tell thee.

BETHLEN.

Strike ! O strike quickly ! See, I do not shrink.

[Striking his breast.

1 am stone, cold stone.

SAROLTA.

Hid in a brake hard by,
Scarce by both palms supported from the earth,
A wounded lady lay, whose life fast waning
Seem'd to survive itself in her fixt eyes,
That strain'd towards the babe. At length one arm
Painfully from her own weight disengaging,
She pointed first to Heaven, then from her bosom
Drew forth a golden casket. Thus entreated
Thy foster-father took thee in his arms,
And, kneeling, spake : If aught of this world's com-
fort
Can reach thy heart, receive a poor man's troth,
That at my life's risk I will save thy child !
Her countenance work'd, as one that seem'd pre-
paring
A loud voice, but it died upon her lips
In a faint whisper, " Fly ! Save him ! Hide — hide
all!"

BETHLEN.

And did he leave her ? What ! Had I a mother ?
And left her bleeding, dying ? Bought I vile life
With the desertion of a dying mother ?
Oh agony !

GLYCINE.

Alas ! thou art bewilder'd,
And dost forget thou wert a helpless infant !

BETHLEN.

What else can I remember, but a mother
Mangled and left to perish ?

SAROLTA.

Hush, Glycine !
It is the ground-swell of a teeming instinct :
Let it but lift itself to air and sunshine,
And it will find a mirror in the waters,
. now makes boil above it. Check him not !

BETHLEN.

O that I were diffused among the waters
That pierce into the secret depths of earth,
And find their way in darkness ! Would that I
Could snread mvself nnon the homeless winds !

And I would seek her ! for she is not dead !
She can not die ! O pardon, gracious lady ,
You were about to say, that he return'd —

SAROLTA.

Deep Love, the godlike in us, still believes
Its objects as immortal as itself!

BETHLEN.

And found her still —

SAROLTA.

Alas ! he did return :
He left no spot unsearch'd in all the forest,
But she (I trust me by some friendly hand)
Had been borne off

BETHLEN.

O whither?

GLYCINE.

Dearest Bethlen !
I would that you could weep like me ! O do not
Gaze so upon the air !

sarolta (continuing the story).

While he was absent,
A friendly troop, 't is certain, scour'd the wood,
Hotly pursued indeed by Emerick.

BETHLEN.

Emerick !
Oh Hell!

glycine (to silence him).
Bethlen !

BETHLEN.

Hist ! I '11 curse him in a whisper
This gracious lady must hear blessings only.
She hath not yet the glory round her head,
Nor those strong eagle wings, which made swift

way
To that appointed place, which I must seek :
Or else she were my mother !

SAROLTA.

Noble youth !
From me fear nothing ! Long time have I owed
Offerings of expiation for misdeeds
Long pass'd that weigh me down, though innocent .
Thy foster-father hid the secret from thee,
For he perceived thy thoughts as they expanded,
Proud, restless, and ill-sorting with thy state !
Vain was his care ! Thou 'st made thyself suspected
E 'en where Suspicion reigns, and asks no proof
But its own fears ! Great Nature hath endow'd thee
With her best gifts ! From me thou shalt receive
All honorable aidance ! But haste hence !
Travel will ripen thee, and enterprise
Beseems thy years ! Be thou henceforth my soldier !
And whatsoe'er betide thee, still believe
That in each noble deed, achieved or suffer'd,
Thou sol vest best the riddle of thy birth !
And may the light that streams from thine own

honor
Guide thee to that thou seekest!

GLYCINE.

Must he leave us?

BETHLEN.

And for such goodness can 1 return nothing.
But some hot tears that sting mine eyes? Some sighs
That if not breathed would swell my heart to sti-
fling ?
May Heaven and thine own virtues, high-born lady
Be as a shield of fire, far, far aloof
To scare all evil from thee ! Yet, if fate
Hath destined thee one doubtful hour of danger,
From the uttermost region of the earth, methinks.
Swift as a soirit invoked. T should be with thee'
16 J 17

108

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

And then, perchance, I might have power to unbosom
These thanks that struggle here. Eyes fair as thine
Have gazed on me with tears of love and anguish,
Which these eyes saw not, or beheld unconscious ;
And tones of anxious fondness, passionate prayers,
Have been talk'd to me ! But this tongue ne'er

soothed
A mother's ear, lisping a mother's name !
O, at how dear a price haVe I been loved,
And no love could return ! One boon then, lady !
Where'er thou bidd'st, I go thy faithful soldier,
But first must trace the spot, where she lay bleeding
Who gave me life. No more shall beast of ravine
Affront with baser spoil that sacred forest !
Or if avengers more than human haunt there,
Take they what shape they list, savage or heavenly,
They shall make answer to me, though my heart's

blood
Should be the spell to bind them. Blood calls for

blood !

[Exit Bethlen.

SAROLTA.

Ah ! it was this I fear'd. To ward off this
Did I withhold from him that old Bathory
Returning, hid beneath the self-same oak,
Where the babe lay, the mantle, and some jewel
Bound on his infant arm.

GLYCINE.

Oh, let me fly
And stop him ! Mangled limbs do there lie scatter'd
Till the lured eagle bears them to her nest.
And voices have been heard ! And there the plant

grows
That being eaten gives the inhuman wizard
Power to put on the fell hyena's shape.

SAROLTA.

What idle tongue hath witch*d thee, Glycine ?
I hoped that thou hadst learnt a nobler faith.

GLYCINE.

O chide me not, dear lady ! question Laska,
Or the old man.

SAROLTA.

Forgive me, I spake harshly.
It is indeed a mighty sorcery
That doth enthral thy young heart, my poor girl :
And what hath Laska told thee ?

GLYCINE.

Three days past
A courier from the king did cross that wood ;
A wilful man, that arm'd himself on purpose :
And never hath been heard of from that time !

[Sound of horns without.

SAROLTA.

Hark ! dost thou hear it ?

GLYCINE.

'T is the sound of horns !
Our huntsmen are not out !

SAROLTA.

Lord Casimir
Would not come thus ! [Horns again.

GLYCINE.

Still louder

SAROLTA.

Haste we hence !
For I believe m part thy tale of terror '
But trust me, 't is the inner man transforo'd :
Beasts in the shape of men are worse thctn war-
wolves.

[Sarolta and Glycine exeunt. Trumpets etc. louder
Enter Emerick, Lord Rudolph, Laska, and
Huntsmen and Attendants.

RUDOLPH.

A gallant chase, Sire.

emerick.

Ay, but this new quarry
That we last started seems worth all the rest.

[Tlien to Laska
And you — excuse me — what's your name ?

LASKA.

Whatever
Your Majesty may please.

EMERICK.

Nay, that 's too late, man
Say, what -thy mother and thy godfather
Were pleased to call thee ?

LASKA.

Laska, my liege Sovereign.

EMERICK.

Well, my liege subject Laska ! And you are
Lord Casimir's steward 1

LASKA.

And your majesty's creature

EMERICK.

Two gentle dames made off at our approach.
Which was your lady ?

LASKA.

My liege lord, the taller
The other, please your grace, is her poor handmaid
Long since betrothed to me. But the maid 's fro-

ward —
Yet would your grace but speak —

EMERICK.

Hum, master steward
I am honor'd with this sudden confidence.
Lead on. [To Laska, then to Rudolph

Lord Rudolph, you '11 announce our coming
Greet fair Sarolta from me, and entreat her
To be our gentle hostess. Mark, you add
How much we grieve, that business of the state
Hath forced us to delay her lord's return.

lord rudolph (aside).
Lewd, ingrate tyrant ! Yes, I will announce thee.

EMERICK.

Now onward all. [Exeunt attendants

EMERICK (Solus).

A fair one, by my faith !
If her face rival but her gait and stature,
My good friend Casimir had his reasons too.
" Her tender health, her vow of strict retirement,
Made early in the convent — His word pledged — "
All fictions, all ! fictions of jealousy.
Well ! if the mountain move not to the prophet,
The prophet must to the mountain ! In this Laska
There 's somewhat of the knave mix'd up with dolt
Through the transparence of the fool, melhought
I saw (as I could lay my finger on it)
The crocodile's eye, that peer'd up from the bottom
This knave may do us service. Hot ambition
Won me the husband. Now let vanity
And the resentment for a forced seclusion
Decoy the wife ! Let him be deem'd the aggressor
Whose cunning and distrust began the game !

[Exit.
18

ZAPOLYA.

109

ACT II.

SCENE I.
A. savage wood. At one side a cavern, overhung with
ivy. Zapolya and Raab Kiuprili discovered :
both, but especially the latter, in rude and savage
garments.

RAAB KIUPRILI.

Heard you then aught while I was slumbering ?

ZAPOLYA.

Nothing,
Only your face became convulsed. We miserable !
Is Heaven's last mercy fled ? Is sleep grown treach-
erous ?

RAAB KIUPRILI.

0 for a sleep, for sleep itself to rest in !

1 dreamt I had met with food beneath a tree,
And I was seeking you, when all at once
My feet became entangled in a net :

Still more entangled as in rage I tore it.

At length I freed myself, had sight of you,

But as I hasten' d eagerly, again

1 found my frame encumber'd : a huge serpent

Twined round my chest, but tightest round my throat.

Alas

ZAPOLYA.

'twas lack of food . for hunger chokes!

RAAB KIUPRILI.

And now I saw you by a shrivell'd child
Strangely pursued. You did not fly, yet neither
Touch'd you the ground methought, but close above it
Did seem to .shoot yourself along the air,
And as you pass'd me, turn'd your face and shriek'd.

ZAPOLYA.

I did in truth send forth a feeble shriek,
Scarce knowing why. Perhaps the mock'd sense craved
To hear the scream, which you but seem'd to utter.
For your whole face look'd like a mask of torture !
Yet a child's image doth indeed pursue me
Shrivell'd with toil and penury !

RAAB KIUPRILI.

Nay ! what ails you ?

ZAPOLYA.

A wondrous faintness there comes stealing o'er me.
Is it Death's lengthening shadow, who comes onward,
Life's setting sun behind him ?

RAAB KIUPRILI.

Cheerly ! The dusk
Will quickly shroud us. Ere the moon be up,
Trust me I '11 bring thee food !

ZAPOLYA.

Hunger's tooth has
Gnawn itself blunt. 0, 1 could queen it well
O'er my own sorrows as my rightful subjects.
But wherefore, O revered Kiuprili ! wherefore
Did my importunate prayers, my hopes and fancies,
Force thee from thy secure though sad retreat ?
Would that my tongue had then cloven to my mouth !
But Heaven is just ! With tears I conquer'd thee,
And not a tear is left me to repent with !
Hadst thou not done already — hadst thou not
SufFer'd — oh, more than e'er man feign'd of friend-
ship ?

RAAB KIUPRILI.

Yet be thou comforted ! What ! hadst thou faith
When I turn'd back incredulous? 'Twas thy light
That kindled mine. And shall it now go out,
And leave thy soul in darkness ? Yet look up,
L2

And think thou see'st thy sainted lord commission'd

And on his way to aid us ! Whence those late dreams,

Which after such long interval of hopeless

And silent resignation, all at once

Night after night commanded thy return

Hither ? and still presented in clear vision

This wood as in a scene ? this very cavern ?

Thou darest not doubt that Heaven's especial hand

Work'd in those signs. The hour of thy deliverance

Is on the stroke : — for Misery cannot add

Grief to thy griefs, or Patience to thy sufferance !

ZAPOLYA.

Cannot ! Oh, what if thou wert taken from me ?
Nay, thou saidst well : for that and death were one
Life's grief is at its height indeed ; the hard
Necessity of this inhuman state
Has made our deeds inhuman as our vestments.
Housed in this wild wood, with wild usages,
Danger our guest, and famine at our portal —
Wolf-like to prowl in the shepherd's fold by night '
At once for food and safety to aflrighten
The traveller from his road —

[Glycine is heard singing without

RAAB KIUPRILI.

Hark ! heard you not
A distant chant !

SONG, by Glycine.

A sunny shaft did I behold,

From sky to earth it slanted ;
And poised therein a bird so bold —

Sweet bird, thou wert enchanted !

He sunk, he rose, he twinkled, he troll'd
Within that shaft of sunny mist ;

His eyes of fire, his beak of gold,
All else of amethyst!

And thus he sang : " Adieu ! adieu !
Love's dreams prove seldom true.
The blossoms, they make no delay :
The sparkling dew-drops will not stay
Sweet month of May,
We must away ;
Far, far away !
To-day! to-day!"

ZAPOLYA.

Sure 'tis some blest spirit!
For since thou slewest the usurper's emissary
That plunged upon us, a more than mortal fear
Is as a wall, that wards off the beleaguerer
And starves the poor besieged. [Song again.

RAAB KIUPRILI.

It is a maiden's voice ! quick to the cave !

ZAPOLYA.

Hark! her voice falters ! [Exit Zapolya.

RAAB KIUPRILI.

She must not enter
The cavern, else I will remain unseen !

[Kiuprili retires to one side of the stage: Glycin
enters singing.

glycine {fearfully).
A savage place ! sainls shield me! Bethlen ! Bethlen!
Not here ?— There 's no one here ! I '11 sing again.

[Sings aq-ain.
119

110

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

If* I do not hear my own voice, I shall fancy-
Voices in all chance sounds ! [Starts.
'Twas some dry branch
Dropt of itself! Oh, he went forth so rashly,
Took no food with him — only his arms and boar-spear!
What if I leave these cakes, this cruse of wine,
Here by this cave, and seek him with the rest ?

raab kiuprili {unseen).
Leave them and flee !

glycine (shrieks, then recovering).
Where are you ?
raab kiuprili {still unseen).

Leave them!

GLYCINE.

T is Glycine!
Speak to me, Bethlen ! speak in your own voice !
All silent ! — If this were the war-wolf's den !
'T was not his voice ! —

[Glycine leaves the provisions, and exit fearfully.
Kiuprili comes forward, seizes them and carries
them into the cavern. Glycine returns, having
recovered herself.

GLYCINE.

Shame ! Nothing hurt me !
If some fierce beast have gored him, he must needs
Speak with a strange voice. Wounds cause thirst
and hoarseness !

Speak, Bethlen! or but moan. St — St No— Bethlen!

If I turn back, and he should be found dead here,

[She creeps nearer and nearer to the cavern.
I should go mad ! — Again ! 'Twas my own heart !
Hush, coward heart ! better beat loud with fear,
Than break with shame and anguish !

[As she approaches to enter the cavern, Kiuprili
stops her. Glycine shrieks.

Saints protect me !

RAAB KIUPRILI.

Swear then by all thy hopes, by all thy fears —

GLYCINE.

Save me !

RAAB KIUPRILI.

Swear secrecy and silence !

GLYCINE.

I swear !

RAAB KIUPRILI.

Tell what thou art, and what thou seekest ?

GLYCINE.

Only

A harmless orphan youth, to bring him food —

RAAB KIUPRILI.

Wherefore in this wood ?

GLYCINE.

Alas ! it was his purpose —

RAAB KIUPRILI.

With what intention came he ? Wouldst thou save him,
Hide nothing !

GLYCINE.

Save him ! O forgive his rashness !
He is good, and did not know that thou wert human !

raab kiuprili {repeats the word).
Human ?

[Then sternly.

With what design ?

GLYCINE.

To kill thee, or
'f that thou wert a spirit, to compel thee

By prayers, and with the shedding of his blood,
To make disclosure of his parentage.
But most of all —

Zapolya {rushing out from the cavern)

Heaven's blessing on thee ! Speak

GLYCINE.

Whether his Mother live, or perish'd here !

ZAPOLYA.

Angel of Mercy, I was perishing
And thou didst bring me food : and now thou bring'st
The sweet, sweet food of hope and consolation
To a mother's famish'd heart! His name, sweet
maiden!

GLYCINE.

E'en till this morning we were wont to name him
Bethlen Bathory !

ZAPOLYA.

Even till this morning?
Tbis morning? when my weak faith fail'd me wholly
Pardon, O thou that portion'st out our sufferance,
And fill'st again the widow's empty cruse !
Say on !

GLYCINE.

The false ones charged the valiant youth
With treasonous words of Emerick —

ZAPOLYA.

Ha ! my son !

GLYCINE.

And of Lord Casimir —

raab kiuprili {aside).
O agony ! my son !

GLYCINE.

But my dear lady —

zapolya and raab kiuprili.

Who?

GLYCINE.

Lady Sarolta
Frown'd and discharged these bad men.

raab kiuprili {turning off and to himself).

Righteous Heaven \
Sent me a daughter once, and I repined
That it was not a son. A son was given me.
My daughter died, and I scarce shed a tear :
And lo ! that son became my curse and infamy.

zapolya {embraces Glycine).
Sweet innocent! and you came here to seek him,
And bring him food. Alas ! thou fear'st ?

GLYCINE.

Not much
My own dear lady, when I was a child
Embraced me oft, but her heart never beat so.
For I too am an orphan, motherless !

raab kiuprili {to Zapolya).
O yet beware, lest hope's brief flash but deepen
The after gloom, and make the darkness stormy !
In that last conflict, following our escape,
The usurper's cruelty had clogg'd our flight
With many a babe, and many a child ing mother
This maid herself is one of numberless
Planks from the same vast wreck.

[Then to Glycine agait*.
Well ! Casimir's wife- -

GLYCINE.

She is always gracious, and so praised the old man
That his heart o'erflow'd, and made discovery
That in this wood —

120

ZAPOLYA.

I]

zapolya (in agitation).
O speak !

GLYCINE.

A wounded lady—
[Zapolya faints — they both support her.

GLYCINE.

is this his mother ?

RAAB KIUPRILI.

She would fain believe it,
Weak though the proofs be. Hope draws towards

itself
The flame with which it kindles.

[Horn heard without.
To the cavern!
Quick! quick!

GLYCINE.

Perchance some huntsmen of the king's.

RAAB KIUPRILI.

E"ierick ?

GLYCINE.

He came this morning —
[They retire to the cavern, bearing Zapolya. Then
enter Bethlen armed with a boar-spear.

BETHLEN.

I had a glimpse
Of some fierce shape ; and but that Fancy often
Is Nature's intermeddler, and cries halves
With the outward sight, I should believe I saw it
Bear off some human prey. O my preserver !
Bathory ! Father ! Yes, thou deservest that name !
Thou didst not mock me ! These are blessed findings !
The secret cipher of my destiny

[Looking at his signet.
Stands here inscribed : it is the seal of fate !
Ha ! — (Observing the cave). Had ever monster fitting

lair, 'tis yonder!
Thou yawning Den, I well remember thee !
Mine eyes deceived me not. Heaven leads me on !
Now for a blast, loud as a king's defiance,
To rouse the monster couchant o'er his ravine !

[Blows the horn — then a pause.
Another blast ! and with another swell
To you, ye charmed watchers of this wood !
If haply I have come, the rightful heir
Of vengeance : if in me survive the spirits
Of those, whose guiltless blood flowed streaming here !
[Blows again louder.
Still silent? Is the monster gorged? Heaven shield me!
Thou, faithful spear ! be both my torch and guide.
[As Bethlen is about to enter, Kiuprili speaks
from the cavern unseen.

RAAB KIUPRILI.

Withdraw thy foot ! Retract thine idle spear,
And wait obedient !

bethlen (in amazement).

Ha ! What art thou ? speak !
RAAB kiuprili (still unseen).
Avengers !

BETHLEN.

By a dying mother's pangs,
E'en such am I. Receive me !

RAAB kiuprili (still unseen).

Wait! Beware!
At thy first step, thou treadest upon the light
Thenceforth must darkling flow, and sink in darkness!

BETHLEN.

Ha ! see my boar-spear trembles like a reed ! —

Oh, fool ' mine eyes are duped by my own shudder-
ing—

Those piled thoughts, built up in solitude,
Year following year, that press'd upon my heart
As on the altar of some unknown God,
Then, as if touch'd by fire from heaven descending
Blazed up within me at a father's name —
Do they desert me now ! — at my last trial ?
Voice of command ! and thou, O hidden Light !
I have obey'd ! Declare ye by what name
I dare invoke you ! Tell what sacrifice
Will make you gracious.

raab kiuprili (still unseen).

Patience! Truth! Obedience
Be thy whole soul transparent ! so the Light
Thou seekest may enshrine itself within thee !
Thy name ?

BETHLEN.

Ask rather the poor roaming savage,
Whose infancy no holy rite had blest.
To him, perchance rude spoil or ghastly trophy,
In chase or battle won, have given a name.
I have none — but like a dog have answer'd
To the chance sound which he that fed me call'd me

raab kiuprili (still unseen).
Thy birth-place ?

BETHLEN.

Deluding spirits, do ye mock me ?
Question the Night! Bid Darkness tell its birth-place ?
Yet hear ! Within yon old oak's hollow trunk,
Where the bats cling, have I survey'd my cradle!
The mother-falcon hath her nest above it,

And in it the wolf litters ! 1 invoke you,

Tell me, ye secret ones ! if ye beheld me
As I stood there, like one who having delved
For hidden gold hath found a talisman,
O tell ! what rites, what offices of duty
This cygnet doth command ? What rebel spirits
Owe homage to its Lord ?

raab kiuprili (still unseen).

More, guiltier, mightier,
Than thou mayest summon! Wait the destined hour!

BETHLEN.

0 yet again, and with more clamorous prayer,

1 importune ye ! Mock me no more with shadows !
This sable mantle — tell, dread voice ! did this
Enwrap one fatherless ?

zapolya (unseen).

One fatherless !
BETHLEN (starting).
A sweeter voice ! — A voice of love and pity !
Was it the soften'd echo of mine own ?
Sad echo ! but the hope it kill'd was sickly,
And ere it died it had been mourn'd as dead '
One other hope yet lives within my soul ;
Quick let me ask ! — while yet this stifling fear,
This stop of the heart, leaves utterance ! — Are — are

these
The sole remains of her that gave me life ?
Have I a mother?

[Zapolya rushes out to embrace him. Bethlen starts.
Ha!
zapolya (emhraang him).

My son ! my son !
A wretched — Oh no, no! a blest — a happy mother
[They embrace. Kiuprili and Glycine come forward
and the curtain drops.

121

112

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

A stalely Room in Lord Casimir's Castle.

Enter Emerick and Laska.

EMERICK.

F do perceive thou hast a tender conscience,
Laska, in all things that concern thine own
Interest or safety.

LASKA.

In this sovereign presence
I can fear nothing, but your dread displeasure.

EMERICK.

Perchance, thou think'st it strange, that I of all men
Should covet thus the love of fair Soralta,
Dishonoring Casimir ?

LASKA.

Far be it from me !
Your Majesty's love and choice bring honor with them

EMERICK.

Perchance, thou hast heard, that Casimir is my friend,
Fought for me, yea, for my sake, set at nought
A parent's blessing; braved a fathers curse?

laska (aside).
Would I but knew now, what his Majesty meant !
Oh yes, Sire ! 'tis our common talk, how Lord
Kiuprili, my Lord's father —

EMERICK.

Tis your talk,
Is it, good statesman Laska ?

LASKA.

No, not mine.
Not mine, an please your Majesty ! There are
Some insolent malcontents indeed that talk thus —
Nay worse, mere treason. As Bathory's son,
The fool that ran into the monster's jaws.

EMERICK.

Well, 'tis a loyal monster if he rids us

Of traitors ! But art sure the youth 's devoured ?

LASKA.

Not a limb left, an please your Majesty !
And that unhappy girl —

EMERICK.

Thou followed'st her
Into the wood ? [Laska bows assent.

Henceforth then I'll believe
That jealousy can make a hare a lion.

LASKA.

Scarce had I got the first glimpse of her veil,
When, with a horrid roar that made the leaves
Of the wood shake —

EMERICK.

Made thee shake like a leaf!

LASKA.

The war- wolf leapt; at the first plunge he seized her;
Forward I rush'd !

EMERICK.

Most marvellous !

LASKA.

Hurl'd my javelin ;
Which from his dragon-scales recoiling —

EMERICK.

Enough !
And take, friend, this advice. When next thou
tonguest it,

Hold constant to thy exploit with this monster.
And leave untouch'd your common talk aforesaid,
What your Lord did, or should have done.

LASKA.

My talk
The saints forbid ! I always said, for my part,
"Was not the king Lord Casimir's dearest friend ?
Was not that friend a king ? Whatever he did
'Twas all from pure love to his Majesty."

EMERICK.

And this then was thy talk? While knave and coward

Both strong within thee, wrestle for the uppermost,

In slips the fool and takes the place of both.

Babbler ! Lord Casimir did, as thou and all men.

He loved himself, loved honors, wealth, dominion.

All these were set upon a father's head :

Good truth ! a most unlucky accident !

For he but wish'd to hit the prize ; not graze

The head that bore it : so with steady eye

Off flew the parricidal arrow. — Even

As Casimir loved Emerick, Emerick

Loves Casimir, intends him no dishonor.

He wink'd not then, for love of me forsooth !

For love of me now let him wink ! Or if

The dame prove half as wise as she is fair,

He may still pass his hand, and find all smooth.

[Passing his hand across his brow

LASKA.

Your Majesty's reasoning has convinced me.

emerick {with a slight start, as one who had been
talking aloud to himself: then with scorn).

Thee!
'Tis well ! and more than meant. For by my faith
I had half forgotten thee, — Thou hast the key ?

[Laska bows.
And in your lady's chamber there 's full space ?

LASKA.

Between the wall and arras to conceal you.

EMERICK.

Here ! This purse is but an earnest of thy fortune,
If thou provest faithful. But if thou betrayest me,
Hark you ! — the wolf that shall drag thee to his den
Shall be no fiction.

[Exit Emerick. Laska manet with a key in on*
hand, and a purse in the other.

LASKA.

Well then ! Here I stand,
Like Hercules, on either side a goddess.
Call this [Looking at the purse

Preferment ; this (Holding up the key), Fidelity !
And first my golden goddess : what bids she ?
Only: — "This way, your Majesty ! hush. The house

hold
Are all safe lodged." — Then, put Fidelity
Within her proper wards, just turn her round —
So — the door opens — and for all the rest,
'Tis the king's deed, not Laska's. Do but this,
And — "I 'm the mere earnest of your future fortunes
But what says the other ? — Whisper on ! I hear yow
[Putting the key to his eat
All very true! — but, good Fidelity!
If I refuse king Emerick, will you promise,
And swear, now, to unlock the dungeon-door,
And save me from the hangman? Ay! you're silent'
What ! not a word in answer ? A clear nonsuit •
Now for one look to see that all are lodged

122

ZAPOOA.

113

At the due distance — then — yonder lies the road
For Laska and his royal friend king Emerick !

[Exit Laska. Then enter Bathory and Bethlen.

BETHLEN.

He look'd as if he were some God disguised
In an old warrior's venerable shape.
To guard and guide my mother. Is there not
Chapel or oratory in this mansion ?

Even so.

OLD BATHORY.

BETHLEN.

From that place then am I to take
A helm and breastplate, both inlaid with gold,
And the good sword that once was Raab Kiuprili's.

OLD BATHORY.

Those very arms this day Sarolta show'd me —
With wistful look. I'm lost in wild conjectures !

BETHLEN.

0 tempt me not, e'en with a wandering guess,
To break the first command a mother's will
Imposed, a mother's voice made known to me !
"Ask not, my son," said she, " our names or thine.
The shadow of the eclipse is passing off

The full orb of thy destiny .' Already
The victor Crescent glitters forth, and sheds
O'er the yet lingering haze a phantom light.
Thou canst not hasten it! Leave then to Heaven
The work of Heaven : and with a silent spirit
Sympathize with the powers that work in silence ! "
Thus spake she, and she look'd as she were then
Fresh from some heavenly vision !

[Re-enter Laska, not perceiving them.

LASKA.

All asleep !
[Then observing Bethlen, stands in idiot-affright.

1 must speak to it first — Put — put the question !

I '11 confess all ! [Stammering with fear.

OLD BATHORY.

Laska ! what ails thee, man ?
laska (pointing to Bethlen).
There !

OLD BATHORY.

I see notliing ! where ?

LASKA.

He does not see it !
Bethlen, torment me not !

BETHLEN.

Soft! Rouse him gently !
He hath outwatch'd his hour, and half asleep,
With eyes half open, mingles sight with dreams.

OLD BATHORY.

Ho! Laska! Don't you know us! 'tis Bathory
And Bethlen !

laska (recovering himself}.

Good now! Ha! ha! an excellent trick.
Afraid ! Nay, no offence ; but I must laugh.
But are you sure now, that 'tis you, yourself.

bethlen (holding up his hand as if to strike him).
Wouldst be convinced ?

LASKA.

No nearer, pray! consider!
If it should prove his ghost, the touch would freeze me
To a tomb-stone. No nearer !

bethlen.

The fool is drunk !

laska (still more recovering).
Well now ! I love a brave man to my heart.
I myself braved the monster, and would fain
Have saved the false one from the fate she tempted

OLD BATHORY.

You, Laska ?

BETHLEN (to BATHORY).

Mark ! Heaven grant it may be so !
Glycine ?

LASKA.

She ! I traced her by the voice.
You'll scarce believe me, when I say I heard
The close of a song : the poor wretch had been

singing ;
As if she wish'd to compliment the war-wolf
At once with music and a meal !

BETHLEN (to BATHORY).

Mark that !

LASKA.

At the next moment I beheld her running,
Wringing her hands with, Bethlen ! O poor Bethlen !
I almost fear, the sudden noise I made,
Rushing impetuous through the brake, alarm'd her.
She stopt, then mad with fear, turn'd round and ran
Into the monster's gripe. One piteous scream
I heard. There was no second — I —

BETHLEN.

Stop theie !
We '11 spare your modesty ! Who dares not honor
Laska's brave tongue, and high heroic fancy ?

LASKA.

You too, Sir Knight, have come back safe and sound
You play'd the hero at a cautious distance !
Or was it that you sent the poor girl forward
To stay the monster's stomach ? Dainties quickly
Pall on the taste and cloy the appetite !

OLD BATHORY.

Laska, beware ! Forget not what thou art !
Shouldst thou but dream thou 'rt valiant, cross thyself.
And ache all over at the dangerous fancy !

LASKA.

What then ! you swell upon my lady's favor,

High lords, and perilous of one day's growth '

But other judges now sit on the bench !

And haply, Laska hath found audience there,

Where to defend the treason of a son

Might end in lifting up both Son and Father

Still higher ; to a height from which indeed

You both may drop, but, spite of fate and fortune,

Will be secured from falling to the ground.

'T is possible too, young man ! that royal Emerick

At Laska's rightful suit, may make inquiry

By whom seduced, the maid so strangely missing

BETHLEN.

Soft ! my good Laska ! might it not suffice,
If to yourself, being Lord Casimir's steward,
I should make record of Glycine's fate ?

LASKA.

'Tis well! it shall content me ! though your fear
Has all the credit of these lower'd tones.

[Then very pompousiy
First, we demand the manner of her death ?

BETHLEN.

Nay! that's superfluous! Have you not just told ua
That you yourself, led by impetuous valor,
Witness'd the whole ? My tale 's of later date.
123

114

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

After the fate, from which, your valor strove
In vain to rescue the rash maid, I saw her!

LASKA.

Glycine ?

BETHLEN.

Nay ! Dare I accuse wise Laska,
Whose words find access to a monarch's ear,
Of a base, braggart he ? It must have been
Her spirit that appear'd to me. But haply
I come too late ? It has itself deliver'd
ts own commission to you?

OLD BATHORY.

Tis most likely!
And the ghost doubtless vanish'd, when we enter'd
And found brave Laska staring wide — at nothing !

LASKA.

Tis well! You've ready wits! I shall report them,
With all due honor, to his Majesty !
Treasure them up, I pray ! a certain person,
Whom the king flatters with his confidence,
Tells you, his royal friend asks startling questions !
'Tis but a hint ! And now what says the ghost ?

BETHLEN.

Listen ! for thus it spake : "Say thou to Laska,
Glycine, knowing all thy thoughts engross d
In thy new office of king's fool and knave,
Foreseeing thou' It forget with thine own hand
To make due penance for the wrongs thou'st caused her,
For thy soul's safety, doth consent to take it
From Bethlen' s cudgel" — thus. [Beats him off.

Off! scoundrel! off!
[Laska runs away.

OLD BATHORY.

The sudden swelling of this shallow dastard
Tells of a recent storm : the first disruption
Of the black cloud that hangs and threatens o'er us.

BETHLEN.

E'en this reproves my loitering. Say where lies
The oratory ?

OLD BATHORY.

Ascend yon flight of stairs !
Midway the corridor a silver lamp
Hangs o'er the entrance of Sarolta's chamber,
And facing it, the low-arch'd oratory !
Me thou 'It find watching at the outward gate :
For a petard might burst the bars, unheard
By the drenched porter, and Sarolta hourly
Expects Lord Casimir, spite of Emerick's message !

BETHLEN.

There I will meet you ! And till then good night !
Dear good old man, good night !

OLD BATHORY.

O yet one moment!
What I repell'd, when it did seem my own,
I cling to, now 'tis parting — call me father!
It can not now mislead thee. O my son,
Ere yet our tongues have learnt another name,
Bethlen ! — say — Father to me !

BETHLEN.

Now, and for ever
My father ! other sire than thou, on earth
I never had, a dearer could not have !
From the base earth you raised me to your arms,
And I would leap from off a throne, and kneeling,
Ask Heaven's blessing from thy lips, My father!

BATHORY.

Go! Go!

[Bethlen breaks off and exit. Batiiory looks
affectionately after him.
May every star now shining over us,
Be as an angel's eye, to watch and guard him .

[Exit Bathory

Scene changes to a splendid Bed-Chamber, hung
with tapestry. Sarolta in an elegant Night
Dress, and an Attendant.

ATTENDANT.

We all did love her, Madam !

SAROLTA.

She deserved it !
Luckless Glycine ! rash, unhappy girl !
'Twas the first time she e'er deceived me.

ATTENDANT.

She was in love, and had she not died thus,
With grief for Bethlen's loss, and fear of Laska,
She would have pined herself to death at home.

SAROLTA.

Has the youth's father come back from his search ?

ATTENDANT.

He never will, I fear me, O dear lady !

That Laska did so triumph o'er the old man —

It was quite cruel — "You'll be sure," said he,

"To meet with part at least of your son Bethlen,

Or the war-wolf must have a quick digestion !

Go! Search the wood by all means! Go! I pray you'.*

SAROLTA.

Inhuman wretch !

ATTENDANT.

And old Bathory answer'd
With a sad smile, "It is a witch's prayer,
And may Heaven read it backwards." Though she

was rash,
'T was a small fault for such a punishment !

SAROLTA.

Nay! 'twas my grief, and not my anger spoke
Small fault indeed ! but leave me, my good girl '
I feel a weight that only prayer can lighten.

[Exit Attendant.
O they were innocent, and yet have perish'd
In their May of life ; and Vice grows old in triumph
Is it Mercy's hand, that for the bad man holds

Life's closing gate ?

Still passing thence petitionary hours
To woo the obdurate spirit to repentance ?
Or would this dullness tell me, that there is
Guilt too enormous to be duly punish'd,
Save by increase of guilt ? The Powers of Evil
Are jealous claimants. Guilt too hath its ordeal,
And Hell its own probation ! — Merciful Heaven,
Rather than this, pour down upon thy suppliant
Disease, and agony, and comfortless want !
O send us forth to wander on, unshelter'd !
Make our food bitter with despised tears !
Let viperous scorn hiss at us as we pass !
Yea, let us sink down at our enemy's gate,
And beg forgiveness and a morsel of bread !
With all the heaviest worldly visitations.
Let the dire father's curse that hovers o'er us
Work out its dread fulfilment, and the spirit
Of wrong'd Kiuprili be appeased. But only.
Only, O merciful in vengeance ! let not

124

ZAPOLYA.

115

That plague turn inward on my Casimir's soul !
Scare thence the fiend Ambition, and restore him
To his own heart ! O save him ! Save my husband !
[During the latter part of this speech, Emerick
comes forward from his hiding-place. Sarolta
seeing him, without recognizing him.
In such a shape a father's curse should come.

emerick {advancing).
Fear not !

SAROLTA.

Who art thou ? Robber ! Traitor !

EMERICK.

Friend !
Who in good hour hath startled these dark fancies,
Rapacious traitors, that would fain depose
Joy, love, and beauty, from their natural thrones :
Those lips, those angel eyes, that regal forehead.

SAROLTA.

Strengthen me, Heaven ! I must not seem afraid !

[Aside.
The king to-night then deigns to play the masker.
What seeks your Majesty ?

EMERICK.

Sarolta's love ;
And Emerick's power lies prostrate at her feet

SAROLTA.

Heaven guard the sovereign's powder from such de-
basement !
Far rather, Sire, let it descend in vengeance
On the base ingrate, on the faithless slave
Who dared unbar the doors of these retirements !
For whom? Has Casimir deserved this insult?
O my misgiving heart ! If — if— from Heaven
Yet not from you, Lord Emerick !

EMERICK.

Chiefly from me.
Has he not like an ingrate robb'd my court
Of Beauty's star, and kept my heart in darkness !
First then on him I will administer justice —
If not in mercy, yet in love and rapture. [Seizes her.

SAROLTA.

Help ! Treason ! Help !

EMERICK.

Call louder ! Scream again !
Here 's none can hear you !

SAROLTA.

Hear me, hear me, Heaven !

EMERICK.

Nay, why this rage ? Who best deserves you ? Casimir,
Emerick's bought implement, the jealous slave
That mews you up with bolts and bars ? or Emerick,
Who proffers you a throne ? Nay, mine you shall be.
Hence with this fond resistance ! Yield ; then live
This month a widow, and the next a queen !

SAROLTA.

Yet, for one brief moment
Unhand me, I conjure you.

[She throws him off, and rushes towards a toilet

Emerick follows, and as she takes a dagger.

he grasps it in her hand.

EMERICK.

Ha ! ha ! a dagger ;
A seemly ornament for a lady's casket !
'Tie held, devotion is akin to love,

[Struggling

But yours is tragic ! Love in war ! It charms rne,
And makes your beauty worth a king's embraces !

{During this speech, Bethlen enters armed).

BETHLEN.

Ruffian, forbear ! Turn, turn and front my sword

EMERICK

Pish ! who is this ?

SAROLTA.

O sleepless eye of Heaven !
A blest, a blessed spirit ! Whence earnest thou ?
May I still call thee Bethlen ?

BETHLEN.

Ever, lady,
Your faithful soldier !

EMERICK.

Insolent slave ! Depart !
Know'st thou not me ?

BETHLEN.

I know thou art a villain
And coward ! That, thy devilish purpose marks thee !
What else, this lady must instruct my sword !

SAROLTA.

Monster, retire ! O touch him not, thou blest one !
This is the hour, that fiends and damned spirits
Do walk the earth, and take what form they list !
Yon devil hath assumed a king's !

BETHLEN.

Usurp'd it !

EMERICK.

The king will play the devil with thee indeed !
But that I mean to hear thee howl on the rack,
I would debase this sword, and lay thee prostrate,
At this thy paramour's feet ; then drag her forlh
Stain'd with adulterous blood, and [Then to Sarolta
— Mark you, traitress
Sfrumpeted first, then turn'd adrift to beggary !
Thou prayed'st for't too.

SAROLTA.

Thou art so fiendish wicked;
That in thy blasphemies I scarce hear thy threats.

BETHLEN

Lady, be calm ! fear not this king of the buskin !
A king ? Oh laughter ! A king Bajazet !
That from some vagrant actor's tyring-room,
Hath stolen at once his speech and crown !

EMERICK.

Ah! treason!
Thou hast been lesson'd and trick'd up for this !
As surely as the wax on thy death-warrant
Shall take the impression of this royal signet,
So plain thy face hath ta'en the mask of rebel !
[Emerick points his hand haughtily towards Beth-
len, who catching a sight of the signet, seizes
his hand and eagerly observes the signet, then-
flings the hand bach with indignant joy.

BETHLEN.

It must he so ! 'Tis e'en the counterpart !

But with a foul usurping cipher on it !

The light hath flash'd from Heaven, and I must

follow it !
O curst usurper! O thou brother-murderer!
That madest a star-bright queen a fugitive widow!
Who fill'st the land with curses, being thyself
All curses in one tyrant ! see and tremble !
This is Kiuprili's sword that now hangs o'er thee!
Kiuprili's blasting curse, that from its point
17 125

116

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

Shoots lightnings at thee ! Hark ! in Andreas' name
Heir of his vengeance ! hell-hound ! I defy thee.
{They fght, and just as Emerick is disarmed, in

rush Casimir, Old Bathory, and attendants.

Casimir runs in between the combatants, and

parts them : in the struggle Bethlen's sword

is thrown down.

casimir.
The king disarm'd too by a stranger ! Speak !
What may this mean ?

EMERICK.

Deceived, dishonor'd lord !
Ask thou yon fair adultress ! She will tell thee
A tale, which wouldst thou be both dupe and traitor,
Thou wilt believe against thy friend and sovereign !
Thou art present now, and a friend's duty ceases :
To thine own justice leave I thine own wrongs.
Of half thy vengeance, I perforce must rob thee,
For that the sovereign claims. To thy allegiance
I now commit this traitor and assassin.

[Then to the Attendants.
Hence with him to the dungeon ! and to-morrow,
Ere the sun rises, — hark ! your heads or his !

BETHLEN.

Can Hell work miracles to mock Heaven's justice ?

EMERICK.

Who speaks to him dies ! The traitor that has menaced
His king, must not pollute the breathing air,
Even with a word !

casimir (to Bathory).

Hence with him to the dungeon!
[Exit Betiilen, hurried off by Bathory and
Attendants.

EMERICK.

We hunt to-morrow in your upland forest :

Thou (to Casimir) wilt attend us : and wilt then

explain
Tliis sudden and most fortunate arrival.

[Exit Emerick ; manent Casimir and Sarolta.

SAROLTA.

My lord! my husband! look whose sword lies yonder!
[Pointing to the sword which Bethlen had been
disarmed of by the Attendants.
Tt is Kiuprili's; Casimir, 'tis thy father's!
And wielded by a stripling's arm, it baffled,
Yea, fell like Heaven's own lightnings on that Tar-
quin.

casimir.
Hush ! hush ! [In an under voice.

I had detected ere I left the city
The tyrant's curst intent. Lewd, damn'd ingrate !
For him did I bring down a father's curse !
Swift, swift must be our means ! To-morrow's sun
Sets on his fate or mine ! O blest Sarolta !

[Embracing her.
No other prayer, late penitent, dare I offer,
But that thy spotless virtues may prevail
O'er Casimir's crimes and dread Kiuprili's curse !

[Exeunt consulting.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

A Glade in a Wood.

Enter Casimir, looking anxiously around.

casimir.

This needs must be the spot ! 0, here he comes !

Enter Lord Rudolph.

Well met, Lord Rudolph!

Your whisper was not lost upon my ear,
And I dare trust —

LORD RUDOLPH

Enough ! the time is precious !
You left Temeswar late on yester-eve .-
And sojourn'd there some hours ?

CASIMIR.

did so !

LORD RUDOLPH.

Heard vou

Aught of a hunt preparing?

CASIMIR.

Yes ; and met
The assembled huntsmen!

LORD RUDOLPH.

Was there no word given \

CASIMIR.

The word for me was this ; — The royal Leopard
Chases thy milk-white dedicated Hind.

LORD RUDOLPH.

Your answer ?

CASIMIR.

As the word proves false or true,
Will Casimir cross the hunt, or join the huntsmen !

LORD RUDOLPH.

The event redeem'd their pledge ?

CASIMIR.

It did, and therefore
Have I sent back both pledge and invitation.
The spotless Hind hath fled to them for shelter,
And bears with her my seal of fellowship !

[They take hands, etc

LORD RUDOLPH.

But Emerick ! how when you reported to him
Sarolta's disappearance, and the flight
Of Bethlen with his guards ?

CASIMIR.

O he received it
As evidence of their mutual guilt : in fine,
With cozening warmth condoled with, and dismiss'd
me.

LORD RUDOLPH.

I enter'd as the door was closing on you :

His eye was fix'd, yet seem'd to follow you,

With such a look of hate, and scorn and triumph,

As if he had you in the toils already,

And were then choosing where to stab you first.

But hush ! draw back !

CASIMIR.

This nook is at the farthest
From any beaten track.

LORD RUDOLPH.

There ! mark them !
[Points to where Laska and Pestalutz cros*
the Stage.

CASIMIR.

Laska

LORD RUDOLPH.

One of the two I recognized this morning ;
His name is Pestalutz : a trusty ruffian,
Whose face is prologue still to some dark muroet
Beware no stratagem, no trick of message,
Dispart you from your servants.

casimir (aside).

I deserve it
126

ZAPOLYA.

117

The comrade of that ruffian is my servant;
The one I trusted most and most preferred.
But we must part. What makes the king so late ?
It was his wont to be an early stirrer.

LORD RUDOLPH.

And his main policy
To enthral the sluggard nature in ourselves
Is?, in good truth, the better half of the secret
To enthral the world : for the will governs all.
See, the sky lowers ! the cross-winds way wardly
Chase the fantastic masses of the clouds
With a wild mockery of the coming hunt !

CASIMIR.

Mark yonder mass ! I make it wear the shape
Of a huge ram that butts with head depressed.

lord rudolph (smiling).
Belike, some stray sheep of the oozy flock,
Which, if bards lie not, the Sea-shepherds tend,
Glaucus or Proteus. But my fancy shapes it
A monster couchant on a rocky shelf.

CASIMIR.

Mark too the edges of the lurid mass —
Restless, as if some idly-vexing Sprite,
On swift wing coasting by, with techy hand
Piuck'd at the ringlets of the vaporous Fleece.
These are sure signs of conflict nigh at hand,
And elemental war !

[A single Trumpet heard at a distance.

LORD RUDOLPH.

That single blast
Announces that the tyrant's pawing courser
Neighs at the gate [A volley of Trumpets.

Hark ! now the king comes forth !
For ever midst this crash of horns and clarions
He mounts his steed, which proudly rears an-end
While he looks round at ease, and scans the crowd,
Vain of his stately form and horsemanship !
I must away ! my absence may be noticed.

CASIMIR.

Oft as thou canst, essay to lead the hunt
Hard by the forest skirts ; and ere high noon
Expect our sworn confederates from Temeswar.
I trust, ere yet this clouded sun slopes westward,
That Emerick's death, or Casimir's, will appease
The manes of Zapolya and Kiuprili !

[Exit Rudolph and manet Casimir.

The traitor, Laska!

And yet Sarolta, simple, inexperienced,

Could see him as he was, and often warn'd me.

Whence learn'd she this ? — O she was innocent !

And to be innocent is nature's wisdom !

The fledge-dove knows the prowlers of the air,

Fear'd soon as seen, and flutters back to shelter.

And the young steed recoils upon his haunches,

The never-yet-seen adder's hiss first heard.

O surer than Suspicion's hundred eyes

Is that fine sense, which to the pure in heart,

By' mere oppugnancy of their own goodness,

Reveals the approach of evil. Casimir !

O fool ! O parricide! through yon wood didst thou,

With fire and sword, pursue a patriot father,

A widow and an orphan. Darest thou then

(Curse-laden wretch), put forth these hands to raise

The ark, all sacred, of thy country's cause?

Look down in pity on thy son, Kiuprili ;

And let this deep abhorrence of his crime,

Unstain'd with selfish fears, be his atonement !

0 strengthen him to nobler compensation
In the deliverance of his bleeding country !

[Exit Casimir.

Scene changes to the mouth of a Cavern, as in Act II.
Zapolya and Glycine discovered.

ZAPOLYA.

Our friend is gone to seek some safer cave.
Do not then leave me long alone, Glycine !
Having enjoy'd thy commune, loneliness,
That but oppress'd me hitherto, now scares.

GLYCINE.

1 shall know Bethlen at the furthest distance,
And the same moment I descry him, lady,

I will return to you. [Exit Glycine.

Enter Old Bathory, speaking as he enters.

OLD BATHORY.

Who hears ? A friend !
A messenger from him who bears the signet !

[Zapolya, who had been gazing affectionately after
Glycine, starts at Bathory's voice.
He hath the watch-word ! — Art thou not Bathory ?

QLD BATHORY.

0 noble lady ! greetings from your son !

[Bathory kneels

ZAPOLYA.

Rise ! rise ! Or shall I rather kneel beside thee,
And call down blessings from the wealth of Heaven
Upon thy honor'd head ? When thou last saw'st me

1 would full fain have knelt to thee, and could not,
Thou dear old man ! How oft since then in dreams
Have I done worship to thee, as an angel
Bearing my helpless babe upon thy wings !

OLD BATHORY.

O he was born to honor ! Gallant deeds
And perilous hath he wrought since yester-eve.
Now from Temeswar (for to him was trusted
A life, save thine, the dearest) he hastes hither —

ZAPOLYA.

Lady Sarolta mean'st thou ?

OLD BATHORY.

She is safe.
The royal brute hath overleapt his prey,
And when he turn'd, a sworded Virtue faced him.
My own brave boy — O pardon, noble lady !
Your son

ZAPOLYA.

Hark ! Is it he ?

OLD BATHORY.

I hear a voice
Too hoarse for Bethlen's! 'T was his scheme and hope,
Long ere the hunters could approach the forest,
To have led you hence. — Retire.

ZAPOLYA.

O life of terrors !

OLD BATHORY.

In the cave's mouth we have such 'vantage-ground
That even this old arm —

[Exeunt Zapolya and Bathory into the Cave

Enter Laska and Pestalutz.
laska.

Not a step further !
pestalutz.
Dastard ! was this your promise to the king ?

127

118

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

LASKA.

I have fulfiU'd his orders ; have walk'd with you
As with a friend ; have pointed out Lord Casirnir :
And now I leave you to take care of him.
For the king's purposes are doubtless friendly.

pestalutz (affecting to start).
Be on your guard, man !

LASKA (in affright).

Ha ! what now ?

PESTALUTZ.

Behind you
'T was one of Satan's imps, that grinn'd, and threat-

en'd you
For your most impudent hope to cheat his master !

LASKA.

Pshaw ! What, you think 'tis fear that makes me
leave you ?

PESTALUTZ.

Is 't not enough to play the knave to others,
But thou must lie to thine own heart ?

laska (pompously).
Friend ! Laska will be found at his own post,
Watching elsewhere for the king's interest.
There 's a rank plot that Laska must hunt down,
'Twixt Bethlen and Glycine !

pestalutz (with a sneer).

What ! the girl
Whom Laska saw the war- wolf tear in pieces ?
laska (throwing down a bow and arrovis).
Well ! there 's my arms ! Hark ! should your javelin

fail you,
These points are tipt with venom.

[Starts and sees Glycine without.
By Heaven ! Glycine !
Now, as you love the lung, help me to seize her!
[They run out after Glycine, and she shrieks with-
out : then enter Bathory from the Cavern.

OLD BATHORY.

Rest, lady, rest ! I feel in every sinew

A young man's strength returning ! Which way went

they?
The shriek came thence.

[Clash of swords, and Bethlen's voice heard from
behind the Scenes ; Glycine enters alarmed ;
then, as seeing Laska's bow and arrows.
glycine.
Ha ! weapons here ? Then, Bethlen, thy Glycine
Will die with thee or save thee !

'She seizes them and rushes out. Bathory following
her. Lively and irregular Music, and Peasants
with hunting-spears cross the stage, singing cho-
rally.

CHORAL SONG.
Up, up ! ye dames, ye lasses gay !
To the meadows trip away.
'T is you must tend the flocks this morn,
And scare the small birds from the com.
Not a soul at home may stay :

For the shepherds must go

With lance and bow
To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.

Leave the hearth and leave the house
To the cricket and the mouse :

Find grannam out a sunny seat,
With babe and lambkin at her feet.
Not a soul at home may stay :
For the shepherds must go
With lance and bow
To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.
Re-enter, as the Huntsmen pass off, Bathory, Bethlen
and Glycine,
glycine (leaning on Bethlen).
And now once more a woman

bethlen.

Was it then
That timid eye, was it those maiden hands
That sped the shaft which saved me and avenged me ?

old bathory (to Bethlen exultingly).
'Twas a vision blazon'd on a cloud
By lightning, shaped into a passionate scheme
Of life and death ! I saw the traitor, Laska,
Stoop and snatch up the javelin of his comrade ?
The point was at your back, when her shaft reach d

him
The coward turn'd, and at the self-same instant
The braver villain fell beneath your sword.

Enter Zapolya.

ZAPOLYA.

Bethlen ! my child ! and safe too !
bethlen.

Mother! Queen!
Royal Zapolya ! name me Andreas !
Nor blame thy son, if being a king, he yet
Hath made his own arm, minister of his justice
So do the Gods who lanch the thunderbolt !

ZAPOLYA

0 Raab Kiuprili ! Friend! Protector! Guide'
In vain we trench'd the altar round with waters
A flash from Heaven hathtouch'd the hidden incense —

bethlen (hastily).
And that majestic form that stood beside thee
Was Raab Kiuprili !

ZAPOLYA.

It was Raab Kiuprili ;
As sure as thou art Andreas, and the king.

OLD BATHORY.

Hail Andreas! hail my king! [Triumphantly

ANDREAS.

Stop, thou revered one
Lest we offend the jealous destinies
By shouts ere victory. Deem it then thy duty
To pay this homage, when 'tis mine to claim it.

GLYCINE.

Accept thine hand-maid's service ! [Kneeling

ZAPOLYA

Raise her, son !

0 raise her to thine arms ! she saved thy life,

And through her love for thee, she saved thy mother's
Hereafter thou shalt know, that this dear maid
Hath other and hereditary claims
Upon thy heart, and with Heaven-guarded instinct
But carried on the work her sire began !

ANDREAS.

Dear maid ! more dear thou canst not be ! the rest
Shall make my love religion. Haste we hence ;
For as I reach'd the skirts of this high forest,

1 heard the noise and uproar of the chase,
Doubling its echoes from the mountain foot.

128

ZAPOLYA.

119

GLYCINE.

Hark ! sure the hunt approaches.

[Horn without, and afterwards distant thunder.

ZAPOLYA.

O Kiuprili!

OLD BATHORY.

The demon-hunters of the middle air
Are in full cry, and scare with arrowy fire
The guilty ! Hark ! now here, now there, a horn
Swells singly with irregular blast ! the tempest
Has scatter'd them !

[Horns heard as from different places at a distance.

ZAPOLYA.

O Heavens! where stays Kiuprili?

OLD BATHORY.

The wood will be surrounded ! leave me here.

ANDREAS.

My mother ! let me see thee once in safety,
I too will hasten bank, with lightning's speed,
To seek the hero !

OLD BATHORY.

Haste ! my life upon it,
I '11 guide him safe

andreas (thunder again).

Ha ! what a crash was there !
Heaven seems to claim a mightier criminal

[Pointing without to the body of Pestalutz.
Than yon vile subaltern.

ZAPOLYA.

Your behest, High Powers,
Low I obey ! to the appointed spirit,
That hath so long kept watch round this drear cavern,
In fervent faith, Kiuprili, I intrust thee !

[Exeunt Zapolya, Andreas, and Glycine,
Andreas having in haste dropt his sword.
Manet Bathory.

OLD BATHORY.

Yon bleeding corse, (pointing to Pestalutz's body)

may work us mischief still :
Once seen, 'twill rouse alarm and crowd the hunt
From all parts towards this spot. Stript of its armor,
I '11 drag it hither.

[Exit Bathory. After a while several Hunters
cross the stage as scattered. Some time after,
enter Kiuprili in his disguise, fainting with
fatigue, and as pursued.
raab kiuprili (throwing off his disguise).
Since Heaven alone can save me, Heaven alone
Shall be my trust.

[Then speaking as to Zapolya in the Cavern.
Haste ! haste ! Zapolya, flee !
[He enters the Cavern, and then returns in alarm.
Gone ! Seized perhaps ? Oh no, let me not perish
Despairing of Heaven's justice ! Faint, disarm'd,
Each sinew powerless, senseless rock sustain me !
Thou art parcel of my native land.

[Then observing the sword.
A sword !
Ha! and my sword! Zapolya hath escaped,
The murderers are baffled, and there lives
An Andreas to avenge Kiuprili's fall ! —
There was a time, when this dear sword did flash
As dreadful as the storm-fire from mine arms:
I can scarce raise it now — yet come, fell tyrant !
And bring with thee my shame and bitter anguish,
To end fa's work and thine! Kiuprili now
Can take the death-blow as a soldier should.

Re-enter Bathory, with the dead body of Pestalutz.

OLD BATHORY.

Poor tool and victim of another's guilt !
Thou follow'st heavily : a reluctant weight !
Good truth, it is an undeserved honor
That in Zapolya and Kiuprili's cave
A wretch like thee should find a burial-place.

[Then observing Kiuprili.
Tis he! — in Andreas' and Zapolya's name
Follow me, reverend form ? Thou needst not speak,
For thou canst be no other than Kiuprili !

kiuprili.
And are they safe ? [Noise without.

OLD BATHORY.

Conceal yourself, my Lord
I will mislead them !

kiuprili.

Is Zapolya safe ?

OLD BATHORY.

I doubt it not ; but haste, haste, I conjure you !

[As he retires, in rushes Casimir.
casimir (entering).

Monster !
Thou shalt not now escape me !

OLD BATHORY.

Stop, Lord Casimir !
It is no monster.

casimir.
Art thou too a traitor ?
Is this the place where Emerick's murderers lurk ?
Say where is he that, trick'd in this disguise,
First lured me on, then scared my dastard followers ?
Thou must have seen him. Say where is th' assassin ?
old bathory (pointing to the body of Pestalutz).
There lies the assassin ! slain by that same sword
That was descending on his curst employer,
When entering thou beheld'st Sarolta rescued I

casimir.
Strange providence ! what then was he who fled me ?
[Bathory points to the Cavern, whence Kiuprili
advances.
Thy looks speak fearful things ! Whither, old man !
Would thy hand point me ?

OLD BATHORY.

Casimir, to thy father.
casimir (discovering Kiuprili).
The curse ! the curse ! Open and swallow me,
Unsteady earth ! Fall, dizzy rocks ! and hide me !

OLD BATHORY (to KlUPRILl).

Speak, speak, my Lord !

kiuprili (holds out the sword to Bathory).
Bid him fulfil his work !
casimir.
Thou art Heaven's immediate minister, dread spirit '
O for sweet mercy, take some other form,
And save me from perdition and despair !

old bathory.
He lives !

casimir.
Lives ! A father's curse can never die !
kiuprili (in a tone of pity).
O Casimir! Casimir!

old bathory

Look ! he doth forgive you '
Hark! 'tis the tyrant's voice.

[Emerick's voice withou
129

120

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

CASIMIR.

I kneel, I kneel !
Retract thy curse ! 0, by my mother's ashes,
Have pity on thy self-abhorring child !
If not for me, yet for my innocent wife,
Yet for my country's sake, give my arm strength,
Permitting me again to call thee father !

KIUPRILI.

Son, I forgive thee ! Take thy father's sword ;
When thou shalt lift it in thy country's cause,
In that same instant doth thy father bless thee !

[Kiuprili and Casimir embrace; they all retire
to the Cavern supporting Kiuprili. Casimir
as by accident drops his robe, and Bathory
throws it over the body of Pestalutz.
emerick {entering).
Fools ! Cowards ! follow — or by Hell I '11 make you
Find reason to fear Emerick, more than all
The mummer-fiends that ever masqueraded
As gods or wood-nymphs ! —

Then sees the body of Pestalutz, covered by
Casimir's cloak.

Ha! 'tis done then!
Our necessary villain hath proved faithful,
And there lies Casimir, and our last fears !

Well !— Ay, well !

And is it not well ? For though grafted on us,
And fill'd too with our sap, the deadly power
Of the parent poison-tree lurk'd in its fibres :
There was too much of Raab Kiuprili in him:
The old enemy look'd at me in his face,
E'en when his words did flatter me with duty.

[As Emerick moves towards the body, enter from
the Cavern Casimir and Bathory.

old bathory (pointing to where the noise is, and aside

to Casimir).
Tliis way they come !

casimir (aside to Bathory).

Hold them in check awhile.
The path is narrow ! Rudolph will assist thee.

emerick (aside, not perceiving Casimir and Bathory,

and looking at the dead body).
And ere I ring the alarum of my sorrow,
I '11 scan that face once more, and murmur — Here
Lies Casimir, the last of the Kiuprilis !

[Uncovers the face, and starts.
Hell! 'tis Pestalutz!

casimir (coming forward).

Yes, thou ingrate Emerick !
'Tis Pestalutz! 'tis thy trusty murderer!
To quell thee more, see Raab Kiuprili's sword !

emerick.
Curses on it, and thee ! Think'st thou that petty omen
Dare whisper fear to Erne rick's destiny ?
Ho! Treason! Treason!

CASIMIR.

Then have at thee, tyrant!
[ They fight. Emerick falls.

EMERICK.

Betray'd and baffled

By mine own tool ! Oh ! [Dies.

casimir (triumphantly).

Hear, hear, my father!
Thou shouldst have witness'd thine own deed. O

father !
Wake from that envious swoon! The tyrant's fallen!
Thy sword hath conquer'd ! As I lifted it,

Thy blessing did indeed descend upon me ;
Dislodging the dread curse. It flew forth from mo
And lighted on the tyrant !

Enter Rudolph, Bathory, and Attendants.

Rudolph and bathory (entering).

Friends ! friends to Casimir
casimir.
Rejoice, Ulyrians ! the usurper's fallen.

RUDOLPH.

So perish tyrants ! so end usurpation !

casimir.
Bear hence the body, and move slowly on !

One moment

Devoted to a joy, that bears no witness,
I follow you, and we will greet our countrymen
With the two best and fullest gifts of Heaven —
A tyrant fallen, a patriot chief restored !

[Exeunt Casimir into the Cavern. TJie rest on
the opposite side.

Scene changes to a splendid Chamber in Casimir's
Castle. Confederates discovered.

FIRST CONFEDERATE.

It cannot but succeed, friends. From this palace
E'en to the wood, our messengers are posted
With such short interspace, that fast as sound
Can travel to us, we shall learn the event!

Enter another Confederate.
What tidings from Temeswar ?

second confederate.

With one voice
Th' assembled chieftains have deposed the tyrant ;
He is proclaim'd the public enemy,
And the protection of the law withdrawn.

FIRST CONFEDERATE.

Just doom for him, who governs without law '
Is it known on whom the sov'reignty will fall ?

SECOND CONFEDERATE.

Nothing is yet decided : but report

Points to Lord Casimir. The grateful memory

Of his renowned father

Enter Sarolta.

Hail to Sarolta.

SAROLTA.

Confederate friends ! I bring to you a joy
Worthy our noble cause ! Kiuprili lives,
And from his obscure exile, hath return'd
To bless our country. More and greater tidings
Might I disclose ; but that a woman's voice
Would mar the wondrous tale. Wait we for him
The partner of the glory — Raab Kiuprili ;
For he alone is worthy to announce it.

[Shouts of " Kiuprili, Kiuprili !" and "The Tyrant s
fallen !" without. Tlien enter Kiuprili, Casimir,
Rudolph, Bathory, and Attendants, after the
clamor has subsided.

RAAB KIUPRILI.

Spare yet your joy, my friends ! A higher waits you
Behold your Queen !

Enter from opposite side, Zapolya and Andreas
royally attired, with Glycine.

CONFEDERATES.

Comes she from heaven to bless ua
130

THE PICCOLOMINI.

121

OTHER CONFEDERATES.

ft is! it is!

ZAPOLYA.

Heaven's work of grace is full !
Kmprili, thou art safe!

RAAB KIUPRILI.

Royal Zapolya !
To the heavenly powers, pay we our duty first ;
Who not alone preserved thee, but for thee
And for our country, the one precious branch
Of Andreas' royal house. O countrymen,
Behold your King ! And thank our country's genius,
Tha^ the same means which have preserved our

sovereign,
Have likewise rear'd him worthier of the throne
By virtue than by birth. The undoubted proofs
Pledged by his royal mother, and this old man
(Whose name henceforth be dear to all Illyrians),
We haste to lay before the assembled council.

ALL.

Hail, Andreas ! Hail, Illyria's rightful king !

ANDREAS.

Supported thus, O friends ! 'twere cowardice

Unworthy of a royal birth, to shrink

From the appointed charge. Yet, while we wait

The awful sanction of convened Illyria,

In this brief while, O let me feel myself

The child, the friend, the debtor !— Heroic mother! —

But what can breath add to that sacred name ?

Kiuprili! gift of Providence, to teach us

That loyalty is but the public form

Of the sublimest friendship, let my youth

Climb round thee, as the vine around its elm :

Thou my support, and I thy faithful fruitage.

My heart is full, and these poor words express not

They are but an art to check its over-swelling.

Bathory ! shrink not from my filial arms !

Now, and from henceforth, thou shalt not forbid me

To call thee father ! And dare I forget

The powerful intercession of thy virtue,
Lady Sarolta ? Still acknowledge me
Thy faithful soldier! — But what invocation
Shall my full soul address to thee, Glycine ?
Thou sword, that leap'st from forth a bed of roses !
Thou falcon-hearted dove ?

ZAPOLYA.

Hear that from me, son
For ere she lived, her father saved thy life,
Thine, and thy fugitive mother's !

CASIMIR.

Chef Ragozzi !

0 shame upon my head ! I would have given her
To a base slave !

ZAPOLYA.

Heaven overruled thy purpose,
And sent an angel {Pointing to Sarolta) to thy house

to guard her !
Thou precious bark! freighted with all our treasures

[To Andreas.
The sport of tempests, and yet ne'er the victim,
How many may claim salvage in thee !

(Pointing to Glycine). Take her, son
A queen that brings with her a richer dowry
Than orient kings can give !

SAROLTA.

A banquet waits !—
On this auspicious day, for some few$iours

1 claim to be your hostess. Scenes so awful
With flashing light, force wisdom on us all !
E'en women at the distaff hence may see,
That bad men may rebel, but ne'er be free ;
May whisper, when the waves of faction foam,
None love their country, but who love their home ;
For freedom can with those alone abide,

Who wear the golden chain, with honest pride,
Of love and duty, at their own fire-side :
While mad ambition ever doth caress
Its own sure fate, in its own restlessness !

&\\t lifccolotnfnf ; or, tfie jFir^tJPatrtof $BulUmtttu<

A DRAMA.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER.

PREFACE.

It was my intention to have prefixed a Life of Wal-
lenstein to this translation ; but I found that it must
either have occupied a space wholly disproportionate
to the nature of the publication, or have been merely
a meagre catalogue of events narrated not more
fully than they already are in the Play itself. The
recent translation, likewise, of Schiller's History of
the Thirty Years' War diminished the motives thereto.

In the translation I endeavored to render my Author
literally wherever I was not prevented by absolute
differences of idiom ; but I am conscious, that in two
or three short passages I have been guilty of dilating
the original ; and, from anxiety to give the full
meaning, have weakened the force. In the metre I
have availed myself of no other liberties than those
which Schiller had permitted to himself, except tho
occasional breaking-uD of the line by the subslilu
tion of a trochee for an iambic; of which liberty, sw
frequent in our tragedies, I find no instance in lhe*e
dramas

S. T. Coleridge

. 131

122

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

THE PICCOLOMINI, ETC.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

An old Gothic Chamber in the Council-House at Pilsen,
decorated with Colors and other War Insignia.

Illo with Butler and Isolani.
illo.
Ye have come late — but ye are come ! The distance,
Count Isolan, excuses your delay.

ISOLANI.

Add this too, that we come not empty-handed.
At Donauwert* it was reported to us,
A Swedish caravan was on its way
Transporting a rich cargo of provision,
Almost six hundred wagons. This my Croats
Plunged down upon and seized, this weighty prize ! —
We bring it hither

ILLO.

Just in time to banquet
The illustrious company assembled here.

BUTLER.

Tis all alive !% stirring scene here !

Ay!

The very churches are all full of soldiers.

[Casts his eye around.
And in the Council-house too, I observe,
You're settled, quite at home! Well, well! we soldiers
Must shift and suit us in what way we can.

ILLO.

We have the colonels here of thirty regiments.
You '11 find Count Tertsky here, and Tiefenbach,
Kolatto, Goetz, Maradas, Hinnersam,

The Piccolomini, both son and father

You '11 meet with many an unexpected greeting
From many an old friend and acquaintance. Only
Galas is wanting still, and Altringer.

BUTLER.

Expect not Galas.

illo (hesitating).
How so ? Do you know

isolani (interrupting him).
Max. Piccolomini here ? — O bring me to him.
I see him yet ('tis now ten years ago,
We were engaged with Mansfeld hard by Dessau),
T see the youth, in my mind's eye I see him,
Leap his black war-horse from the bridge adown,
And t'ward his father, then in extreme peril,
Beat up against the strong tide of the Elbe.
The down was scarce upon his chin! I hear
He has made good the promise of his youth,
And the full hero now is finish'd in him.

You '11 see him yet ere evening. He conducts
The Duchess Friedland hither, and the Princesst
From Carnthen. We expect them here at noon.

* A town about ]2 German miles N. E. of Ulm.
t The dukes in Germany being always reigning powers, their
8f.ns and daughters are entitled Princes and Princesses.

BUTLER.

Both wife and daughter does the Duke call hither ?
He crowds in visitants from all sides.

ISOLANI.

Hm!

So much the better ! I had framed my mind
To hear of naught, but warlike circumstance,
Of marches, and attacks, and batteries :
And lo ! the Duke provides, that something too
Of gentler sort, and lovely, should be present
To feast our eyes.

illo (who has been standing in the attitude of med*

iation, to Butler, whom he leads a little on on*

side).
And how came you to know
That the Count Galas joins us not ?

BUTLER.

Because
He importuned me to remain behind.

illo (with warmth).
And you ? — You hold out firmty ?

[Grasping his hand with affection
Noble Butler !

BUTLER.

After the obligation which the Duke
Had laid so newly on me

ILLO.

I had forgotten
A pleasant duty — Major-General,
I wish you joy !

ISOLANI.

What, you mean, of his regiment
I hear, too, that to make the gift still sweeter
The Duke has given him the very same ,
In which he first saw service, and since then,
Work'd himself, step by step, through each preferment,
From the ranks upwards. And verily, it gives
A precedent of hope, a spur of action
To the whole corps, if once in their remembrance
An old deserving soldier makes his way.

BUTLER.

I am perplex'd and doubtful, whether or no

I dare accept this your congratulation.

The Emperor has not yet confirm'd the appointment

ISOLANI.

Seize it, friend ! Seize it ! The hand which in tha-

post
Placed you, is strong enough to keep you there
Spite of the Emperor and his Ministers ?

ILLO.

Ay, if we would but so consider it ! —

If we would all of us consider it so !

The Emperor gives us nothing ; from the Duke

Comes all — whate'er we hope, whate'er we have

isolani (lo Illo).
My noble brother! did I tell you how
The Duke will satisfy my creditors ?
Will be himself my banker for the future,
Make me once more a creditable man ! —
And this is now the third time, think of that !
This kingly-minded man has rescued me
From absolute ruin, and restored my honor.

ILLO.

O that his power but kept pace with his wishes !
Why, friend! he'd give the whole world to his

soldiers.
But at Vienna, brother ! — here 's the grievance !—
What politic schemes do they not lay to shorten
132

THE PICCOLOMINI.

123

His arm. and where they can, to clip his pinions.
Then these new dainty requisitions ! these,
Which this same Questenberg brings hither ! —

BUTLER.

Ay!
These requisitions of the Emperor, —
I too have heard about them ; but I hope
The Duke will not draw back a single inch !

ILLO.

Not from his right most surely, unless first
— From office !

butler {shocked and confused).
Know you aught then ? You alarm me.
isolani (at the same time with Butler, and in a hur-
rying voice).
We should be ruin'd, every one of us !

ILLO.

No more !
Yonder I see our worthy friend* approaching
With the Lieutenant-General, Piccolomini.

butler (shaking his head significantly).
I fear we shall not go hence as we came.

SCENE II.
Enter Octavio Piccolomini and Questenberg.
octavio (still in the distance).
Ay, ay ! more still ! Still more new visitors !
Acknowledge, friend ! that never was a camp,
Which held at once so many heads of heroes.

[Approaching nearer.
Welcome, Count Isolani !

isolani.

My noble brother,
Even now am I arrived ; it had been else my duty —

OCTAVIO.

And Colonel Butler — trust me, I rejoice

Thus to renew acquaintance with a man

Whose worth and services I know and honor.

See, see, my friend !

There might we place at once before our eyes

The sum of war's whole trade and mystery —

[To Questenberg, presenting Butler and Isolani

at the same time to him.
These two the total sum — Strength and Dispatch.

QUESTENBERG (to OCTAVIO).

And lo ! betwixt them both, experienced Prudence !
octavio (presenting Questenberg to Butler and

Isolani).
The Chamberlain and War-commissioner Questen-
berg,
The bearer of the Emperor's behests,
The long-tried friend and patron of all soldiers,
We honor in this noble visitor. [ Universal silence.

illo (moving towards Questenberg).
Tis not the first time, noble Minister,
You have shown our camp this honor.
questenberg.

Once before,
I stood before these colors.

ILLO.

Perchance too you remember where that was.
It was at Znaimt in Moravia, where

* Spoken with a sneer.

t A town not far from the Mine-Mountains, on the high road
from Vienna to Prague.

You did present yourself upon the part
Of the Emperor, to supplicate our Duke
That he would straight aswume the chief command.

questenberg.
To supplicate ? Nay, noble General !
So far extended neither my commission
(At least to my own knowledge) nor my zeal.

ILLO.

Well, well, then — to compel him, if you choose.
I can remember me right well, Count Tilly
Had suffer'd total rout upon the Lech.
Bavaria lay all open to the enemy,
Whom there was nothing to delay from pressing
Onwards into the very heart of Austria.
At that time you and Werdenberg appear'd
Before our General, storming him with prayers,
And menacing the Emperor's displeasure,
Unless he took compassion on this wretchedness.

isolani (steps up to them).
Yes, yes, 'tis comprehensible enough,
Wherefore with your commission of to-day
You were not all too willing lo remember
Your former one.

questenberg.

Why not, Count Isolan ?
No contradiction sure exists between them.
It was the urgent business of that time
To snatch Bavaria from her enemy's hand ;
And my commission of to-day instructs me
To free her from her good friends and protectors.

ILLO.

A worthy office ! After with our blood

We have wrested this Bohemia from the Saxon,

To be swept out of it is all our thanks,

The sole reward of all our hard-won victories.

questenberg.
Unless that wretched land be doomed to surfer
Only a change of evils, it must be
Freed from the scourge alike of friend and foe.

ILLO.

What? 'Twas a favorable year; the boors
Can answer fresh demands already.

questenberg.

Nay,

If you discourse of herds and meadow-grounds —

ISOLANI.

The war maintains the war. Are the boors ruin'd,
The Emperor gains so many more new soldiers.

questenberg.
And is the poorer by even so many subjects.

ISOLANI.

Poh ! We are all his subjects.

questenberg.
Yet with a difference, General ! The one fills
With profitable industry the purse,
The others are well skill'd to empty it.
The sword has made the Emperor poor ; the plow
Must rcinvigorate his resources.

ISOLANI.

Sure !
Times are not yet so bad. Methinks I see

[Examining with his eye the dress and ornament*
of Questenberg.
Good store of gold that still remains uncoin'd.
18 133

124

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

QUESTENBERG.

Thank Heaven ! that means have been found out to

hide
Some little from the fingers of the Croats.

ILLO.

There ! The Stawata and the Martinitz,

On whom the Emperor heaps his gifts and graces,

To the heart-burning of all good Bohemians —

Those minions of court favor, those court harpies,

Who fatten on the wrecks of citizens

Driven from their house and home — who reap no

harvests
Save in the general calamity —
Who now, with kingly pomp, insult and mock
The desolation of their country — these,
Let these, and such as these, support the war,
The fatal war, which they alone enkindled !

BUTLER.

And those state-parasites, who have their feet
So constantly beneath the Emperor's table,
Who cannot let a benefice fall, but they
Snap at it with dog's hunger — they, forsooth,
Would pare the soldier's bread, and cross his reckon-
ing!

ISOLANI.

My life long will it anger me to think,
How when I went to court seven years ago,
To see about new horses for our regiment,
How from one antechamber to another
They dragg'd me on, and left me by the hour
To kick my heels among a crowd of simpering
Feast-fatlen'd slaves, as if I had come thither
A mendicant suitor for the crumbs of favor
That fall beneath their tables. And, at last,
Whom should they send me but a Capuchin !
Straight I began to muster up my sins
For absolution — but no such luck for me !
This was the man, this capuchin, with whom
I was to treat concerning the army horses :
And I was forced at last to quit the field,
The business unaccomplish'd. Afterwards
The Duke procured me, in three days, what I
Could not obtain in thirty at Vienna.

QUESTENBERG.

Yes, yes ! your travelling bills soon found their way

to us:
Too well I know we have still accounts to settle.

ILLO.

War is a violent trade ; one cannot always

Finish one's work by soft means ; every trifle

Must not be blacken'd into sacrilege.

If we should wait till you, in solemn council,

With due deliberation had selected

The smallest out of four-and-twenty evils,

F faith we should wait long. —

"Dash! and through with it!" — That's the better

watchword.
Then after come what may come. 'Tis man's nature
To make the best of a bad thing once past,
A bitter and perplex'd " what shall I do ?" ,
Is worse to man than worst necessity. /

QUESTENBERG.

Ay, doubtless, it is true : the Duke does spare us
The troublesome task of choosing.

BUTLER.

Yes, the Duke
Cares with a father's feelings for his troops ;
But how the Emperor feels for us, we see.

QUESTENBERG.

His cares and feelings all ranks share alike,
Nor will he offer one up to another.

ISOLANI.

And therefore thrusts he us into the deserts
As beasts of prey, that so he may preserve
His dear sheep fattening in his fields at home

questenberg {with a sneer). <

Count ! this comparison you make, not I. \

butler. I

Why, were we all the court supposes us,
'Twere dangerous, sure, to give us liberty

QUESTENBERG.

You have taken liberty — it was not given you.

And therefore it becomes an urgent duty

To rein it in with curbs.

octavio {interposing and addressing Questenberg)

My noble friend,
This is no more than a remembrancing
That you are now in camp, and among warriors.
The soldier's boldness constitutes his freedom.
Could he act daringly, unless he dared
Talk even so ? One runs into the other.
The boldness of this worthy officer,

{Pointing to Butler.
Which now has but mistaken in its mark,
Preserved, when naught but boldness could preserve

it,
To the Emperor his capital city, Prague,
In a most formidable mutiny

Of the whole garrison. [Military music at a distance.
Hah ! here they come '

ILLO.

The sentries are saluting them : this signal
Announces the arrival of the Duchess.

octavio {to Questenberg).
Then my son Max. too has returned. 'T was he
Fetch'd and attended them from Carnthen hither

isolani {to Illo).
Shall we not go in company to greet them ?

ILLO.

Well, let us go. — Ho ! Colonel Butler, come.

[To Octavio.
You '11 not forget, that yet ere noon we meet
The noble Envoy at the General's palace.

[Exeunt all but Questenberg and Octavio

SCENE IH.
Questenberg and Octavio.
questenberg {with signs of aversion and astonishment)
What have I not been forced to hear, Octavio !
What sentiments ! what fierce, uncurb'd defiance !
And were this spirit universal —

OCTAVIO.

Hm!
You are now acquainted with three-fourths of the
army.

QUESTENBERG.

Where must we seek then for a second host

To have the custody of this ? That Illo

Thinks worse, I fear me, than he speaks. And then

This Butler too — he cannot even conceal

The passionate workings of his ill intentions.

OCTAVIO.

Quickness of temper- — irritated pride ;
'Twas nothing more. I cannot give up But] r
134

THE PICCOLOMXNL

125

I know a spell that will soon dispossess
The evil spirit in him.

questenberg (walking up and dawn in evident disquiet.)

Friend, friend !
O ! this is worse, far worse, than we had sufler'd
Ourselves to dream of at Vienna. There
We saw it only with a courtier's eyes,
Eyes dazzled by the splendor of the throne.
We had not seen the War-chief, the Commander,
The man all-powerful in his camp. Here, here,
'Tis quite another thing.

Here is no Emperor more — the Duke is Emperor.
Alas, my friend ! alas, my noble friend !
This walk which you have ta'en me through the camp
Strikes my hopes prostrate.

OCTAVIO.

Now you see yourself
Of what a perilous kind the office is,
Which you deliver to me from the Court.
The least suspicion of the General
Costs me my freedom and my life, and would
But hasten his most desperate enterprise.

QUESTENBERG.

Where was our reason sleeping when we trusted
This madman with the sword, and placed such power
In such a hand ? I tell you, he '11 refuse,
Flatly refuse, to obey the Imperial orders.
Friend, he can do 't, and what he can, he will.
And then the impunity of his defiance —
Oh ! what a proclamation of our weakness !

OCTAVIO.

D' ye think too, he has brought his wife and daughter

Without a purpose hither ? Here in camp !

And at the very point of time, in which

We 're arming for the war ? That he has taken

These, the last pledges of his loyalty,

Away from out the Emperor's domains —

Tins is no doubtful token of the nearness

Of some eruption !

QUESTENBERG.

How shall we hold footing
Beneath this tempest, which collects itself
And threats us from all quarters? The enemy
Of the empire on our borders, now already
The master of the Danube, and still farther,
And farther still, extending every hour !
In our interior the alarum-bells
Of insurrection — peasantry in arms —
All orders discontented — and the army,
Just in the moment of our expectation
Of aidance from it — lo ! this very army
Seduced, run wild, lost to all discipline,
Loosen'd, and rent asunder from the state
And from their sovereign, the blind instrument
Of the most daring of mankind, a weapon
Of fearful power, which at his will he wields !

OCTAVIO.

Nay, nay, friend ! let us not despair too soon.
Men's woiqs are ever bolder than their deeds:
And many a resolute, who now appears
Made up to all extremes, will, on a sudden
Find in his breast a heart he wot not of,
Let but a single honest man speak out
The true name of his crime ! Remember too,
We stand not yet so wholly unprotected.
Counts Altringer and Galas have maintain'd

Their little army faithful to its duty ,
And daily it becomes more numerous.
Nor can he take us by surprise : you know
I hold him all encompass'd by my listeners.
Whate'er he does, is mine, even while 't is doing-
No step so small, but instantly I hear it ;
Yea, his own mouth discloses it.

QUESTENBERG.

'Tis quite
Incomprehensible, that he detects not
The foe so near !

OCTAVIO.

Beware, you do not think,
That I, by lying arts, and complaisant
Hypocrisy, have skulked into his graces :
Or with the substance of smooth professions
Nourish his all-confiding friendship ! No —
Compell'd alike by prudence, and that duty
Which we all owe our country, and our sovereign.
To hide my genuine feelings from him, yet
Ne'er have I duped him with base counterfeits !

QUESTENBERG.

It is the visible ordinance of Heaven.

OCTAVIO.

I know not what it is that so attracts

And links him both to me and to my son.

Comrades and friends we always were — long hab

Adventurous deeds perform'd in company,

And all those many and various incidents

Which store a soldier's memory with affections,

Had bound us long and early to each other —

Yet I can name the day, when all at once

His heart rose on me, and his confidence

Shot out in sudden growth. It was the morning

Before the memorable 'fight at Lutzner.

Urged by an ugly dream, I sought him out,

To press him to accept another charger.

At distance from the tents, beneath a tree,

I found him in a sleep. When I had waked him

And had related all my bodings to him,

Long time he stared upon me, like a man

Astounded ; thereon fell upon my neck,

And manifested to me an emotion

That far outstripp'd the worth of that small service

Since then his confidence has follow'd me

With the same pace that mine has fled from him.

QUESTENBERG.

You lead your son into the secret ?

OCTAVIO.

No!

QUESTENBERG.

What ! and not warn him either what baa hanos
His lot has placed him in ?

OCTAVIO.

I must perforce
Leave him in wardship to his innocence.
His young and open soul — dissimulation
Is foreign to its habits ! Ignorance
Alone can keep alive the cheerful air,
The unembarrass'd sense and light free spirit
That make the Duke secure.

questenberg (anxiously).
My honor'd friend ! most highly do I deem

Of Colonel Piccolomini — yet — if

Reflect a little

135

126

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

Hush.-

OCTAVIO.

I must venture it.
-There he comes !

SCENE IV.

Max. Piccolomini, Octavio Piccolomini,
questenberg.

MAX.

Ha ! there he is himself. Welcome, my father !

[He embraces his father. As he turns round, he

observes Questenberg, and draws back with

a cold and reserved air.
You are engaged, I see. I '11 not disturb you.

OCTAVIO.

How, Max. ? Look closer at this visitor.
Attention, Max., an old friend merits — Reverence
Belongs of right to the envoy of your sovereign.

max. {drily).
Von Questenberg ! — Welcome — if you bring with you
Aught good to our head-quarters.

questenberg {seizing his hand).

Nay, draw not
Your hand away, Count Piccolomini !
Not on mine own account alone I seized it,
And nothing common will I say therewith.

[Taking the hands of both.
Octavio — Max. Piccolomini !

0 savior names, and full of happy omen !

Ne'er will her prosperous genius turn from Austria,
While two such stars, with blessed influences
Beaming protection, shine above her hosts.

MAX.

Heh ! — Noble minister ! You miss your part.

You came not here to act a panegyric.

You 're sent, I know, to find fault and to scold us —

1 must not be beforehand with my comrades.

octavio {to Max.).
He comes from court, where people are not quite
So well contented with the Duke, as here.

MAX.

What now have they contrived to find out in him ?

That he alone determines for himself

What he himself alone doth understand !

Well, therein he does right, and will persist in 't.

Heaven never meant him for that passive thing

That can be struck and hammer'd out to suit

Another's taste and fancy. He '11 not dance

To every tune of every minister :

It goes against his nature — he. can't do it

He is possess'd by a commanding spirit,

And his too is the station of command.

And well for us it is so ! There exist

Few fit to rule themselves, but few that use

Their intellects intelligently. — Then

Well for the whole, if there be found a man,

Who makes himself what nature destined him,

The pause, the central point to thousand thousands —

Stands fix'd and stately, like a firm-built column,

Where all may press with joy and confidence.

Now such a man is Wallenstein ; and if

Another better suits the court — no other

But such a one as he can serve the ai my

The

questenberg
army? Doubtless!

octavio {to Questenberg).

Hush ! Suppress it, friend !
Unless some end were answer'd by the utterance. —
Of him there you '11 make nothing.

MAX. {continuing).

In their distress
They call a spirit up, and when he comes,
Straight their flesh creeps and quivers, and they

dread him
More than the ills for which they call'd him up.
The uncommon, the sublime, must seem and be
Like things of every day. — But in the field,
Ay, there the Present Being makes itself felt
The personal must command, the actual eye
Examine. If to be the chieftain asks
All that is great in nature, let it be
Likewise his privilege to move and act
Tn all the correspondencies of greatness.
The oracle within him, that which lives,
He must invoke and question — not dead books,
Not ordinances, not mould-rotted papers.

My son ! of those old narrow ordinances
Let us not hold too lightly. They are weights
Of priceless value, which oppress'd mankind
Tied to the volatile will of their oppressors.
For always formidable was the league
And partnership of free power with free will.
The way of ancient ordinance, though it winds,
Is yet no devious way. Straight forward goes
The lightning's path, and straight the fearful path
Of the cannon-ball. Direct it flies and rapid,
Shattering that it may reach, and shattering what it

reaches.
My son ! the road, the human being travels,
That, on which blessing comes and goes, doth folio'
The river's course, the valley's playful windings,
Curves round the corn-field and the hill of vines,
Honoring the holy bounds of property !
And thus secure, though late, leads to its end.

questenberg.
O hear your father, noble youth ! hear him,
Who is at once the hero and the man.

OCTAVIO.

My son, the nursling of the camp spoke in thee !
A war of fifteen years
Hath been thy education and thy school.
Peace hast thou never witness'd ! There exists
A higher than the warrior's excellence.
In war itself war is no ultimate purpose.
The vast and sudden deeds of violence,
Adventures wild, and wonders of the moment,
These are not they, my son, that generate
The Calm, the Blissful, and the enduring Mighty !
Lo there ! the soldier, rapid architect !
Builds his light town of canvas, and at once
The whole scene moves and bustles momently,
With arms, and neighing steeds, and mirth and quarre
The motley market fills ; the roads, the streams
Are crowded with new freights, trade stirs and hurries
But on some morrow morn, all suddenly,
The tents drop down, the horde renews its march
Dreary, and solitary as a church-yard
The meadow and down-trodden seed-plot lio
And the year's harvest is gone utterly
136

THE PICCOLOMINI.

127

O let the Emperor make peace, my father !
Most gladly would I give the blood-stain'd laurel
For the first violet* of the leafless spring,
Pluck'd in those quiet fields where I have journey'd f

OCTAVltf.

Wnat ails thee ? What so moves thee all at once ?

Peace have I ne'er beheld ? I have beheld it.

From thence am I come hither : O ! that sight,

It glimmers still before me, like gome landscape

Left in the distance, — some delicious landscape !

My road conducted me through countries where

The war has not yet reach'd. Life, life, my father —

My venerable father, Life has charms

Which we have ne'er experienced. We have been

But voyaging along its barren coasts,

Like some poor ever-roaming horde of pirates,

That, crowded in the rank and narrow ship,

House on the wild sea with wild usages,

Nor know aught of the main land, but the bays

Where safeliest they may venture a thieves' landing.

Whate'er in the inland dales the land conceals

Of fair and exquisite, O ! nothing, nothing,

Do we behold of that in our rude voyage.

octavio {attentive, with an appearance of
uneasiness).
And so your journey has reveal'd this to you ?

MAX.

'T was the first leisure of my life. O tell me,

What is the meed and purpose of the toil,

The painful toil, which robb'd me of my youth,

Left me a heart unsoul'd and solitary,

A spirit uninform'd, unornamented,

For the camp's stir and crowd and ceaseless larum,

The neighing war-horse, the air-shattering trumpet,

The unvaried, still returning hour of duty,

Word of command, and exercise of arms —

There 's nothing here, there 's nothing in all this

To satisfy the heart, the gasping heart !

Mere bustling nothingness, where the soul is not —

This cannot be the sole felicity,

These cannot be man's best and only pleasures !

OCTAVIO.

Much hast thou learnt, my son, in this short journey.

MAX.

O ! day thrice lovely ! when at length the soldier

Returns home into life ; when he becomes

A fellow-man among his fellow-men.

The colors are unfurl'd, the cavalcade

Marshals, and now the buzz is hush'd, and hark !

Now the soft peace-march beats, home, brothers, home !

The caps and helmets are all garlanded

With green boughs, the last plundering of the fields.

The city gates fly open of themselves,

They need no longer the petard to tear them.

The ramparts are all fill'd with men and women,

With peaceful men and women, that send onwards

Kisses and welcomings upon the air,

Which they make breezy with affectionate gestures.

From all the towers rings out the merry peal,

The joyous vespers of a bloody day.

0 happy man, O fortunate . for whom

The well-known door, the faithful arms are ope^i,
The faithful tender arms with mute embracing-.
questenberg {apparently much affected).
O ! that you should speak
Of such a distant, distant time, and not
Of the to-morrow, not of this to-day.

max {turning round to kirn, quick and vehement).
Where lies the fault but on you in Vienna !

1 will deal openly with you, Questenberg.
Just now, as first I saw you standing here,
(I '11 own it to you freely) indignation
Crowded and press'd my inmost 'soul together.
'Tis ye that hinder peace, ye I — and the warrior,
It is the warrior that must force it from you.
Ye fret the General's life out, blacken him,
Hold him up as a rebel, and Heaven knows

What else still worse, because he spares the Saxons,

And tries to awaken confidence in the enemy ;

Which yet 's the only way to peace : for if

War intermit not during war, how then

And whence can peace come 1— -Your own plagi.es

fall on you .'
Even as I love what 's virtuous, hate I you.
And here make I this vow, here pledge myself 5
My blood shall spurt out for this Wallenstein,
And my heart drain off, drop by drop, ere ye
Shall revel and dance jubilee o'er his ruin. [Exu

Ml) the original,

Den blut'gen Lorbeer geb ich hin mit Freuden
Furs erstc Vcilchon, das der Maerz uns bringt,
Das dlirftige Pt'and der neuverjiingten Erde.

SCENE V.
Questenberg, Octavio Piccolomini

questenberg.
Alas, alas ! and stands it so ?

[Then in pressing and impatient tones
What, friend ! and do we let him go away
In this delusion — let him go away ?
Not call him back immediately, not open
His eyes upon the spot ?

octavio {recovering himself out of a deep study)
He has now open'd mine,
And I see more than pleases me.

QUESTENBERG.

What is it ?

OCTAVIO.

Curse on this journey !

QUESTENBERG.

But why so ? What is it ?

OCTAVIO.

Come, come along, friend ! I must follow up
The ominous track immediately. Mine eyes
Are open'd now, and I must use them. Come !

[Draws Questenberg on with him.

QUESTENBERG.

What now ? Where go you then ?

OCTAVIO.

To her herself

QUESTENBERG.

To

octavio {interrupting him, and correcting himself)
To the Duke. Come, let us go — 'Tis done, '.is dojip
I see the net that is thrown over him.
Oh ! he returns not to me as he went.

QUESTENBERG

Nay, but explain yourself.

137

128

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

OCTAVIO.

And that I should not
Foresee it, not prevent this journey ! Wherefore
Did I keep it from him ? — You were in the right.
I should have warn'd him ! Now it is too late.

QUESTENBERG.

But what \s too late ? Bethink yourself, my friend,
That you are talking absolute riddles to me.

octavio (more collected).
Come ! to the Duke's. 'Tis close upon the hour,
Which he appointed you for audience. Come !
A curse, a threefold curse, upon this journey !

[He leads Questenberg off.

SCENE VI.

Changes to a spacious Chamber in the House of the
Duke of Friedland. — Servants employed in putting
the tables and chairs in order. During this enters
Seni, lihe an old Italian doctor, in black and clothed
somewhat fantastically. He carries a white staff,
with which he marks out the quarters of the heaven.

FIRST SERVANT.

Come — to it, lads, to it ! Make an end of it. I hear
the sentry call out, " Stand to your arms !" They will
be there in a minute.

SECOND SERVANT.

Why were we not told before that the audience
would be held here ? Nothing prepared — no orders
— no instructions —

THIRD SERVANT.

Ay, and why was the balcony-chamber counter-
manded, that with the great worked carpet ? — there
one can look about one.

FIRST SERVANT.

Nay, that you must ask the mathematician there.
He says it is an unlucky chamber.

SECOND SERVANT.

Poh ! stuff and nonsense ! That 's what I call a hum.
A chamber is a chamber ; what much can the place
signify in the affair ?

SENI (with gravity).
My son, there 's nothing insignificant,
Nothing ! But yet in every earthly thing
First and most principal is place and time.
first servant (to the second).

Say nothing to him, Nat. The Duke himself must
let him have his own will.

beni (counts the chairs, half in a loud, half in a low

voice, till he comes to eleven, which he repeats).
Eleven ! an evil number ! Set twelve chairs.
Twelve ! twelve signs hath the zodiac : five and seven,
The holy numbers, include themselves in twelve.

SECOND SERVANT.

And what may you have to object against eleven?
I should like to know that now.

SENI.

Eleven is transgression ; eleven oversteps
The ten commandments.

SECOND SERVANT.

That s good ! and why do you call five a holy
number ?

SENI.

F;ve is the soul of man : for even as man
:s mingled up of good and evu, so

The five is the first number that's made up
Of even and odd.

SECOND SERVANT.

The foolish old coxcomb !

FIRST SERVANT.

Ey! let him alone though. I like to hear him
there is more in his words than can be seen at firs
sight.

THIRD SERVANT.

Off, they come.

SECOND SERVANT.

There ! at the side-door.

[They hurry off. Seni follows slowly. A Page
brings the staff of command on a red cushion,
and places it on the table near the Duke's chair.
They are announced from without, and the
wings of the door fly open.

SCENE VII.

Wallenstein, Duchess.

wallenstein.
You went then through Vienna, were presented
To the Queen of Hungary ?

DUCHESS.

Yes; and to the Empress too,
And by both Majesties were we admitted
To kiss the hand.

WALLENSTEIN.

And how was it received,
That I had sent for wife and daughter hither
To the camp, in winter-time ?

DUCHESS.

I did even that
Which you commission'd me to do. I told them,
You had determined on our daughter's marriage
And wish'd, ere yet you went into the field,
To show the elected husband his betrothed.

WALLENSTEIN.

And did they guess the choice which I had made ?

DUCHESS.

They only hoped and wish'd it may have fallen
Upon no foreign nor yet Lutheran noble.

WALLENSTEIN.

And you — what do you wish, Elizabeth ?

DUCHESS.

Your will, you know, was always mine.
wallenstein (after a pause).

Well then?
And in all else, of what kind and complexion
Was your reception at the court ?

[The Duchess casts her eyes on the ground, and
remains silent.
Hide nothing from me. How were you received ?

duchess.
O ! my dear Lord, all is not what it was.
A canker-worm, my Lord, a canker-worm
Has stolen into the bud.

WALLENSTEIN.

Ay ! is it so ?
What, they were lax ? they fail'd of the old respect

DUCHESS.

Not of respect. No honors were omitted,
No outward courtesy ? but m tne p>ane
Of condescending, confidential kindness.
Familiar and endearing, there were given me
138

THE PICCOLOMINI.

129

Only these honors and that solemn courtesy.

Ah ! and the tenderness which was put on,

It was the guise of pity, not of favor.

Nj! Albrecht's wife, Duke Albrecht's princely wife,

Count Harrach's noble daughter, should not so —

Not wholly so should she have been received.

WALLENSTEIN.

Yes, yes ; they have ta'en offence. My latest con-
duct,
They rail'd at it, no doubt.

DUCHESS.

O that they had !
1 have been long accustom'd to defend you,
To heal and pacify distemper'd spirits.
No ; no one rail'd at you. They wrapp'd them up,
0 Heaven ! in such oppressive, solemn silence ! —
Here is no every-day misunderstanding,
No transient pique, no cloud that passes over :
Something most luckless, most unhealable,
Has taken place. The Queen of Hungary
Used formerly to call me her dear aunt,
And ever at departure to embrace me- —

WALLENSTEIN.

Now she omitted it ?

duchess {wiping away her tears, after a pause).
She did embrace me,
But then first when I had already taken
My formal leave, and when the door already
Had closed upon me, then did she come out
In haste, as she had suddenly bethought herself,
And press'd me to her bosom, more with anguish
Than tenderness.

wallenstein (seizes her hand soothingly).
Nay, now collect yourself.
And what of Eggenberg and Lichtenstein,
And of our other friends there ?

duchess {shaking her head).

I saw none.

WALLENSTEIN.

The ambassador from Spain, who once was wont
To plead so warmly for me ? —
duchess.

Silent, silent !

WALLENSTEIN.

These suns then are eclipsed for us. Henceforward
Must we roll on, our own fire, our own light.

duchess.
And were it — were it, my dear Lord, in that
Which moved about the court in buzz and whisper,
But in the country let itself be heard
Aloud — in that which Father Lamormain

In sundry hints and ■

wallenstein (eagerly).

Lamormain ! what said he 1

duchess.
That you're accused of having daringly
O'erstepp'd the powers intrusted to you, charged
With traitorous contempt of the Emperor
And his supreme behests. The proud Bavarian,
He and the Spaniards stand up your accusers —
That there 's a storm collecting over you
Of far more fearful menace than that former one
Which whirl'd you headlong down at Regensburg.

And people talk, said he, of Ah ! —

[Stifling extreme emotion.

10

WALLENSTEIN.

N

Proceed

I cannot utter it !

WALLENSTEIN.

Proceed !

DUCHESS.

They talk-

WALLENSTEIN.

Well !

DUCHESS.

Of a second {catches her voice and hesitates).

WALLENSTEIN.

Second

More disgraceful

-Dismission.

WALLENSTEIN.

Talk they ?
[Strides across the Chamber in vehement agitatio
O ! they force, they thrust me
With violence against my own will, onward !

duchess (presses near to him, in entreaty).
O ! if there yet be time, my husband ! if
By giving way and by submission, this
Can be averted — my dear Lord, give way !
Win down your proud heart to it ! Tell that heart,
rt is your sovereign Lord, your Emperor,
Before whom you retreat. O let no longer
Low tricking malice blacken your good meaning
With venomous glosses. Stand you up
Shielded and helm'd and weapon'd with the truth
And drive before you into uttermost shame
These slanderous liars ! Few firm friends have we—
You know it ! — The swift growth of our good fortune
It hath but set us up a mark for hatred.
What are we, if the sovereign's grace and favor
Stand not before us ?

SCENE VIII.

Enter the Countess Tertsky, leading in her hand iht
Princess Thekla, richly adorned with Brilliants.

Countess, Thekla, Wallenstein, Duchess.

countess.
How, sister ! What, already upon business !

[Observing the countenance of the Duchess
And business of no pleasing kind I see,
Ere he has gladden'd at his child. The first
Moment belongs to joy. Here, Friedland ! father !
This is thy daughter.

[Thekla approaches with a shy and timid air, and
bends herself as about to kiss his hand. He receives
her in his arms, and remains standing for some
time lost in the feeling of her presence.

WALLENSTEIN.

Yes ! pure and lovely hath hope risen on me ■
I take her as the pledge of greater fortune.

DUCHESS.

'T was but a little child when you departed
To raise up that great army for the Emperor :
And after, at the close of the campaign,
When you return'd home out of Pomerania,
Your daughter was already in the convent,
Wherein she has remain'd till now.

WALLENSTEIN.

The while

139

130

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

We in the field here gave our cares and toils
To make her great, and fight her a free way
To the loftiest earthly good ; lo ! mother Nature
Within the peaceful silent convent walls
Has done her part, and out of her free grace
Hath she bestow' d on the beloved child
The godlike ; and now leads her thus adorn'd
To meet her splendid fortune, and my hope.

DUCHESS (to THEKLA).

Thou wouldst not have recognized thy father,
Wouldst thou, my child ? She counted scarce eight

years,
When last she saw your face.

THEKLA.

O yes, yes, mother !
At the first glance ! — My father is not alter'd.
The form that stands before me falsifies
No feature of the image that hath lived
So long within me !

WALLENSTEIN.

The voice of my child !

[Then after a pause.
I was indignant at my destiny,
That it denied me a man-child to be
Heir of my name and of my prosperous fortune,
And re-illume my soon extinguish'd being
In a proud line of princes.
I wrong'd my destiny. Here upon this head,
So lovely in its maiden bloom, will I
Let fall the garland of a life of war,
Nor deem it lost, if only I can wreath it,
Transmitted to a regal ornament,
Around these beauteous brows.

[He clasps her in his arms as Piccolomini enters.

SCENE IX.

Enter Max. Piccolomini, and some time after Count
Tertsky, the others remaining as before.

countess.
There comes the Paladin who protected us.

WALLENSTEIN.

Max. ! Welcome, ever welcome ! Always wert thou
Tne morning-star of my best joys !

MAX.

My General

WALLENSTEIN.

Till now it was the Emperor who rewarded thee,
I but the instrument. This day thou hast bound
The father to thee, Max. ! the fortunate father,
And this debt Friedland's self must pay.

MAX.

My prince !
You made no common hurry to transfer it.
I come with shame : yea, not without a pang !
For scarce have I arrived here, scarce deliver'd
The mother and the daughter to your arms,
But there is brought to me from your equerry
A splendid richly-plated hunting-dress

So to remunerate me for my troubles

Yes, yes, remunerate me ! Since a trouble
It must be, a mere office, not a favor
Which I leapt forward to receive, and which
I came already with full heart to thank you for.

No ! 'twas not so intended, that my business
Should be my highest best good-fortune !

[Tertsky enters, and delivers letters to the Dukb
which he breaks open hurryingly.
countess (to Max.).
Remunerate your trouble! For his joy
He makes you recompense. 'Tis not unfitting
For you, Count Piccolomini, to feel
So tenderly — my brother it beseems
To show himself for ever great and princely.

THEKLA.

Then I too must have scruples of his love ;
For his munificent hands did ornament me
Ere yet the father's heart had spoken to me.

MAX.

Yes ; 'tis his nature ever to be giving
And making happy.

[He grasps the hand of the Duchess with still in-
creasing warmth.

How my heart pours out
Its all of thanks to him ! O ! how I seem
To utter all things in the dear name Friedland.
While I shall live, so long will I remain
The captive of this name : in it shall bloom
My every fortune, every lovely hope.
Inextricably as in some magic ring
In this name hath my destiny charm-bound me !
countess (who during this time has been anxiously
watching the Duke, and remarks that he is lost in
thought over the letters).
My brother wishes us to leave him. Come.
wallenstein (turns himself round quick, collects him'
self, and speaks with cheerfulness to the Duchess).
Once more I bid thee welcome to the camp.
Thou art the hostess of this court. You, Max.,
Will now again administer your old office,
While we perform the sovereign's business here.
[Max. Piccolomini offers the Duchess his arm ; the
Countess accompanies the Princess,
tertsky (calling after him).
Max., we depend on seeing you at the meeting

SCENE X.

Wallenstein, Count Tertsky.

wallenstein (in deep thought to himself).
She hath seen all things as they are — It is so,
And squares completely with my other notices.
They have determined finally in Vienna,
Have given me my successor already;
It is the king of Hungary, Ferdinand,
The Emperor's delicate son ! he 's now their savior
He 's the new star that 's rising now ! Of us
They think themselves already fairly rid,
And as we were deceased, the heir already
Is entering on possession — Therefore — dispatch !
[As he turns round he observes Tertsky, and gives
him a letter.
Count Altringer will have himself excused.
And Galas too — I like not this !
tertsky.

And if
Thou loiterest longer, all will fall away,
One following the other.

wallenstein.
Altringer
140

THE PICCOLOMINI.

131

Is master of the Tyrol passes. I must forthwith
Send some one to him, that he let not in
The Spaniards on me from the Milanese.

Well, and the old Sesin, that ancient trader

In contraband negotiations, he

Has shown himself again of late. What brings he

tfrom the Count Thur ?

TERTSKY.

The Count communicates,
Fie has found out the Swedish chancellor
At Halberstadt, where the convention's held,
Who says, you 've tired him out, and that he '11 have
No further dealings with you.

WALLENSTEIN.

And why so ?

TERTSKY.

He says, you are never in earnest in your speeches ;
That you decoy the Swedes — to make fools of them;
Will league yourself with Saxony against them,
And at last make yourself a riddance of them
With a paltry sum of money.

WALLENSTEIN.

So then, doubtless,
Yes, doubtless, this same modest Swede expects
That I shall yield him some fair German tract
For his prey and booty, that ourselves at last
On our own soil and native territory,
May be no longer our own lords and masters !
An excellent scheme ! No, no ! They must be off,
Off, off! away ! we want no such neighbors.

TERTSKY.

Nay, yield them up that dot, that speck of land —
It goes not from your portion. If you win
The game, what matters it to you who pays it ?

WALLENSTEIN.

Off with them, off! Thou understand'st not this.
Never shall it be said of me, I parcell'd
My native land away, dismember'd Germany,
Betray'd it to a foreigner, in order
To come with stealthy tread, and filch away
My own share of the plunder — Never! never! —
No foreign power shall strike root in the empire,
And least of all, these Goths ! these hunger-wolves !
Who send such envious, hot and greedy glances
Towards the rich blessings of our German lands !
I '11 have their aid to cast and draw my nets,
But not a single fish of all the draught
Shall they come in for.

TERTSKY.

You will deal, however,
More fairly with the Saxons ? They lose patience
While you shift ground and make so many curves.
Say, to what purpose all these masks ? Your friends
Are plunged in doubts, baffled, and led astray in you
There 's Oxenstein, there 's Arnheim — neither knows
What he should think of your procrastinations,
And in the end I prove the liar ; all
Passes through me. I have not even your hand
writing. '

WALLENSTEIN.

I never give my handwriting ; thou knowest it

TERTSKY.

But how can it be known that you 're in earnest,

If the act follows not upon the word ?

You must yourself acknowledge, that in all

Your intercourses hitherto with the enemy,

You might have done with safety all you have done,

Had you meant nothing further than to gull him
For the Emperor's service.

• wallenstein {after a pause, during which lie
looks narrowly on Tertsky).

And from whence dost thou know
That I'm not gulling him for the Emperor's service ?
Whence knowest thou that I 'm not gulling all of you ?
Dost thou know me so well ? When made I thee
The intendant of my secret purposes ?
I am not conscious that I ever open'd
My inmost thoughts to thee. The Emperor, it is true.
Hath dealt with me amiss ; and if I would,
I could repay him with usurious interest
For the evil he hath done me. It delights me
To know my power ; but whether I shall use it,
Of that, I should have thought that thou couldst

No wiselier than thy fellows.

TERTSKY.

So hast thou always play'd thy game with us.

[Enter Ilj o

SCENE XI.
Illo, Wallenstein, Tertsky.

wallenstein.
How stand affairs without ? Are they prepared ?

ILLO.

You '11 find them in the very mood you wish
They know about the Emperor's requisitions,
And are tumultuous.

WALLENSTEIN.

How hath Isolan
Declared himself?

ILLO.

He 's yours, both soul and body
Since you built up again his Faro-bank.

WALLENSTEIN.

And which way doth Kolatto bend ? Hast thou
Made sure of Tiefenbach and Deodate ?

ILLO.

What Piccolomini does, that they do too.

WALLENSTEIN.

You mean, then, I may venture somewhat with them

ILLO.

— If you are assured of the Piccolomini.

WALLENSTEIN.

Not more assured of mine own self.

TERTSKY.

And yet
I would you trusted not so much to Octavio,
The fox!

WALLENSTEIN.

Thou teachest me to know my man
Sixteen campaigns I have made with that old warrior
Besides, I have his horoscope :
We both are born beneath like stars — in short,

[ With an air of mystery
To this belongs its own particular aspect,
If therefore thou canst warrant me the rest

ILLO.

There is among them all but this one voice,
You must not lay down the command. I h^ar
They mean to send a deputation to you

WALLENSTEIN.

If I 'm in aught to bind myself to them
They too must bind themselves to me.
19 141

132

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

ILLO.

Of course

WALLENSTEIN.

Their words of honor they must give, their oaths,
Give them in writing to me, promising
Devotion to my service unconditional.

ILLO.

Why not ?

TERTSKY.

Devotion unconditional ?
The exception of their duties towards Austria
They'll always place among the premises.
With this reserve

wallenstein (shaking his head).
All unconditional !
No premises, no reserves.

ILLO.

A thought has struck me.
Does not Count Tertsky give us a set banquet
This evening ?

tertsky.
Yes ; and all the Generals
Have been invited.

illo {to Wallenstein).

Say, will you here fully
Comrnission«me to use my own discretion ?
I '11 gain for you the Generals' words of honor,
Even as you wish.

wallenstein.
Gain me their signatures!
How you come by them, that is your concern.

ILLO.

And if I bring it to you, black on white,
That all the leaders who are present here
Give themselves up to you, without condition ;
Say, will you then — then will you show yourself
Tn earnest, and with some decisive action
Make trial of your luck ?

WALLENSTEIN.

The signatures!
Gain me the signatures.

ILLO.

Seize, seize the hour,
Ere it slips from you. Seldom comes the moment
In life, Avhich is indeed sublime and weighty.
To make a great decision possible,
O ! many things, all transient and all rapid,
Must meet at once : and, haply, they thus met
May by that confluence be enforced to pause
Time long enough for wisdom, though too short,
Far, far too short a time for doubt and scruple !
This is that moment. See, our army chieftains,
Our best, our noblest, are assembled around you,
Their king-like leader ! On your nod they wait.
The single threads, which here your prosperous for-
tune
Hath woven together in one potent web
Instinct with destiny, O let them not
■Unravel of themselves. If you permit
These chiefs to separate, so unanimous
Bring you them not a second time together.
Tis the high tide that heaves the stranded ship,
And every individual's spirit waxes
In the great stream of multitudes. Behold
They are still here, here still ! But soon the war
Bursts them once more asunder, and in small
Particular anxieties and interests
Scatters their spirit, and the sympathy

Of each man with the whole. He who to-day
Forgets himself, forced onward with the stream
Will become sober, seeing but himself,
Feel only his own weakness, and with speed
Will face about, and march on in the old
High road of duty, the old broad trodden road.
And seek but to make shelter in good plight

WALLENSTEIN.

The time is not yet come.

TERTSKY.

So you say always.
But when will it be time ?

WALLENSTEIN.

When I shall say it

ILLO.

You'll wait upon the stars, and on their hours,
Till the earthly hour escapes you. O, believe n c.
In your own bosom are your destiny's stars.
Confidence in yourself, prompt resolution,
This is your Venus ! and the soul malignant,
The only one that harmeth you, is Doubt.

WALLENSTEIN.

Thou 'speakest as thou understand'st. How oft
And many a time I 've told thee, Jupiter,
That lustrous god, was setting at thy birth.
Thy visual power subdues no mysteries ;
Mole-eyed, thou mayest but burrow in the earth-
Blind as that subterrestrial, who with wan,
Lead-color'd shine lighted thee into life.
The common, the terrestrial, thou mayest see.
With serviceable cunning knit together
The nearest with the nearest ; and therein
I trust thee and believe thee ! but whate'er
Full of mysterious import Nature weaves
And fashions in the depths — the spirit's ladder,
That from this gross and visible world of dust
Even to the starry world, with thousand rounds,
Builds itself up ; on which the unseen powers
Move up and down on heavenly ministries —
The circles in the circles, that approach
The central sun with ever-narrowing orbit —
These see the glance alone, the unsealed eye,
Of Jupiter's glad children born in lustre.

[He walks across the chamber, then returns, and
standing still, proceeds.
The heavenly constellations make not merely
The day and nights, summer and spring, not merely
Signify to the husbandman the seasons
Of sowing and of harvest. Human action,
That is the seed too of contingencies,
Strew'd on the dark land of futurity
In hopes to reconcile the powers of fate.
Whence it behoves us to seek out the seed-time,
To watch the stars, select their proper hour?,
And trace with searching eye the heavenly houses
Whether the enemy of growth and thriving
Hide himself not, malignant, in his corner.
Therefore permit me my own time. Meanwhile
Do you your part. As yet I cannot say
What I shall do — only give way I will not.
Depose me too they shall not. On tnese pomts
You may rely.

page (entering).
My Lords, the Generals.

WALLENSTEIN

Let them come in.

142

THE PICCOLOMINI.

133

SCENE XII.

Wallenstein, TertskyJllo. — To them enter Ques
tenberg, Octavio and Max. Piccolomini, But-
ler, Isolani, Maradas, and three other Generals.
Wallenstein motions Questenberg, who in con-
sequence takes the chair directly opposite to him ; the
others follow, arranging themselves according to
their rank. There reigns a momentary silence.

WALLENSTEIN.

i have understood, 'tis true, the sum and import
Of your instructions, Questenberg; have weigh'd

them,
And form'd my final, absolute resolve :
Yet it seems fitting, that the Generals
Should hear the will of the Emperor from your mouth.
May 't please you then to open your commission
Before these noble Chieftains ?

QUESTENBERG

I am ready
To obey you ; but will first entreat your Highness,
And all these noble Chieftains, to consider,
The Imperial dignity and sovereign right
Speaks from my mouth, and not my own presumption.

WALLENSTEIN.

We excuse all preface.

QUESTENBERG.

When his Majesty
The Emperor to his courageous armies
Presented in the person of Duke Friedland
A most experienced and renown'd commander,
He did it in glad hope and confidence
To give thereby to the fortune of the war
A rapid and auspicious change. The onset
Was favorable to his royal wishes.
Bohemia was deliver'd from the Saxons,
The Swede's career of conquest check'd ! These lands
Began to draw breath freely, as Duke Friedland
From all the streams of Germany forced hither
The scatter'd armies of the enemy ;
Hither invoked as round one magic circle
The Rhinegrave, Bernhard, Banner, Oxenstein,
Yea, and that never-conquer'd King himself;
Here finally, before the eye of Nurnberg,
The fearful game of battle to decide.

WALLENSTEIN.

May't please you, to the point.

QUESTENBERG.

In Ntirnberg's camp the Swedish monarch left
His fame — in Liitzen's plains his life. But who
Stood not astounded, when victorious Friedland
After this day of triumph, this proud day,
March'd toward Bohemia with the speed of flight,
And vanish'd from the theatre of war;
While the young Weimar hero forced his way
Into Franconia, to the Danube, like
Some delving winter-stream, which, where it rushes,
Makes its own channel ; with such sudden speed
He march'd, and now at once 'fore Regenspurg
Stood to the affright of all good Catholic Christians.
Then did Bavaria's well-deserving Prince
Entreat swift aidance in his extreme need ;
The Emperor sends seven horsemen to Duke Fried-
land,
Seven horsemen couriers sends he with the entreaty:
He superadds his own, and supplicates
Where as the sovereign lord he can command.
N2

In vain his supplication ! At this moment
The Duke hears only his old hate and grudge
Barters the general good to gratify
Private revenge — and so falls Regenspurg

WALLENSTEIN

Max., to what period of the war alludes he '
My recollection fails me here !

He means

When we were in Silesia.

WALLENSTEIN.

Ay ! is it so ?
But what had we to do there ?

MAX.

To beat out
The Swedes and Saxons from the province.

WALLENSTEIN.

True .

In that description which the Minister gave
I seem'd to have forgotten the whole war.

[To Questenberg
Well, but proceed a little.

QUESTENBERG.

Yes ; at length
Beside the river Oder did the Duke
Assert his ancient fame. Upon the fields
Of Steinau did the Swedes lay down their arms,
Subdued without a blow. And here, with others
The righteousness of Heaven to his avenger
Deliver'd that long-practised stirrer-up
Of insurrection, that curse-laden torch
And kindler of this war, Matthias Thur.
But he had fallen into magnanimous hands ,
Instead of punishment he found reward,
And with rich presents did the Duke dismiss
The arch-foe of his Emperor.

WALLENSTEIN (laughs).

I know,
I know you had already in Vienna
Your windows and balconies all forestall'*!
To see him on the executioner's cart.
I might have lost the battle, lost it too
With infamy, and still retain'd your graces-
But, to have cheated them of n spectacle,
Oh ! that the good folks of Vkmna never,
No, never can forgive me !

QUESTENBERG.

So Silesia
Was freed, and all things loudly call'd the Duke
Into Bavaria, now press'd hard on all sides.
And he did put his troops in motion : slowly,
Quite at his ease, and by the longest road
He traverses Bohemia ; but ere ever
He hath once seen the enemy, faces round,
Breaks up the march, and takes to winter-quarters

WALLENSTEIN.

The troops were pitiably destitute
Of every necessary, every comfort.
The winter came. What thinks his Majesty
His troops are made of? A n't we men? subjected
Like other men to wet, and cold, and all
The circumstances of necessity ?
O miserable lot of the poor soldier !
Wherever he comes in, all flee before him,
And when he goes away, the general curse
Follows him on his route. All must be seized,

143

184

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

Nothing is given him. And compell'd to seize
From every man, he 's every man's abhorrence.
Behold, here stand my Generals. Karaffa!
Count Deodate ! Butler ! Tell this man
How long the soldiers' pay is in arrears.

Already a full year.

WALLENSTEIN.

And 'tis the hire
That constitutes the hireling's name and duties,
The soldier's pay is the soldier's covenant.*

QUESTENBERG.

Ah ! this is a far other tone from that,

In which the Duke spoke eight, nine years ago.

WALLENSTEIN.

Yes ! 'tis my fault, I know it : I myself
Have spoilt the Emperor by indulging him.
Nine years ago, during the Danish war,
I raised him up a force, a mighty force,
Forty or fifty thousand men, that cost him
Of his own purse no doit. Through Saxony
The fury goddess of the war march'd on,
E'en to the surf-rocks of the Baltic, bearing
The terrors of his name. That was a time !
In the whole Imperial realm no name like mine
Honor'd with festival and celebration —
And Albrecht Wallenstein, it was the title
Of the third jewel in his crown!
But at the Diet, when the Princes met
At Regensburg, there, there the whole broke out,
There 'twas laid open, there it was made known,
Out of what money-bag I had paid the host
And what was now my thank, what had I now,
That I, a faithful servant of the Sovereign,
Had loaded on myself the people's curses,
And let the Princes of the empire pay
The expenses of this war, that aggrandizes
The Emperor alone — What thanks had I ?
What ? I was offer'd up to their complaints,
Dismiss'd, degraded !

QUESTENBERG.

But your Highness knows
What little freedom he possess'd of action
In that disastrous Diet.

WALLENSTEIN-

Death and hell !
I had that which could have procured him freedom.
No! since 'twas proved so inauspicious to me
To serve the Emperor at the empire's cost,
I have been taught far other trains of thinking
Of the empire, and the diet of the empire.
From the Emperor, doubtless, I received this staf£
But now I hold it as the empire's general —
For the common weal, the universal interest,
And no more for that one man's aggrandizement!
But to the point. What is it that's desired of me ?

QUESTENBERG.

First, his Imperial Majesty hath will'd

* The original is not translatable into English ;

Und sein Sold

Muss dem Soldaten werden, darnach heisst er.
It might perhaps have been thus rendered :

And that for which he sold his services,
The soldier must receive.
But a false or doubtful etymology is no more than a dull pun,

That without pretexts of delay the army
Evacuate Bohemia.

WALLENSTEIN.

In this season ?
And to what quarter wills the Emperor
That we direct our course ?

QUESTENBERG.

To the enemy.
His Majesty resolves, that Regensburg
Be purified from the enemy ere Easter,
That Lutheranism may be no longer preach'd
In that cathedral, nor heretical
Defilement desecrate the celebration
Of that pure festival.

WALLENSTEIN.

My generals,
Can this be realized ?

ILLO.

'Tis not possible.

BUTLER.

It can't be realized.

QUESTENBERG.

The Emperor
Already hath commanded Colonel Suys
To advance toward Bavaria.

WALLENSTEIN.

What did Says ?

QUESTENBERG.

That which his duty prompted. He advanced

WALLENSTEIN.

What ! he advanced ? And I, his general,
Had given him orders, peremptory orders,
Not to desert his station ! Stands it thus
With my authority ? Is this the obedience
Due to my office, which being thrown aside,
No war can be conducted ? Chieftains, speak.
You be the judges, generals! What deserves
That officer, who of his oath neglectful
Is guilty of contempt of orders ?

ILLO.

Death.
wallenstein (raising his voice, as all, hit Illo, had

remained silent, and seemingly scrupulous).
Count Piccolomini ! what has he deserved ?

max. piccolomini (after a long pause).
According to the letter of the law,
Death.

ISOLANI.

Death.

BUTLER.

Death, by the laws of war.
[Questenberg rises from his seat, Wallenstein
follows ; all the rest rise.

wallenstein.
To this the law condemns him, and not I.
And if I show him favor, 'twill arise
From the reverence that I owe my Emperor

QUESTENBERG.

If so, I can say nothing further — here .'

WALLENSTEIN.

I accepted the command but on conditions :

And this the first, that to the diminution

Of my authority no human being,

Not even the Emperor's self, should be entitled

To do aught, or to say aught, with the army

If I stand warranter of the event,

141

THE PICC0L0MIN1.

135

Placing my honor and my head in pledge,
Needs must I have full mastery in all
The means thereto. What render'd this Gustavus
Resistless, and unconquer'd upon earth ?
This — that he was the monarch in his army !
A monarch, one who is indeed a monarch,
Was never yet subdued but by his equal.
But to the point ! The best is yet to come.
Attend now, generals!

QUESTENBERG.

The Prince Cardinal
Begins his route at the approach of spring
From the Milanese ; and leads a Spanish army
Through Germany into the Netherlands.
That he may march secure and unimpeded,
'Tis the Emperor's will you grant him a detachment
Of eight horse regiments from the army here.

WALLENSTEIN.

Yes, yes ! I understand ! — Eight regiments ' Well,
Right well concerted, father Lamormain !
Eight thousand horse! Yes, yes! 'Tis as it should be!
I see it coming.

QUESTENBERG.

There is nothing coming.
All stands in front : the counsel of state-prudence,
The dictate of necessity !

WALLENSTEIN.

What then ?
What, my Lord Envoy ? May I not be sufFer'd
To understand, that folks are tired of seeing
The sword's hilt in my grasp: and that your court
Snatch eagerly & this pretence, and use
The Spanish title, to drain off my forces,
To lead into the empire a new army
Unsubjected to my control ? To throw me
Plumply aside, — I am still too powerful for you
To venture that. My stipulation runs,
That all the Imperial forces shall obey me
Where'er the German is the native language.
Of Spanish troops and of Prince Cardinals
That take their route, as visitors, through the empire,
There stands no syllable in my stipulation.
No syllable ! And so the politic court
Steals in a tiptoe, and creeps round behind it ;
First makes me weaker, then to be dispensed with,
Till it dares strike at length a bolder blow
And make short work with me.
What need of all these crooked ways, Lord Envoy ?
Straight forward, man! His compact with me pinches
The Emperor. He would that I moved off! —
Well ! — I will gratify him !

[Here there commences an agitation among the
Generals, which increases continually.
Tt grieves me for my noble officers' sakes !
I see not yet, by what means they will come at
The moneys they have advanced, or how obtain
The recompense their services demand.
Still a new leader brings new claimants forward,
And prior merit superannuates quickly.
There serve here many foreigners in the army,
And were the man in all else brave and gallant,
I was not went to make nice scrutiny
After his pedigree or catechism.
This will be otherwise, i' the time to come.
Well — me no longer it concerns. [He seals himself.

MAX. PICCOLOMINI.

Forbid it Heaven, that it should come to this!
Our troops will swell in dreadful fermentation —
The Emperor is abused — it cannot be.

ISOLANI.

It cannot be ; all goes to instant wreck.

WALLENSTEIN.

Thou hast said truly, faithful Isolani !
What we with toil and foresight have built ud
Will go to wreck — all go to instant wreck.
What then ? another chieftain is soon found,
Another army likewise (who dares doubt it ?)
Will flock from all sides to the Emperor,
At the first beat of his recruiting drum.

[During this speech, Isolani, Tertsky, Illo,

and Maradas talk confusedly with great

agitation.

max. piccolomini (busily and passionately going
from one to another, and soothing them.
Hear, my commander ! Hear me, generals !
Let me conjure you, Duke ! Determine nothing,
Till we have met and represented to you
Our joint remonstrances. — Nay, calmer ! Friends !
I hope all may be yet set right again.

TERTSKY.

Away ! let us away ! in the antechamber

Find we the others. [They go

BUTLER (to QUESTENBERG).

If good counsel gain
Due audience from your wisdom, my Lord Envoy !
You will be cautious how you show yourself
In public for some hours to come — or hardly
Will that gold key protect you from maltreatment.

[Commotions heard from without

WALLENSTEIN.

A salutary counsel Thou, Octavio !

Wilt answer for the safety of our guest.
Farewell, Von Questenberg !

[Questenberg is about to speak.
Nay, not a word.
Not one word more of that detested subject !
You have perform'd your duty — We know how
To separate the office from the man.

[As Questenberg is going off with Octavio ,
Goetz, Tiefenbach, Kolatto, press in ,
several other Generals following them.
goetz.
Where 's he who means to rob us of our general ?

tiefenbach (at the same lime).
What are we forced to hear? That thou wilt leave us I

kolatto (at the same time).
We will live with thee, we will die with thee-

wallenstein (with staleliness, and pointing to Il.LO)
There ! the Feld-Marshal knows our will. [Exit.
[While all are going off the Stage, the curtain
drops.

ACT II.

SCENE I.
Scene — A small Chamber.
Illo and Tertsky.
tertsky.
Now for this evening's business! How intend you
To manage with the generals at the banquet?
145

a 36

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

Attend ! We frame a formal declaration,

Wherein we to the Duke consign ourselves

Collectively, to be and to remain

His both with life and limb, and not to spare

The last drop of our blood for him, provided

So doing we infringe no oath or duty,

We may be under to the Emperor.— Mark !

This reservation we expressly make

In a particular clause, and save the conscience.

Now hear ! This formula so framed and worded

Will be presented to them for perusal

Before the banquet. No one will find in it

Cause of offence or scruple. Hear now further !

After the feast, when now the vap'ring wine

Opens the heart, and shuts the eyes, we let

A counterfeited paper, in the which

This one particular clause has been left out,

Go round for signatures.

TERTSKY.

How ! think you then
That they'll believe themselves bound by an oath,
Which we had trick'd them into by a juggle ?

ILLO.

We shall have caught and caged them! Let them then
Beat their wings bare against the wires, and rave
Loud as they may against our treachery ;
At court their signatures will be believed
Far more than their most holy affirmations.
Traitors they are, and must be ; therefore wisely
Will make a virtue of necessity.

TERTSKY.

Well, well, it shall content me ; let but something
Be done, let only some decisive blow
Set us in motion.

ILLO.

Besides, 'tis of subordinate importance
How, or how far, we may thereby propel
The Generals. 'Tis enough that we persuade
The Duke that they are his — Let him but act
In his determined mood, as if he had them,
And he will have them. Where he plunges in,
He makes a whirlpool, and all stream down to it.

TERTSKY.

His policy is such a labyrinth,
That many a time when I have thought myself
Close at his side, he 's gone at once, and left me
Ignorant of the ground where I was standing.
He lends the enemy his ear, permits me
To write to them, to Arnheim ; to Sesina
Himself comes forward blank and undisguised ;
Talks with us by the hour about his plans,

And when I think I have him — off at once

He has slipp'd from me, and appears as if
He had no scheme, but to retain his place.

ILLO.

He give up his old plans ! I '11 tell you, friend !
Hj^ soul is occupied with nothing else,
Even in his sleep — They are his thoughts, his dreams,
That day by day he questions for this purpose
The motions of the planets

TERTSKY.

Ay ! you know
This night, that is now coming, he with Seni
Shuts himself up in the astrological tower
To make joint observations — for I hear,

It is to be a night of weight and crisis ;

And something great, and of long expectation,

Is to make its procession in the heaven.

ILLO.

Come ! be we bold and make dispatch. The work
In this next day or two must thrive and grow
More than it has for years. And let but only

Things first turn up auspicious here below

Mark what I say — the right stars too will show them

selves.
Come, to the Generals. All is in the glow,
And must be beaten while 'tis malleable

TERTSKY.

Do you go thither, Illo. I must stay,
And wait here for the countess Tertsky. Know,
That we too are not idle. Break one string,
A second is in readiness.

ILLO.

Yes! Yes!
I saw your lady smile with such sly meaning.
What 's in the wind ?

TERTSKY.

A secret. Hush! she comes
[Exit Illo

SCENE II.

{The Countess steps out from a Clout)
Count and Countess Tertsky.
tertsky.
Well — is she coming ? — I can keep him back
No longer.

COUNTESS.

She will be there instantly,
You only send him.

TERTSKY.

I am not quite certain,
I must confess it, Countess, whether or not
We are earning the Duke's thanks hereby. You knin*
No ray has broke out from him on this point.
You have o'erruled me, and yourself know best
How far you dare proceed.

COUNTESS.

I take it on me.
[Talking to herself, while she is advancing
Here 's no need of full powers and commissions —
My cloudy Duke ! we understand each other —
And without words. What, could I not unriddle,
Wherefore the daughter should be sent for hither,
Why first he, and no other, should be chosen
To fetch her hither ? This sham of betrothing her
To a bridegroom* when no one knows — No! no!— — -
This may blind others ! I see through thee, Brother
But it beseems thee not, to draw a card
At such a game. Not yet ! — It all remains

Mutely deliver'd up to my finessing

Well — thou shalt not have been deceived, Duke

Friedland '
In her who is thy sister.

servant (enters).

The commanders !

TERTSKY (to the COUNTESS).

Take care you heat his fancy and affections —

* In Germany, after honorable addresses have been paid and
formally accepted, the lovers are called Bride and Bridegroom,
even though the marriage should not take place till years after-
wards.

146

THE PICCOLOMINI.

137

Possess him with a reverie, and send him,
Absent and dreaming, to the banquet; that
He may not boggle at the signature.

COUNTESS.

Take you care of your guests ! — Go, send him hither.

TERTSKY.

All rests upon his undersigning.

countess (interrupting him).

Go to your guests ! Go •

illo (comes hack).

Where art staying, Tertsky ?
The house is full, and all expecting you.

TERTSKY.

Instantly! Instantly!

[To the Countess.
And let him not
Stay here too long. It might awake suspicion

In the old man

countess.

A truce with your precautions !
[Exeunt Tertsky and Illo.

SCENE III.

Countess, Max. Piccolomini.
max. (peeping in on the stage shyly).
Aunt Tertsky ! may I venture ?

[Advances to the middle of the stage, and holes
around him with uneasiness.

She 's not here !
Where is she ?

countess.
Look but somewhat narrowly
In yonder corner, lest perhaps she lie
Conceal'd behind that screen.

MAX.

There lie her gloves !
[Snatches at them, but the Countess takes them

You unkind Lady ! You refuse me this —
You make it an amusement to torment me.

countess.
And this the thank you give me for my trouble ?

MAX.

O, if you felt the oppression at my heart !
Since we 've been here, so to constrain myself —
With such poor stealth to hazard words and glances —
These, these are not my habits !

COUNTESS.

You have still
Many new habits to acquire, young friend !
But on this proof of your obedient temper
I must continue to insist ; and only
On this condition can I play the agent
For your concerns.

MAX.

But wherefore comes she not ?
Where is she 1

COUNTESS.

Into my hands you must place it
Whole and entire. Whom could you find, indeed,
More zealously affected to your interest ?
No soul on earth must know it — not your father.
He must not, above all.

MAX.

Alas ! what danger ?

Here is no face on which I might concentre
All the enraptured soul stirs up within me.

0 Lady ! tell me. Is all changed around me ?
Or is it only I ?

I find myself,
As among strangers ! Not a trace is left
Of all my former wishes, former joys.
Where has it vanish'd to ? There was a time
When even, methought, with such a world as this

1 was not discontented. Now, how flat !
How stale ! No life, no bloom, no flavor in it !
My comrades are intolerable to me.

My father — Even to him I can say nothing.
My arms, my military duties — O !
They are such wearying toys !

COUNTESS.

But, gentle friend !
I must entreat it of your condescension,
You would be pleased to sink your eye, and favor
With one short glance or two this poor stale world
Where even now much, and of much moment,
Is on the eve of its completion.

MAX.

Something,
I can't but know, is going forward round me.
I see it gathering, crowding, driving on,
In wild uncustomary movements. Well,
In due time, doubtless, it will reach even me.
Where think you I have been, dear lady ? Nay,
No raillery. The turmoil of the camp,
The spring-tide of acquaintance rolling in,
The pointless jest, the empty conversation,
Oppress'd and sthTen'd me. I gasp'd for air —
I could not breathe — I was constrain'd to fly,
To seek a silence out for my full heart;
And a pure spot wherein to feel my happiness.
No smiling, Countess ! In the church was I.
There is a cloister here to the heaven's gate*
Thither I went, there found myself alone.
Over the altar hung a holy mother;
A wretched painting 'twas, yet 'twas the friend
That I was seeking in this moment. Ah,
How oft have I beheld that glorious form
In splendor, 'mid ecstatic worshippers ;
Yet, still it moved me not ! and now at once
Was my devotion cloudless as my love.

COUNTESS.

Enjoy your fortune and felicity !

Forget the world around you. Meantime, friendship

Shall keep strict vigils for you, anxious, active.

Only be manageable when that friendship

Points you the road to full accomplishment

How long may it be since you declared your passion ?

MAX.

This morning did I hazard the first word.

COUNTESS.

This morning the first time in twenty days ?

MAX.

'Twas at that hunting-castle, betwixt here

And Nepomuck, where you had join'd us, and —

That was the last relay of the whole journey !

* T am doubtful whether this be the dedication of the cloister,
or the name of one of the city sates, near which it stood. I
have translated it in the former sense ; but fearful of having
made some blunder, I add the original.— Es ist ein Kloster bier
zur Himmelspforte.

147

138

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

In a balcony we were standing mute,

And gazing out upon the dreary field :

Before us the dragoons were riding onward,

The safeguard which the Duke had sent us — heavy

The inquietude of parting lay upon me,

And trembling ventured I at length these words :

This all reminds me, noble maiden, that

To-day I must take leave of my good fortune.

A few hours more, and you will find a father,

Will see yourself surrounded by new friends,

And I henceforth shall be but as a stranger,

Lost in the many — " Speak with my aunt Tertsky !"

With huriying voice she interrupted me.

She falter'd. I beheld a glowing red

Possess her beautiful cheeks, and from the ground

Raised slowly up, her eye met mine — no longer

Did I control myself.

[The Princess Thekla appears at the door, and

remains standing, observed by the Countess,

but not by Piccolomini.

With instant boldness
I caught her in my arms, my mouth touch'd hers ;
There was a rustling in the room close by ;
It parted us — 'T was you. What since has happen'd,
You know.

countess {after a pause, with a stolen glance
at Thekla).
And is it your excess of modesty ;
Or are you so incurious, that you do not
Ask me too of my secret ?

MAX.

Of your secret ?

COUNTESS.

Why, yes ! When in the instant after you
I stepp'd into the room, and found my niece there,
What she in this first moment of the heart
Ta'en with surprise —

max. {with eagerness).
Well?

SCENE IV.

Thekla (hurries forward), Countess, Max.

Piccolomini.

thekla {to the Countess).

Spare yourself the trouble :
That hears he better from myself.

max. {stepping backward).

My Princess !
What have you let her hear me say, aunt Tertsky ?

thekla {to the Countess).
Has he been here long ?

COUNTESS.

Yes ; and soon must go.
Where have you stay'd so long ?

THEKLA.

Alas! my mother
Wept so again ! and I — I see her suffer,
Yet cannot keep myself from being happy.

MAX.

Now once again I have courage to look on you.
To-day at noon I could not.
The dazzle of the jewels that play'd round you
Hid the beloved from me.

THEKLA.

Then you saw me
tVith your eye only — and not with your heart V

This morning, when I found you in the circle

Of all your kindred, in your father's arms

Beheld myself an alien in this circle,

O ! what an impulse felt I in that moment

To fall upon his neck, to call him father !

But his stern eye o'erpower'd the swelling passion •

It dared not but be silent. And those brilliants,

That like a crown of stars enwreathed your brows,

They scared me too ! O wherefore, wherefore should he

At the first meeting spread as 'twere the ban

Of excommunication round you, — wherefore

Dress up the angel as for sacrifice,

And cast upon the light and joyous heart

The mournful burthen of his station ? Fitly

May love dare woo for love ; but such a splendor

Might none but monarchs venture to approach.

Hush ! not a word more of this mummery •
You see how soon the burthen is thrown off

[To the Countess
He is not in spirits. Wherefore is he not ?
'T is you, aunt, that have made him all so gloomy !
He had quite another nature on the journey —
So calm, so bright, so joyous eloquent.

[To Max.
It was my wish to see you always so,
And never otherwise !

MAX.

You find yourself
In your great father's arms, beloved lady !
All in a new world, which does homage to you
And which, were 't only by its novelty,
Delights your eye.

THEKLA.

Yes ; I confess to you
That many things delight me here : this camp
This motley stage of warriors, which renews
So manifold the image of my fancy,
And binds to life, binds to realily,
What hitherto had but been present to me
As a sweet dream !

MAX.

Alas ! not so to me.
It makes a dream of my reality.
Upon some island in the ethereal heights
I 've lived for these last days. This mass of men
Forces me down to earth. It is a bridge
That, reconducting to my former life,
Divides me and my heaven.

THEKLA.

The game of life
Looks cheerful, when one carries in one's heart
The unalienable treasure. 'Tis a game,
Which having once review'd, I turn more joyous
Back to my deeper and appropriate bliss.

[Breaking off, and in a sportive torn
In this short time that I 've been present here,
What new unheard-of things have I not seen !
And yet they all must give place to the wonder
Which this mysterious castle guards.

countess {recollecting),

And what
Can this be then ? Methought I was acquainted
With all the dusky corners of this house
148

THE PICCOLOMINL

139

thekla (smiling).
Ay, but the road thereto is watch'd by spirits -,
Two griffins still stand sentry at the door.

countess (laughs).
The astrological tower ! — How happens it
That this same sanctuary, whose access
Is to all others so impracticable,
Opens before you even at your approach ?

THEKLA.

A dwarfish old man with a friendly face
And snow-white hairs, whose gracious services
Were mine at first sight, open'd me the doors.

MAX.

That is the Duke's astrologer, old Seni.

THEKLA.

He question'd me on many points ; for instance,
When I was born, what month, and on what day,
Whether by day or in the night.

COUNTESS.

He wish'd
To erect a figure for your horoscope.

THEKLA.

My hand too he examined, shook his head

With much sad meaning, and the lines, methought,

Did not square over-truly with his wishes.

COUNTESS.

Well, Princess, and what found you in this tower ?
My highest privilege has been to snatch
A side-glance, and away !

THEKLA.

It was a strange
Sensation that came o'er me, when at first
From the broad sunshine I stepp'd in ; and now
The narrowing line of day-light, that ran after
The closing door, was gone ; and all about me
'Twas pale and dusky night, with many shadows
Fantastically cast. Here six or seven
Colossal statues, and all kings, stood round me
In a half-circle. Each one in his hand
A sceptre bore, and on his head a star ;
And in the tower no other light was there
But from these stars : all seem'd to come from them
" These are the planets," said that low old man,
" They govern worldly fates, and for that cause
Are imaged here as kings. He farthest from you,
Spiteful, and cold, an old man melancholy,
With bent and yellow forehead, he is Saturn.
He opposite, the king with the red light,
An arm'd man for the battle, that is Mars :
And both these bring but little luck to man."
But at his side a lovely lady stood,
The star upon her head was soft and bright,
And that was Venus, the bright star of joy.
On the left hand, lo ! Mercury, with wings.
Quite in the middle glitter'd silver bright
A cheerful man, and with a monarch's mien ;
And this was Jupiter, my father's star ;
And at his side I saw the Sun and Moon.

MAX.

O never rudely will I blame his faith

In the might of stars and angels ! 'T is not merely

The human being's Pride that peoples space

With life and mystical predominance :

Since likewise for the stricken heart of Love

This visible nature, and this common world,

Is all too narrow : yea, a deeper import

Lurks in the legend told my infant years

Than lies upon that truth, we live to learn.

For fable is Love's world, his home, his birth-place

Delightedly dwells he 'mong fays and talismans,

And spirits ; and delightedly believes

Divinities, being himself divine.

The intelligible forms of ancient poets,

The fair humanities of old religion,

The Power, the Beauty, and the Majesty,

That had her haunts in dale, or piny mountain,

Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring,

Or chasms and wat'ry depths ; all these have vanish'd

They live no longer in the faith of reason !

But still the heart doth need a language, still

Doth the old instinct bring back the old names,

And to yon starry world they now are gone,

Spirits or gods, that used to share this earth

With man as with their friend ;* and to the lover

Yonder they move, from yonder visible sky

Shoot influence down : and even at this day

'Tis Jupiter who brings whate'er is great,

And Venus who brings eveiy thing that's fair!

THEKLA.

And if this be the science of the stars,

I too, with glad and zealous industiy,

Will learn acquaintance with this cheerful faith.

It is a gentle and affectionate thought,

That in immeasurable heights above us,

At our first birth, the wreath of love was woven.

With sparkling stars for flowers.

COUNTESS.

Not only roses,
But thorns too hath the heaven ; and wrell for you
Leave they your wreath of love inviolate :
What Venus twined, the bearer of glad fortune,
The sullen orb of Mars soon tears to pieces.

MAX.

Soon will his gloomy empire reach its close.

Blest be the General's zeal : into the laurel

Will he inweave the olive-branch, presenting

Peace to the shouting nations. Then no wish

Will have remain'd for his great heart ! Enough

Has he perform'd for glory, and can now

Live for himself and his. To his domains

Will he retire ; he has a stately seat

Of fairest view at Gitschin ; Reichenberg,

And Friedland Castle, both lie pleasantly —

Even to the foot of the huge mountains here

Stretches the chase and covers of his forests :

His ruling passion, to create the splendid,

He can indulge without restraint ; can give

A princely patronage to every art,

And to all worth a sovereign's protection.

Can build, can plant, can watch the starry courses—

COUNTESS.

Yet I would have you look, and look again,
Before you lay aside your arms, young friend !
A gentle bride, as she is, is well worth it,
That you should woo and win her with the sword.

MAX.

0, that the sword could win her !

COUNTESS.

What was that?

* No more of talk, where god or anirel guest
With man, aB with his friend familiar, used
To sit indulgent. Paradise Lost, B. IX

20 149

140

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

Did you hear nothing ? Seem'd, as if I heard
Tumult and larum in the banquet-room.

{Exit Countess.

SCENE V.
Thekla and Max. Piccolomini.

thekla (as soon as the Countess is out of sight, in a

quick low voice to Piccolomini).
Don't trust them ! They are false !

MAX.

Impossible !

THEKLA.

Trust no one here but me. I saw at once,
They had a purpose.

MAX.

Purpose ! but what purpose ?
And how can we be instrumental to it ?

THEKLA.

I know no more than you ; but yet believe me :
There 's some design in this ! To make us happy,
To realize our union — trust me, love !
They but pretend to wish it.

MAX.

But these Tertskys

Why use we them at all ? Why not your mother ?
Excellent creature ! she deserves from us
A full and filial confidence.

THEKLA.

She doth love you,
Doth rate you high before all others — but —
But such a secret — she would never have
The courage to conceal it from my father.
For her own peace of mind we must preserve it
A secret from her too.

MAX.

Why any secret ?
I love not secrets. Mark, what I will do.
I'll throw me at your father's feet — let him
Decide upon my fortunes ! — He is true,
He wears no mask — he hates all crooked ways —
He is so good, so noble !

thekla {falls on his neck).
That are you !

MAX.

You knew him only since this morn, but I
Have lived ten years already in his presence.
And who knows whether in this very moment
He is not merely waiting for us both
To own our loves, in order to unite us ?

You are silent ?

You look at me with such a hopelessness !
What have you to object against your father?

THEKLA.

I ? Nothing. Only he 's so occupied —
He has no leisure time to think about
The happiness of us two. [Taking his hand tenderly.

Follow me !
Let us not place too great a faith in men.
These Tertskys — we will still be grateful to them
For every kindness, but not trust them further
Than they deserve ; — and in all else rely —
On our own hearts !

MAX.

shall w

be happy

THEKLA.

Are we not happy now ? Art thou not mine ?

Am I not thine ? There lives within my soul

A lofty courage — 'tis love gives it me !

I ought to be less open — ought to hide

My heart more from thee — so decorum dictates

But where in this place couldst thou seek for truth.

If in my mouth thou didst not find, it {

SCENE VI.

To them enters the Countess Tertsky

countess (in a pressing manner).

Come !
My husband sends me for you — It is now
The latest moment.

[They not appearing to attend to what she wjij
she steps between them.
Part you !

THEKLA.

O, not yet !
It has been scarce a moment.

COUNTESS.

Ay ! Then time
Flies swiftly with your Highness, Princess niece '

MAX.

There is no hurry, aunt.

COUNTESS.

Away! away!
The folks begin to miss you. Twice already
His father has ask'd for him.

THEKLA.

Ha ! his father !

COUNTESS.

You understand that, niece !

THEKLA.

Why needs he
To go at all to that society ?
'Tis not his proper company. They may
Be worthy men, but he 's too young for them.
In brief, he suits not such society.

COUNTESS.

You mean, you 'd rather keep him wholly here ?

thekla {with energy).
Yes ! you have hit it, aunt ! That is my meaning
Leave him here wholly ! Tell the company —

COUNTESS.

What ? have you lost your senses, niece ? —
Count, you remember the conditions. Come '

max. (to Thekla).
Lady, I must obey. Farewell, dear lady !
[Thekla turns away from him with a quick motion
What say you then, dear lady ?

thekla (without looking at him).

Nothing. Go!

MAX.

Can I, when you are angry

[He draws up to her, their eyes meet, she Mandi
silent a moment, then throws herself into hit
arms ; he presses her fast to his heart.

COUNTESS.

Off! Heavens ! if any one should come .

Hark ! What 's that noise ! it comes this way. Off'

Max. tears himself away out of her arms, and goes.
The Countess accompanies him. Thekla
150

THE PICCOLOMINL

141

follow. i him with, her eye$ at first, walks rest-
lessly across the room, then stops, and remains
standing, lost in thought. A guitar lies on the
table, she seizes it as by a sudden emotion, and
after she has played a while an irregular and
melancholy symphony, she falls gradually into
the music, and sings.

thekla Splays and sings).
The cloud doth gather, the greenwood roar,
The damsel paces along the shore ;
The billows they, tumble with might, with might ;
And she flings out her voice to the darksome night ;

Her bosom is swelling with sorrow ;
The world it is empty, the heart will die,
There 's nothing to wish for beneath the sky :
Thou Holy One, call thy child away !
've lived and loved, and that was to-day —

Make ready my grave-clothes to-morrow.*

scene vn.

Countess (returns), Thekla.

COUNTESS.

Fie, lady niece ! to throw yourself upon him,

Like a poor gift to one who cares not for it,

And so must be flung after him ! For you,

Duke Friedland's only child, I should have thought,

It had been more beseeming to have shown yourself

More chary of your person.

thekla (rising).

And what mean you I

* I found it not in my power to translate this song with literal
fidelity, preserving at the same time the Alcaic Movement ; and
have therefore added the original with a prose translation. Some
of my readers may be more fortunate.

thekla (spielt und singt).
Der Eichwald brauset, die Wolken ziehn,
Das Maegdlein wandelt an Ufers Griin,
Es bricht sich die Welle mit Macht, mit Macht,
Und sie singt hinaus in die finstre Nacht,

Das Auge von Weinen getriibet .
Das Herz ist gestorben, die Welt ist leer,
Und weiter giebt sie dem Wunsche nichts mehr.
Du Heilige, rufe dein Kind zuriick,
Ich habe geno3sen das irdische Gliick,

Ich habe gelebt und geleibet.

LITERAL TRANSLATION.

thekla (plays and sings).
The oak-forest bellows, the clouds gather, the damsel walks
to and fro on the green of the shore; the wave breaks with
might, with might, and she sings out into the dark night, her
eye discolored with weeping : the heart is dead, the world is
empty, and further gives it nothing more to the wish. Thou Holy
One, call thy child home. I have enjoyed the happiness of this
world, I have lived and have loved.

I cannot but add here an imitation of this song, with which
the author of "The Tale of Rosamund Gray and Blind Mar-
garet" lias favored me, and which appears to me to have caught
the happiest manner of our old ballads.

The clouds are blackening, the storms threatening,

The cavern doth mutter, the greenwood moan;
Billows are breaking, the damsel's heart aching,
Thus in the dark night she singeth alone,
Her eye upward roving:
The world is empty, the heart is dead surely,

In this world plainly all seemeth amiss ;
To thy heaven. Holy One, take home thy little one.
I have partaken of all earth's bliss
Both living and loving.

COUNTESS.

I mean, niece, that you should not have forgotten
Who you are, and who he is. But perchance
That never once occurr'd to you.

THEKLA.

What then ?

COUNTESS.

That you're the daughter of the Prince, Duko
Friedland.

THEKLA.

Well — and what farther 1

COUNTESS

What ? a pretty question !

THEKLA.

He was born that which we have but become
He 's of an ancient Lombard family
Son of a reigning princess.

COUNTESS.

Are you dreaming ?
Talking in sleep ? An excellent jest, forsooth !
We shall no doubt right courteously entreat him
To honor with his hand the richest heiress
In Europe.

THEKLA.

That will not be necessary.

COUNTESS.

Me thinks 'twere well though not to run the hazard

THEKLA.

His father loves him : Count Octavio
Will interpose no difficulty

COUNTESS.

His.

His father ! His ! but yours, niece, what of yours ?

THEKLA.

Why I begin to think you fear his father,
So anxiously you hide it from the man !
His father, his, I mean.

countess (looks at her as scrutinizing).
Niece, you are false.
thekla.
Are you then wounded ? O, be friends with me !

COUNTESS.

You hold your game for won already. Do not
Triumph too soon ! —

thekla {interrupting her, and attempting to soothe
her).
Nay, now, be friends with me

COUNTESS.

It is not yet so far gone.

THEKLA

I believe you.

COUNTESS.

Did you suppose your father had laid onl

His most important life in toils of war,

Denied himself each quiet earthly bliss,

Had banish'd slumber from his tent, devoted

His noble head to care, and for this only,

To make a happier pair of you? At length

To draw you from your convent, and conduct

In easy triumph to your arms the man

That chanced to please your eyes ! All this, methinivs

He might have purchased at a cheaper rate.

THEKLA.

That which he did not plant for me might yet
Bear me fair fruitage of its own accord.
And if my friendly and affectionate fate,

151

142

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

Out of his fearful and enormous being,
Will but prepare the joys of life for me —

COUNTESS.

Thou see'st it with a lovelorn maiden's eyes.'
Cast thine eye round, bethink thee who thou art.
Into no house of joyance hast thou stepp'd,
For no espousals dost thou find the walls
Deck'd out, no guests the nuptial garland wearing.
Here is no splendor but of arms. Or think'st thou
That all these thousands are here congregated
To lead up the long dances at thy wedding !
Thou see'st thy father's forehead full of thought,
Thy mother's eye in tears : upon the balance
Lies the great destiny of all our house.
Leave now the puny wish, the girlish feeling,

0 thrust it far behind thee ! Give thou proof,
Thou'rt the daughter of the Mighty — his
Who where he moves creates the wonderful.
Not to herself the woman must belong,
Annex'd and bound to alien destinies :

But she performs the best part, she the wisest,
Who can transmute the alien into self,
Meet and disarm necessity by choice ;
And what must be, take freely to her heart,
And bear and foster it with mother's love.

THEKLA.

Such ever was my lesson in the convent

1 had no loves, no wishes, knew myself
Only as his — his daughter, his, the Mighty!
His fame, the echo of whose blast drove to me
From the far distance, waken'd in my soul
No other thought than this — I am appointed
To offer up myself in passiveness to him.

COUNTESS.

That is thy fate. Mould thou thy wishes to it.
I and thy mother gave thee the example.

THEKLA.

My fate hath shown me him, to whom behoves it
That I should offer up myself. In gladness
Him will I follow.

COUNTESS

Not thy fate hath shown him !
Thy heart, say rather — 'twas thy heart, my child!

THEKLA.

Fate hath no voice but the heart's impulses.
I am all his ! His present — his alone,
Is this new life, which lives in me ? He hath
A right to his own creature. What was I
Ere his fair love infused a soul into me ?

COUNTESS.

Thou wouldst oppose thy father then, should he
Have otherwise determined with thy person ?

[Thekla remains silent. The Countess continues.
Thou mean'st to force him to thy liking ? — Child,
His name is Friedland.

THEKLA.

My name too is Friedland.
He shall have found a genuine daughter in me.

COUNTESS.

What . he has vanquish'd all impediment,
And in the wilful mood of his own daughter
Shall a new struggle rise for him ? Child ! child !
As yet thou hast seen thy father's smiles alone ;
The eye of his rage thou hast not seen. Dear child,
f will not frighten thee. To that extreme,
I trust, it ne'er shall come. His will is yet

Unknown to me : 'tis possible his aims
May have the same direction as thy wish.
But this can never, never be his will
That thou, the daughter of his haughty fortune?
Should'st e'er demean thee as a love-sick maiden ;
And like some poor cost-nothing, fling thyself
Toward the man, who, if that high prize ever
Be destined to await him, yet, with sacrifices
The highest love can bring, must pay for it.

[Exit Countess

thekla (who during the last speech had been standing

evidently lost in her reflections).
I thank thee for the hint. It turns
My sad presentiment to certainty.
And it is so ! — Not one friend have we here,
Not one true heart ! we 've nothing but ourselves !

0 she said rightly — no auspicious signs
Beam on this covenant of our affections.
This is no theatre, where hope abides :

The dull thick noise of war alone stirs here ,
And Love himself, as he were arm'd in steel,
Steps forth, and girds him for the strife of death.

[Music from the banquet-room is heard
There 's a dark spirit walking in our house,
And swiftly will the Destiny close on us.
It drove me hither from my calm asylum,
It mocks my soul with charming witchery,
It lures me forward in a seraph's shape ;

1 see it near, I see it nearer floating,

It draws, it pulls me with a godlike power —
And lo ! the abyss — and thither am I moving —
I have no power within me not to move !

[The music from the banquet-room becomes louder
O when a house is doom'd in fire to perish,
Many and dark, heaven drives his clouds together,
Yea, shoots his lightnings down from sunny heights,
Flames burst from out the subterraneous chasms,
*And fiends and angels mingling in their fury,
Sling fire-brands at the burning edifice.

[Exit Thekla.

SCENE VIII

A large Saloon lighted up with festal Splendor ; in
the midst of it, and in the Centre of the Stage, a
Table richly set out, at which eight Generals are
silting, among whom are Octavio Piccolomini,
Tertsky, and Mara das. Right and left of this,
but farther back, two other Tables, at each of which
six Persons are placed. The Middle Door, which
is standing open, gives to the Prospect a fourth
Table, with the same Number of Persons. More
forward stands the Sideboard. The whole front of
the Stage is kept open for the Pages and Servants in
waiting. All is in motion. The Band of Music
belonging to Tertsky 's Regiment march acros\ the
Stage, and draw up round the Tables. Before they
are quite off from the Front of the Stage, Max.
Piccolomini appears, Tertsky advances toward

* There are few, who will not have taste enough to lauuh
at the two concluding lines of this soliloquy ; and still fewer, I
would fain hope, who would not have been more disposed to
shudder, had I given a faithful translation. For the readers
of German I have added the original •

Blind-wiithend schleudert selbst der Gott der Freude
Den Pechkranz in das brennendo Gebsude.
152

THE PICCOLOMINL

143

him with a Paper, Isolani comes up to meet him
v)ith a Beaker or Service-Cup.

Tertsky, Isolani, Max. Piccolomini.
isolani.
Here brother, what we love ! Why, where hast been ?
Off to thy place — quick ! Tertsky here has given
The mother's holiday wine up to free booty.
Here it goes on as at the Heidelberg castle.
Already hast thou lost the best. They're giving
At yonder table ducal crowns in shares ;
There Sternberg's lands and chattels are put up,
With Eggenberg's, Stawata's, Lichtenstein's,
And all the great Bohemian feodalities.
Be nimble, lad ! and something may turn up
For thee — who knows ? off— to thy place ! quick !

march !
tiefenbach and Goetz {call out from the second and
third tables).
Count Piccolomini !

TERTSKY.

Stop, ye shall have him in an instant. — Read
This oath here, whether as 'tis here set forth,
The wording satisfies you. They've all read it,
Each in his turn, and each one will subscribe
His individual signature.

SCENE IX.

Tertsky, Neumann.
tertsky (beckons to Neumann who is waiting at the.

side-table, and steps forward with him to the edge of

the stage).
Have you the copy with you, Neumann? Give it
It may be changed for the other !

NEUMANN.

I have copied it
Letter by letter, line by line ; no eye
Would e'er discover other difference,
Save only the omission of that clause,
According to your Excellency's order.

TERTSKY.

Right ! lay it yonder, and away with this —
It has perform'd its business-^to the fire with it- -
[Neumann lays the copy on the table, and steps
back again to the side-table.

MAX.

" [ngratis servire nefas."

ISOLANI.

That sounds to my ears very much like Latin,
A nd being interpreted, pray what may 't mean ?

TERTSKY.

No honest man will serve a thankless master.

max.
" Inasmuch as our supreme Commander, the illus-
trious Duke of Friedland, in consequence of the man-
ifold affronts and grievances which he has received,
had expressed his determination to quit the Emperor,
but on our unanimous entreaty has graciously con-
sented to remain still with the army, and not to part
from us without our approbation thereof, so we, col-
lectively and each in particular, in the stead of an oath
personally taken, do hereby oblige ourselves — like-
wise by him honorably and faithfully to hold, and in
nowise whatsoever from him to part, and to be ready
to shed for his interests the last drop of our blood, so
far, namely, as our oath to the Emperor will permit.
(These last words are repealed by Isolani.) In testi-
mony of which we subscribe our names."

TERTSKY.

Now ! — are you willing to subscribe this paper ?

isolani.
Why should he not ? All officers of honor
Can ^o it, ay, must do it. — Pen and ink here !

TERTSKY.

Nay, let it rest till after meal.

isol.\ni {drawing Max. along).
I Come, Max.

[Both seat themselves at their table.

SCENE X.

Illo {comes out from the second chamber), Tertsky

illo.
How goes it with young Piccolomini ?

TERTSKY.

All right, I think. He has started no objection.

ILLO.

He is the only one I fear about —

He and his father. Have an eye on both !

TERTSKY.

How looks it at your table ? you forget not
To keep them warm and stirring ?

ILLO.

O, quite cordial,
They are quite cordial in the scheme. We have them.
And 'tis as I predicted too. Already
It is the talk, not merely to maintain
The Duke in station. " Since we 're once for all
Together and unanimous, why not,"
Says Montecuculi, " ay, why not onward,
And make conditions with the Emperor
There in his own Vienna ? " Trust me, Count,
Were it not for these said Piccolomini,
We might have spared ourselves the cheat.

TERTSKY.

And Butler
How goes it there ? Hush !

SCENE XI.

To them enter Butler from the second table.

BUTLER.

Don't disturb yourselves.
Field Marshal, I have understood you perfectly.
Good luck be to the scheme ; and as for me,

[ With an air of mystej y.
You may depend upon me.

ILLO (with vivacity).

May we, Butler ?

BUTLER.

With or without the clause, all one to me !
You understand me? My fidelity
The Duke may put to any proof— I 'm with him .'
Tell him so ! I 'm the Emperor's officer,

153

144

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

As long as 'tis his pleasure to remain

The Emperor's general ! and Friedland's servant,

As soon as it shall please him to become

His own lord.

TERTSKY.

You would make a good exchange.
No stern economist, no Ferdinand,
Is he to whom you plight your services.

butler (with a haughty look).
I do not put up my fidelity
To sale, Count Tertsky ! Half a year ago
I would not have advised you to have made me
An overture to that, to which I now
Offer myself of my own free accord. —
But that is past ! and to the Duke, Field Marshal,
I bring myself together with my regiment.
And mark you, 'tis my humor to believe,
The example which I give will not remain
Without an influence.

ILLO.

Who is ignorant,
That the whole army look to Colonel Butler,
As to a light that moves before them 1

Ey?

Then I repent me not of that fidelity
Which for the length of forty years I held,
If in my sixtieth year my old good name
Can purchase for me a revenge so full.
Start not at what I say, sir Generals !
My real motives — they concern not you.
And you yourselves, I trust, could not expect
That this your game had crook'd my judgment — or
That fickleness, quick blood, or such like cause,
Has driven the old man from the track of honor,
Winch he so long had trodden. — Come, my friends !
I 'm not thereto determined with less firmness,
Because I know and have look'd steadily
At that on which I have determined.

Say,
And speak roundly, what are we to deem you ?

BUTLER.

A friend ! I give you here my hand ! I 'm your's

With all I have. Not only men, but money

Will the Duke want. — Go, tell him, sirs !

I've earn'd and laid up somewhat in his service.

I lend it him ; and is he my survivor,

It has been already long ago bequeath'd him.

He is my heir. For me, I stand alone

Here in the world ; naught know I of the feeling

That binds the husband to a wife and children.

My name dies with me, my existence ends.

ILLO.

'Tis not your money that he needs — a heart
Like yours weighs tons of gold down, weighs down
millions !

BUTLER.

I came a simple soldier's boy from Ireland
To Prague — and with a master, whom I buried.
From lowest stable duty I climb'd up,
Such was the fate of war, to this high rank,
The plaything of a whimsical good fortune.
And Wallenstein too is a child of luck ;
love a fortune that is like my own.

ILLO.

All powerful souls have kindred with each other

BUTLER.

This is an awful moment ! to the brave,
To the determined, an auspicious moment.
The Prince of Weimar arms, upon the Maine
To found a mighty dukedom. He of Halberstadt,
That Mansfeld, wanted but a longer life
To have mark'd out with his good sword a lordship
That should reward his courage. Who of these
Equals our Friedland ? there is nothing, nothing
So high, but he may set the ladder to it !

TERTSKY

That 's spoken like a man !

BUTLER.

Do you secure the Spaniard and Italian —

I '11 be your warrant for the Scotchman Lesly.

Come, to the company!

TERTSKY.

Where is the master of the cellar ? Ho !

Let the best wines come up. Ho ! cheerly, boy !

Luck comes to-day, so give her hearty welcome.

{Exeunt, each to las table

SCENE XII.

The Master of the Cellar advancing with Neumann
Servants passing backwards arid forwards.
master of the cellar •
The best wine ! O : if my old mistress, his lady
mother, could but see these wild goings on, she would
turn herself round in her grave. Yes, yes, sir office! .
'tis all down the hill with this noble house ! no end,
no moderation ! And this marriage with the Duke's
sister, a splendid connexion, a very splendid connex-
ion ! but I will tell you, sir officer, it looks no good.

NEUMANN.-

Heaven forbid! Why, at this very moment the
whole prospect is in bud and blossom !

MASTER OF THE CELLAR.

You think so ? — Well, well ! much may be said
on that head.

FIRST SERVANT (comes).

Burgundy for the fourth table.

MASTER OF THE CELLAR.

Now, sir lieutenant, if this an't the seventieth
flask —

FIRST SERVANT.

Why, the reason is, that German lord, Tiefen*
bach, sits at that table.

master of the cellar (continuing his discourse
to Neumann).

They are soaring too high. They would rival
kings and electors in their pomp and splendor ,\ and
wherever the Duke leaps, not a minute does my gra-
cious master, the count, loiter on the brink (to the

Servants.) — What do you stand there listening for ? I
will let you know you have legs presently. Off! see
to the tables, see to the flasks ! Look there ! Count
Palfi has an empty glass before him !
runner (comes).

The great service-cup is wanted, sir; that rich
gold cup with the Bohemian arms on it. The Count
says you know which it is.

MASTER OF THE CELLAR.

Ay ! that was made for Frederick's coronation by
154

THE PICCOLOMINI.

145

the artist William — there was not such another prize
m the whole booty at Prague.

RUNNER.

The same ! — a health is to go round in him.

Master of the Cellar (shaking his head while he
fetches and rinses the cups).
This will be something for the tale-bearers — this
goes to Vienna.

NEUMANN.

Permit me to look at it. — Well, this is a cup in-
deed ! How heavy ! as well as it may be, being all
gold. — And what neat things are embossed on it!
bow natural and elegant they look! — There, on
that first quarter, let me see. That proud Amazon
there on horseback, she that is taking a leap over
the crosier and mitres, and carries on a wand a hat
together with a banner, on which there 's a goblet
represented Can you tell me what all this signifies ?

MASTER OF THE CELLAR.

The woman whom you see here on horseback, is
the Free Election of the Bohemian Crown. That is
signified by the round hat, and by that fiery steed on
which she is riding. The hat is the pride of man ;
for he who cannot keep his hat on before kings and
emperors is no free man.

But what

NEWMANN.

the cup there on the banner ?

MASTER OF THE CELLAR.

The cup signifies the freedom of the Bohemian
Church, -as it was in our forefathers' times. Our fore-
fathers in the wars of the Hussites forced from the
Pope this noble privilege : for the Pope, you know,
will not grant the cup to any layman. Your true
Moravian values nothing beyond the cup ; it is his
costly jewel, and has cost the Bohemians their precious
blood in many and many a battle.

NEWMANN.

And what says that chart that hangs in the air
there, over it all?

MASTER OF THE CELLAR.

That signifies the Bohemian letter-royal, which we
forced from the Emperor Rudolph — a precious, never
to be enough valued parchment, that secures to the
new church the old privileges of free ringing and
open psalmody. But since he of Steirmark has ruled
over us, that is at an end ; and after the battle at
Prague, in which Count Palatine Frederick lost crown
and empire, our faith hangs upon the pulpit and the
altar — and our brethren look at their homes over
their shoulders ; but the letter-royal the Emperor
himself cut to pieces with his scissars.

NEUMANN.

Why, my good master of the cellar ! you are deep
read in the chronicles of your country !

MASTER OF THE CELLAR.

So were my forefathers, and for that reason were
the minstrels, and served under Procopius and Ziska.
Peace be with their ashes ! Well, well ! they fought
for a good cause though— There ! carry it up !

NEWMANN.

Stay! let me but look at this second quarter. Look
there .' That is, when at Prague Castle the Imperial
Counsellors, Martinitz and Stawata, were hurled
down head over heels. Tis even so! there stands
Count Thur, who commands it.

[Runner takes the service-cup and goes of with it.

MASTER OF THE CELLAR.

■ O let me never more hear of that day. It was the
three-and-twentieth of May, in the year of our Lord
one thousand, six hundred, and eighteen. It seems
to me as it were but yesterday — from that unlucky
day it all began, all the heart-aches of the countiy.
Since that day it is now sixteen years, and there has
never once been peace on the earth.

{Health drunk aloud at the second table
The Prince of Weimar ! Hurra !

[At the third and fourth table
Long live Prince William ! Long live Duke Bernard !
Hurra !

[Music strikes up

FIRST SERVANT.

Hear 'em ! Hear 'em ! What an uproar !

second servant (comes in running).
Did you hear 1 They have drunk the prince of
Weimar's health.

THIRD SERVANT.

The Swedish Chief Commander !

first servant (speaking at the same time).
The Lutheran !

SECOND SERVANT.

Just before, when Count Deodate gave out the
Emperor's health, they were all as mum as a nibbling
mouse.

MASTER OF THE CELLAR.

Po, po! When the wine goes in strange things
come out. A good servant hears, and hears not! —
You should be nothing but eyes and feet, except
when you are called to.

SECOND SERVANT.

[To the Runner, to whom he gives secretly a flask
of wine, keeping his eye on the Master of the
Cellar, standing between him and the Runner.
Quick, Thomas ! before the Master of the Cellar
runs this way — 'tis a flask of Frontignac ! — Snapped
it up at the third table — Canst go off with it ?
runner (hides it in his pocket).
All right !

[Exit the Second Servant.
third servant (aside to the First).
Be on the hark, Jack ! that we may have right
plenty to tell to father Quivoga — Ho will give us
right plenty of absolution in return for ji

FIRST SERVANT.

For that very purpose I am always having some-
thing to do behind Illo's chair. — He is the man fo*
speeches to make you stare with !

MASTER OF THE CELLAR (to NEUMANN).

Who, pray, may that swarthy man be, he with the
cross, that is chatting so confidentially with Esterhats ?

NEWMANN.

Ay ! he too is one of those to whom they confide
too much. He calls himself Maradas, a Spaniard is
he.

master of the cellar (impatiently).

Spaniard! Spaniard! — I tell you, friend, nothing
good comes of those Spaniards. All these outlandish
fellows * are little better than rogues.

11

02

* There is a humor in the original which cannot be given in
the translation. " Die Wdschcn alle," etc. which word in clas-
sical German means the Italians alone ; but in its first sense.
and at present in the vulgar use of the word, signifies foreigners
in general. Our word walnuts, I suppose, means outlandish
nuts — Walla; nuees, in German "Welscho Niisse." T

loi)

146

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

NEWMANN.

Fy, fy ! you should not say so, friend. There are
among them our very best generals, and those on
whom the Duke at this moment relies the most.

MASTER OF THE CELLAR.

[Taking the flask out of the Runner's pocket.
My son, it will be broken to pieces in your pocket.
[Tertsky hurries in, fetches away the paper, and
calls to a Servant for Pen and Ink, and goes to
the back of the Stage.
master of the cellar (to the Servants).
The Lieutenant-General stands up.-=— Be on the
watch. — Now ! They break up. — OffJ and move back
the forms.

[They rise at all the tables, the Servants hurry off
the front of the Stage to the tables ; part of the
guests come forward.

SCENE XIII.

Octavio Piccolomini enters into conversation with
Maradas, and both place themselves quite on the
edge of the Stage on one side of the Proscenium.
On the side directly opposite, Max. Piccolomini, by
himself, lost in thought, and taking no part in any
thing that is going forward. TJie middle space be-
tween both, but rather more distant from the edge of
the Stage, is filed up by Butler, Isolani, Goetz,

TlEFENBACH, and KOLATTO.

isolani (while the Company is coming forward).
Good night, good night, Kolatto ! Good night, Lieu-
tenant-General ! — I should rather say, good morning.

GOETZ (t.0 TlEFENBACH).

Noble brother ! (making the usual compliment after

TlEFENBACH.

Ay! 'twas a royal feast indeed.

GOETZ.

Yes, my Lady Countess understands these matters.
Her mother-in-law, Heaven rest her soul, taught her!
—Ah! that was a housewife for you!

TlEFENBACH.

There* was not her like in all Bohemia for setting
out a table.

octavio (aside to Maradas).

Do me the favor to talk to me — talk of what you
will — or of nothing. Only preserve the appearance
ut least of talking. I would not wish to stand by
myself, and yet I conjecture that there will be goings
on here worthy of our attentive observation. (He
continues to fix his eye on the whole following scene).
isolani (on the point of going).

Lights! lights!

tertsky (advancing with the Paper to Isolani).

Noble brother; two minutes longer! — Here is
something to subscribe.

isolani.

Subscribe as much as you like — but you must ex-
cuse me from reading it

TERTSKY.

There is no need. It is the oath, which you have
ol ready read. — Only a few marks of your pen !

[Isolani hands over the Paper to Octavio respect-
fully.

TERTSKY.

Nay, nay, first come first served. There is no pre-

cedence here. (Octavio runs over the Paper with
apparent indifference. Tertsky watches him at some
distance).

goetz (to Tertsky)
Noble Count ! with your permission — Good night

tertsky.
Where 's the hurry ? Come, one other composing
draught. (To the servants) —Ho!

GOETZ.

Excuse me — an't able.

TERTSKY.

A thimble-full!

GOETZ.

Excuse me.

TlEFENBACH (sits down).

Pardon me, nobles ! — This standing does not agree
with me.

TERTSKY.

Consult only your own convenience, General !

TlEFENBACH.

Clear at head, sound in stomach — only my legs
won't carry me any longer.

isolani (pointing at his corpulence).
Poor legs ! how should they ? such an unmerciful
load ! (Octavio subscribes his name, and reaches over
the Paper to Tertsky, who gives it to Isolani ; and
he goes to the table to sign his name).

TlEFENBACH.

Twas that war in Pomerania that first brought it
on. Out in all weathers — ice and snow — no help for
it. — I shall never get the better of it all the days of
my life.

GOETZ.

Why, in simple verity, your Swede makes no nice
inquiries about the season.

tertsky (observing Isolani, whose hand trembles
excessively, so that he can scarce direct his pen). Have
you had that ugly complaint long, noble brother? —
Dispatch it.

isolani.
The sins of youth! I have already tried the cha-
lybeate waters. Well — I must bear it.

[Tertsky gives the Paper to Maradas ; he steps
to the table to subscribe.

octavio (advancing to Butler).
You are not over-fond of the orgies of Bacchus.
Colonel ! I have observed it. You would, I think,
find yourself more to your liking in the uproar of a
battle, than of a feast.

BUTLER.

I must confess, 'tis not in my way.

octavio (stepping nearer to him friendlily).

Nor in mine either, I can assure you ; and I am
not a little glad, my much-honored Colonel Butler^that
we agree so well in our opinions. A half-dozen good
friends at most, at a small round table, a glass of
genuine Tokay, open hearts, and a rational conversa
tion — that 's my taste !

BUTLER.

And mine too, when it can be had.

[The paper comes to Tiefenbach, who glances
over it at the same time vrith Goetz and
Kolatto. Maradas in the mean time re-
turns to Octavio. All this takes place, the
conversation with Butler proceeding un-
interrupted.

156

THE PICCOLOMINI.

147

octavio {introducing Maradas to Butler.

Don Balthasar Maradas ! likewise a man of our
stamp, and long ago your admirer. [Butler bows.
octavio (continuing).

You are a stranger here — 't was but yesterday you
arrived — you are ignorant of the ways and means
here. 'T is a wretched place — I know, at our age,
one loves to be snug and quiet — What if you moved
your lodgings ? — Come, be my visitor. (Butler makes
a low bow). Nay, without compliment ! — For a friend
like you, I have still a corner remaining.

BUTLER (Coldly).

Your obliged humble servant, my Lord Lieu-
tenant-General !

[The paper comes to Butler, who goes to the table
to subscribe it. The front of the stage is va-
cant, so that both the Piccolominis, each on
the side where he had been from the com-
mencement of the scene, remain alone.
octavio (after having some time watched his son in
silence, advances somewliat nearer to him). You were
long absent from us, friend !

MAX.

I urgent business detained me.

OCTAVIO.

And, I observe, you are still absent !

MAX.

You know this crowd and bustle always makes
me silent.

octavio (advancing still nearer).

May I be permitted to ask what the business was
that detained you ? Terlsky knows it without
asking !

MAX.

What does Tertsky know ?

OCTAVIO.

He was the only one who did not miss you.
ISOLANI (who has been attending to them from some
distance, steps up).
Well done, father ! Rout out his baggage * Beat
up his quarters ! there is something there that should
not be.

tertsky (with the paper).
Is there none wanting ? Have the whole sub-
scribed ?

octavjo.
All.

tertsky (calling aloud)
Ho ! Who subscribes ?

BUTi.ra (to Tertsky).
Count the names There ought to be just thirty

tertsky.
Here is a cross

TIEFENBACH.

That 's my /nark.

ISOLANI.

He cannot write ; but his cross is a good cross,
and is honored by Jews as well as Christians.
octavio (presses on to Max.).
Come, General ! let us go. It is late.

tertsky.
One Piccolomini only has signed.

isolani (pointing to Max.).
Look! that is your man, that statue there, who
has had neither eye, ear, nor tongue for us the whole
evening. (Max. receives the paper from Tertsky,
which he looks upon vacantly).

SCENE XIV.

To these enter Illo from the inner room. He has in
his hand the golden service-cup, and is extremely
distempered with drinking : Goetz and Butler
follow him, endeavoring to keep him back.

illo.
What do you want ? Let me go.

goetz and butler.
Drink no more, Illo ! For heaven's sake, drink no
more.

illo (goes up to Octavio, and shakes him cordially
by the hand, and then drinks).
Octavio ! I bring this to you ! Let all grudge be
drowned in this friendly bowl ! I know w7ell enough,
ye never loved me — Devil take me ! — and I never
loved you ! — I am always even with people in that
way ! — Let what 's past be past — that is, you under-
stand— forgotten ! I esteem you infinitely. (Em-
bracing him repeatedly). You have not a dearer
friend on earth than I — but that you know. The
fellow that cries rogue to you calls me villain — and
I '11 strangle him ! — my dear friend !

tertsky (whispering to him).
Art in thy senses ? For heaven's sake, Illo, think
where you are !

illo (aloud)
What do you mean ? — There are none but friends
here, are there 1 (Looks round the whole circle with a
jolly and triumphant air.) Not a sneaker among us,
thank Heaven !

tertsky (to Butler, eagerly).
Take him off with you, force him off, I entreat
you, Butler !

butler (to Illo).
Field Marshal ! a word with you. (Leads him to
the sideboard.)

illo (cordially).
A thousand for one ; Fill — Fill it once more up
to the brim. — To this gallant man's health !
isolani (to Max., who all the while has been staring
on the paper with fixed but vacant eyes).
Slow and sure, my noble brother ? — Hast parsed
it all yet ? — Some words yet to go through ? — Ha !
max. (waking as from a dream).
What am I to do ?

tertsky, and at the same time isolani.
Sign your name. (Octavio directs his eyes on him
with intense anxiety).

max. (returns the paper)
Let it stay till to-morrow. It is business- to-day 1
am not sufficiently collected. Send it to me to-
morrow.

tertsky.
Nay, collect yourself a little.

ISOLANI.

Awake, man ! awake ! — Come, thy signature, and
have done with it ! What ? Thou art the youngest
in the whole company, and wouldst be wiser thap
all of us together ? Look there ! thy falhei has
signed — we have all signed.

TERTSKY (t.0 OCTAVIO).

Use your influence. Instruct him.

OCTAVIO.

My son is at the age of discretion.

illo (leaves the service-cup on the sideboard ,
What 's the dispute ?

21 157

148

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

TERTSKY.

He declines subscribing the paper.

MAX.

I say, it may as well stay till to-morrow.

ILLO.

It cannot stay. We have all subscribed to it —
and so must you. — You must subscribe.

MAX.

Illo, good night !

ILLO.

No ! You come not off so ! The Duke shall learn
who are his friends. (All collect round Illo and
Max.)

MAX.

What my sentiments are towards the Duke, the
Duke knows, every one knows — what need of this
wild stuff?

ILLO.

This is the thanks the Duke gets for his partiality
to Italians and foreigners. — Us Bohemians he holds
for little better than dullards — nothing pleases him
but what 's outlandish.

tertsky (in extreme embarrassment, to the Command-
ers, who at Illo's words give a sudden start, as
preparing to resent them).

It is the wine that speaks, and not his reason.
Attend not to him, I entreat you.

isolani (with a bitter laugh).
Wine invents nothing : it only tattles.

ILLO.

He who is not with me is against me. Your tender
consciences ! Unless they can slip out by a back-
door, by a puny proviso

tertsky (interrupting him).
He is stark mad — don't listen to him!

tllo (raising his voice to the highest pitch).
Unless they can slip out by a proviso. — What of
the proviso ? The devil take this proviso !
max. (has his attention roused, and looks again into the
paper).
What is there here then of such perilous import ?
You make me curious — I must look closer at it.
tertsky (in a low voice to Illo).
What are you doing, Illo ? You are ruining us.

TIEFENBACH (to KoLATTO).

Ay, ay ! I observed, that before we sat down to
supper, it was read differently.

GOETZ.

Why, I seemed to think so too.

ISOLANI.

What do I care for that ? Where there stand other
names, mine can stand too.

TIEFENBACH.

Before supper there {was a certain proviso therein,
or short clause concerning our duties to the Em-
peror.

butler (to one of the Commanders).

For shame, for shame ! Bethink you. What is the
main business here ? The question now is, whether
we shall keep our General, or let him retire. One
must not take these things too nicely and over-scru-
pulously.

isolani (to one of the Generals).

Did the Duke make any of these provisoes when
he gave you your regiment ?

tertsky (to Goetz).

Or when he gave you the office of arn^-pur-
veyancer, which brings you in yearly a thousand
pistoles

He is a rascal who makes us out to be rogues. If
there be any one that wants satisfaction, let him say
so, — I am his man.

TIEFENBACH.

Softly, softly ! 'T was but a word or two.
max. (having read the paper gives ti back).
Till to-morrow, therefore !

illo (stammering with rage and fury, loses aU com
viand over himself, and presents the paper to Max
with one hand, and his sword in the other)

Subscribe — Judas !

ISOLANI.

Out upon you, Illo !

octavio, tertsky, butler (all together).
Down with the sword .'
max. (rushes on him suddenly and disarms him, then

to Count Tertsky).
Take him off to bed.

[Max. leaves the stage. Illo cursing and raving w
held back by some of the Officers, and amidst
a universal confusion the Curtain drops.

ACT III.
SCENE I.

A Chamber in Piccolomini's Mansion. — It is Night. '

Octavio Piccolomini. A Valet de Chambre, with
Lights.

OCTAVIO.

And when my son comes in, conduct him hither

What is the hour ?

VALET.

'T is on the point of morning.

OCTAVIO.

Set down the light. We mean not to undress

You may retire to sleep.

[Exit Valet. Octavio paces, musing, across the
chamber ; Max. Piccolomini enters unob-
served, and looks at his father for some mo-
ments in silence.

MAX.

Art thou offended with me ? Heaven knows

That odious business- was no fault of mine.

'T is true, indeed, I saw thy signature.

What thou hadst sanction'd, should not, it might seem.

Have come amiss to me. But — 't is my nature —

Thou know'st that in such matters I must follow

My own light, not another's.

octavio (goes up to him, and embraces him).
Follow it,

0 follow it still further, my best son !
To-night, dear boy ! it hath more faithfully
Guided thee than the example of thy father. \

MAX.

Declare thyself less darkly.

octavio.

I will do so.
For after what has taken place this night.
There must remain no secrets 'twixt us two.

[Both seat themselvcf.
Max. Piccolomini ! what thinkest thou of
The oath that was sent round for signatures ?

MAX

1 hold it for a thing of harmless import,
Although I love not these set declarations.

158

THE PICCOLOMINI.

149

OCTAVIO.

4nd on no other ground hast thou refused
The signature they fain had wrested from thee ?

MAX.

It was a serious business I was absent —

The affair itself seem'd not so urgent to me.

OCTAVIO.

Be open, Max. Thou hadst then no suspicion ?

MAX.

Suspicion ! what suspicion ? Not the least

OCTAVIO.

Thank thy good Angel, Piccolomini :

He drew thee back unconscious from the abyss.

MAX.

I know not what thou meanest

OCTAVIO.

I will tell thee.'
Fain would they have extorted from thee, son,
The sanction of thy name to villany ;
Yea, with a single flourish of thy pen,
Made thee renounce thy duty and thy honor !

max (rises).
Octavio .

OCTAVIO.

Patience ! Seat yourself. Much yet
Hast thou to hear from me, friend ! — hast for years
Lived in incomprehensible illusion.
Before thine eyes is Treason drawing out
As black a web as e'er was spun for venom :
A power of hell o'erclouds thy understanding.
I dare no longer stand in silence — dare
No longer see thee wandering on in darkness,
Nor pluck the bandage from thine eyes.

MAX.

My father !
Yet, ere thou speakest, a moment's pause of thought!
If your disclosures should appear to be
Conjectures only — and almost I fear
They will be nothing further — spare them ! I
Am not in that collected mood at present,
Thut I could listen to them quietly.

OCTAVIO.

The deeper cause thou hast to hate this light,

The more impatient cause have I, my son,

To force it on thee. To the innocence

And wisdom of thy heart I could have trusted thee

With calm assurance — but I see the net

Preparing — and it is thy heart itself

Alarms me for thine innocence — that secret,

[Fixing his eye stedfastly on his son's face.
Which thou concealest, forces mine from me.

[Max. attempts to answer, hut hesitates, and casts
his eyes to the ground embarrassed.
octavio {after a pause).
Know, then, they are duping thee ! — a most foul

game
With thee and with us all — nay, hear me calmly —
The Duke even now is playing. He assumes
The mask, as if he would forsake the army 5
And in this moment makes he preparations
That army from the Emperor to steal,
And carry it over to the enemy !

MAX.

That low Priest's legend I know well, but did not
Expect to hear it from thy mouth.

OCTAVIO.

That mouth,

From which thou hearest it at this present moment,
Doth warrant thee that it is no Priest's legend.

How mere a maniac they supposed the Duke !
What, he can meditate ? — the Duke ? — can dream
That he can lure away full thirty thousand
Tried troops and true, all honorable soldiers,
More than a thousand noblemen among them,
From oaths, from duty, from their honor lure tl em,
And make them all unanimous to do
A deed that brands them scoundrels ?

OCTAVIO.

Such a deed,
With such a front of infamy, the Duke
Noways desires — what he requires of us
Bears a far gentler appellation. Nothing
He wishes, but -to give the Empire peace.
And so, because the Emperor hates this peace,
Therefore the Duke — the Duke will force him to it.
All parts of the empire will he pacify,
And for his trouble will retain in payment
(What he has already in his gripe) — Bohemia !

MAX.

Has he, Octavio, merited of us,

That we — that we should think so vilely of him ?

OCTAVIO.

What we would think is not the question here,
The affair speaks for itself— and clearest proofs !
Hear me, my son — 'tis not unknown to thee,
In what ill credit with the court we stand.
But little dost thou know, or guess, what tricks,
What base intrigues, what lying artifices,
Have been employ'd — for this sole end — to sow
Mutiny in the camp ! All bands are loosed —
Loosed all the bands, that link the officer
To his liege Emperor, all that bind the soldier
Affectionately to the citizen.
Lawless he stands, and threateningly beleaguers
The state he 's bound to guard. To such a height
'Tis swoln, that at this hour the Emperor
Before his armies — his own armies — trembles ;
Yea, in his capital, his palace, fears
The traitors' poniards, and is meditating

To hurry off and hide his tender offspring

Not from the Swedes, not from the Lutherans —
No ! from his own troops hide and hurry them !

MAX.

Cease, cease ! thou torturest, shalterest me. I know
That oft we tremble at an empty terror ;
But the false phantasm brings a real misery

OCTAVIO.

It is no phantasm. An intestine war,
Of all the most unnatural and cruel,
Will burst out into flames, if instantly
We do not fly and stifle it. The Generate
Are many of them long ago Avon over;
The subalterns are vacillating — whole
Regiments and garrisons are vacillating,
To foreigners our strong-holds are intrusted ;
To that suspected Schafgotch is the whole
Force of Silesia given up : to Tertsky
Five regiments, foot and horse — to Isolani,
To Illo, Kinsky, Butler, the best troops.

Likewise to both of us.

ioy

150

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

OCTAVIO.

Because the Duke
Believes he has secured us — means to lure us
Still further on by splendid promises.
To me he portions forth the princedoms, Glatz
And Sagan; and too plain I see the angel
With which he doubts not to catch thee.

No ! no

J tell thee — no !

OCTAVIO.

O open yet thine eyes !
And to what purpose thmk'st thou he has cali'd us
Hither to Pilsen ? to avail himself
Of our advice ? — O when did Friedland ever
Need our advice ? — Be calm, and listen to me.
To sell ourselves are we called hither, and
Decline we that — to be his hostages.
Therefore doth noble Galas stand aloof;
Thy father, too, thou wouldst not have seen here,
If higher duties had not held him fetter'd.

MAX.

He makes no secret of it — needs make none —
That we 're called hither for his sake — he owns it.
He needs our aidance to maintain himself—
He did so much for us ; and 'tis but fan-
That we too should do somewhat now for him.

OCTAVIO.

And know'st thou what it is which we must do ?
That Illo's drunken mood betray'd it to thee.
Bethink thyself— what hast thou heard, what seen ?
The counterfeited paper — the omission
Of that particular clause, so full of meaning,
Does it not prove, that they would bind us down

MAX.

That counterfeited paper
Appears to me no other than a trick
Of Illo's own device. These underhand
Traders in great men's interests ever use
To urge and hurry all things to the extreme.
They see the Duke at variance with the court,
And fondly think to serve him, when they widen
The breach irreparably. 'Trust me, father,
The Duke knows nothing of all this.

OCTAVIO.

It grieves me
That I must dash to earth, that I must shatter
A faith so specious ! but I may not spare thee !
For this is not a time for tenderness.
Thou must take measures, speedy ones — must act.
I therefore will confess to thee, that all
Which I 've intrusted to thee now — that all
Which seems to thee so unbelievable,
That— yes, I will tell thee— (a pause) — Max. ! I had

it all
From his own mouth — from the Duke's mouth I had it

max. (in excessive agitation^.
No ! — no ! — never !

OCTAVIO.

Himself confided to me
What I, 'tis true, had long before discover'd
By other means — himself confided to me,
That 'twas his settled plan to join the Swedes;
And, at the head of the united armies
Compel the Emperor

MAX.

He is passionate :
The Court has stung him — he is sore all over
With injuries and affronts ; and in a moment
Of irritation, what if he, for once,
Forgot himself? He's an impetuous man.

OCTAVIO.

Nay, in cold blood he did confess this to me •
And having construed my astonishment
Into a scruple of his power, he show'd me
His written evidences — show'd me letters,
Both from the Saxon and the Swede, that gave
Promise of aidance, and defined the amount.

MAX.

It cannot be ! — can not be ! — can not be !

Dost thou not see, it cannot ?

Thou wouldst of necessity have shown him

Such horror, such deep lothing — that or he

Had taken thee for his better genius, or

Thou siood'st not now a living man before me —

OCTAVIO.

I have laid open my objections to him,
Dissuaded him with pressing earnestness ;
But my abhorrence, the full sentiment
Of my whole heart — that I have still kept sacred
To my own consciousness.

MAX.

And thou hast been
So treacherous ? That looks not like my father !
I trusted not thy words, when thou didst tell me
Evil of him! much less can I now do it,
That thou calumniatest thy own self.

OCTAVIO.

I did not thrust myself into his secrecy

MAX.

Uprightness merited his confidence.

OCTAVIO.

He was no longer worthy of sincerity.

MAX.

Dissimulation, sure, was still less worthy
Of thee, Octavio !

OCTAVIO.

Gave I him a cause
To entertain a scruple of my honor ?

MAX.

That he did not, evinced his confidence.

OCTAVIO.

Dear son, it is not always possible
Still to preserve that infant purity
Which the voice teaches in our inmost heart,
Still in alarum, for ever on the watch
Against the wiles of wicked men : e'en Virtue
Will sometimes bear away her outward robes
Soil'd in the wrestle with Iniquity.
This is the curse of every evil deed,
That, propagating still, it brings forth evil.
I do not cheat my better soul with sophisms :
I but perform my orders ; the Emperor
Prescribes my conduct to me. Dearest boy,
Far better were it, doubtless, if we all
Obey'd the heart at all times ; but so doing,
In this our present sojourn with bad men,
We must abandon many an honest object.
'Tis now our call to serve the Emperor;
By what means he can best be served — the heart
May whisper what it will — this is our call '

160

THE PICCOLOMINI.

151

It seems a thing appointed, that to-day
I should not comprehend, not understand thee.
The Duke, thou say'st, did honestly pour out
I lis heart to thee, but for an evil purpose ;
And thou dishonestly hast cheated him
For a good purpose ! Silence, I entreat thee —
My friend, thou stealest not from me —
Let me not lose my father !

octavio {suppressing resentment).
As yet thou know'st not all, my son. I have
Yet somewhat to disclose to thee. [After a pause.

Duke Friedland
Hath made his preparations. He relies
Upon his stars. He deems us unprovided,
And thinks to fall upon us by surprise.
Yea, in his dream of hope, he grasps already
The golden circle in his hand. He errs.
We too have been in action — he but grasps
His evil fate, most evil, most mysterious !

MAX.

0 nothing rash, my sire ! By all that 's good
Let me invoke thee — no precipitation !

OCTAVIO.

With light tread stole he on his evil way,
And light tread hath Vengeance stole on after him.
Unseen she stands already, dark behind him —
But one step more — he shudders in her grasp !
Thou hast seen Questenberg with me. As yet
Thou know'st but his ostensible commission :
He brought with him a private one, my son !
And that was for me only.

MAX.

May I know it ?

octavio {seizes the patent).

Max. !
[A pause.

In this disclosure place I in thy hands

The Empire's welfare and thy father's life.
Dear to thy inmost heart is Wallenstein :
A powerful tie of love, of veneration,
Hath knit thee to him from thy earliest youth
Thou nourishest the wish. — O let me still
Anticipate thy loitering confidence !
The hope thou nourishest to knit thyself
Yet closer to mm

MAX.

Father

OCTAVIO.

O my son !

1 trust thy heart undoubtingly. But am I
Equally sure of thy collectedness ?

Wilt thou be able, with calm countenance,
To enter this man's presence, when that I
Have trusted to thee his whole fate ?

MAX.

According
As thou dost trust me, father, with his crime.

[Octavio takes a paper out of his escritoire, and
gives it to him.

MAX.

What ? how ? a full Imperial patent ! *

octavio

Read it.
max. {just glances on it).
Duke Friedland sentenced and condemn'd !

octavio.

Even so.
max. {throws down the paper).
O this is too much ! 0 unhappy error !

octavio.
Read on. Collect thyself.

max. {after he has read further, with a look of affright
and astonishment on his father.

How! what! Thou! thou
octavio.
But for the present moment, till the King
Of Hungary may safely join the army,
Is the command assign'd to me.

MAX.

And think'st thou
Dost thou believe, that thou wilt tear it from him ?
O never hope it ! — Father ! father ! father !
An inauspicious office is enjoin'd thee.
This paper here — this ! and wilt thou enforce it ?
The mighty in the middle of his host,
Surrounded by his thousands, him wouldst thou
Disarm — degrade ! Thou art lost, both thou and all
of us.

OCTAVIO.

What hazard I incur thereby, I know.
In the great hand of God I stand. The Almighty
Will cover with his shield the Imperial house,
And shatter, in his wrath, the work of darkness.
The Emperor hath true servants still ; and even
Here in the camp, there are enough brave men
Who for the good cause will fight gallantly.
The faithful have been warn'd — the dangerous
Are closely watch'd. I wait but the first step,
And then immediately

MAX.

What! on suspicion?
Immediately ?

OCTAVIO.

The Emperor is no tyrant.
The deed alone he '11 punish, not the wish.
The Duke hath yet his destiny in his power.
Let him but leave the treason uncompleted,
He will be silently displaced from office,
And make way to his Emperor's royal son.
An honorable exile to his castles
Will be a benefaction to him rather
Than punishment. But the first open step

MAX.

What callest thou such a step ? A wicked step
Ne'er will he take ; but thou mightest easily.
Yea, thou hast done it, misinterpret hirn.

OCTAVIO.

Nay, howsoever punishable were

Duke Friedland's purposes, yet still the steps

Which he hath taken openly, permit

A mild construction. It is my intention

To leave this paper wholly unenforced

Till some act is commitled which convicts him

Of a high-treason, without doubt or plea,

And that shall sentence him.

MAX

But who the judge

OCTAVIO.

Thyself.

MAX.

For ever, then, this paper will lie idle
'GJ

152

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

OCTAVIO.

Too soon, I fear, its powers must all be proved.
After the counter-promise of this evening,
It cannot be but he must deem himself
Secure of the majority with us ;
And of the army's general sentiment
He hath a pleasing proof in that petition
Wmcn tnou delivered'st to him from the regiments.
Add this too — I have letters that the Rhinegrave
Hath changed his route, and travels by forced marches
To the Bohemian Forests. What this purports,
Remains unknown ; and, to confirm suspicion,
This night a Swedish nobleman arrived here.

MAX.

I have thy word. Thou 'It not proceed to action
Before thou hast convinced me — me myself.

OCTAVIO.

Is it possible ? Still, after all thou know'st,
Canst thou believe still in his innocence ?

max. (with enthusiasm).
Thy judgment may mistake ; my heart can not.

[Moderates his voice and manner.
These reasons might expound thy spirit or mine ;
But they expound not Friedland — I have faitli :
For as he knits his fortunes to the stars,
Even so doth he resemble them in secret,
Wonderful, still inexplicable courses !
Trust me, they do him wrong. All will be solved.
These smokes at once will kindle into flame —
The edges of this black and stormy cloud
Will brighten suddenly, and we shall view
The unapproachable glide out in splendor.

OCTAVIO.

I will await it.

SCENE II.

Octavio and Max. as before. To them the Valet of
the Chamber.

octavio.
How now, then ?

VALET.

A dispatch is at the door.
octavio.
So early 1 From whom comes he then ? Who is it ?

VALET.

That he refused to tell me.

OCTAVIO.

Lead him in :
And. hark you — let it not transpire.

[Exit Valet ; the Cornet steps in.

OCTAVIO.

Ha ! Cornet — is it you ? and from Count Galas ?
Give me your letters.

CORNET.

The Lieutenant-General
Trusted it not to letters.

OCTAVIO

And what is it ?

CORNET.

He bade me tell you — Dare I speak openly here ?

OCTAVIO.

My son knows all

CORNET.

We have him.

OCTAVIO.

Whom?

CORNET.

Sesina,
The old negotiator.

octavio (eagerly).
And you have him ?

CORxNET.

In the Bohemian Forest Captain Mohrbrand
Found and secured him yester-morning early ;
He was proceeding then to Regensburg,
And on him were dispatches for the Swede.

OCTAVIO.

And the dispatches

CORNET.

The Lieutenant-Generaf
Sent them that instant to Vienna, and
The prisoner with them.

OCTAVIO.

This is, indeed, a tiding
That fellow is a precious casket to us,
Inclosing weighty things. — Was much found on L * '

CORNET.

I think, six packets, with Count Tertsky's arms.

OCTAVIO.

None in the Duke's own hand ?

CORNET.

Not that I know

And old Sesina ?

CORNET.

He was sorely frighten'd,
When it was told him he must to Vienna.
But the Count Altringer bade him take heart,
Would he but make a full and free confession.

OCTAVIO.

Is Altringer then with your Lord ? I heard
That he lay sick at Linz.

CORNET.

These three days past
He 's with my master, the Lieutenant-General,
At Frauenberg. Already have they sixty
Small companies together, chosen men ;
Respectfully they greet you with assurances,
That they are only waiting your commands.

OCTAVIO.

In a few days may great events take place.
And when must you return ?

CORNET.

I wait your orders.

OCTAVIO.

Remain till evening. ^

[Cornet signifies his assent and obeisance, and i.
going.

No one saw you — ha ?

CORNET.

No living creature. Through the cloister wicket
The Capuchins, as usual, let me in.

OCTAVIO.

Go, rest your limbs, and keep yourself conceal'd
I hold it probable, that yet ere evening
I shall dispatch you. The development
Of this affair approaches : ere the day,
That even now is dawning in the heaven,

162

THE PICCOLOMINI.

153

Ere this eventful day hath set, the lot

That must decide our fortunes will be drawn.

[Exit Cornet.

SCENE III.
Octavio and Max. Piccolomini.

OCTAVIO.

Well — and what now, son? All will soon be clear;
For all, I 'm certain, went through that Sesina.

max. (who through the whole of the foregoing scene
has been in a violent and visible struggle of feelings,
at length starts as one resolved).

I will procure me light a shorter way.

Farewell.

OCTAVIO.

Where now ? — Remain here.

MAX.

To the Duke.

octavio (alarmed).
What

max. (returning).
If thou hast believed that I shall act

A part in this thy play

Thou hast miscalculated on me grievously.

My way must be straight on. True with the tongue,

False with the heart — I may not, can not be :

Nor can I suffer that a man should trust me —

As his friend trust me — and then lull my conscience

With such low pleas as these : — " I ask'd him not —

He did it all at his own hazard — and

My mouth has never lied to him." — No, no !

What a friend takes me for, that I must be.

— I'll to the Duke ; ere yet this day is ended,

Will I demand of him that he do save

His good name from the world, and with one stride

Break through and rend this fine-spun web of yours.

He can, he will ! — J still am his believer.

Yet I '11 not pledge myself, but that those letters

May furnish you, perchance, with proofs against him.

How far may not this Tertsky have proceeded —

What may not he himself too have permitted

Himself to do, to snare the enemy,

The laws of war excusing ? Nothing, save

His own mouth, shall convict him— nothing less !

And face to face will I go question him.

OCTAVIO.

Thou wilt ?

max.
I will, as sure as this heart beats

OCTAVIO.

have, indeed, miscalculated on thee.
I calculated on a prudent son,
Who would have blest the hand beneficent
That pluck'd him back from the abyss — and lo !
A fascinated being I discover,
Whom his two eyes befool, whom passion wilders,
Whom not the broadest light of noon can heal.
Go, question him !— Be mad enough, I pray thee.
The purpose of thy father, of thy Emperor,
Go, give it up free booty : — Force me, drive me
To an open breach before the time. And now,
Now that a miracle of heaven had guarded
My secret purpose even to this hour,
4nd laid to sleep Suspicion's piercing eyes,
Lot me have lived to see that mine own son,
P

With frantic enterprise, annihilates
My toilsome labors and state-policy.

« MAX.

Ay — this state-policy ! O how I curse it !

You will, some time, with your state-policy

Compel him to the measure : it may happen,

Because you are determined that he is guilty,

Guilty ye '11 make him. All retreat cut off,

You close up every outlet, hem him in

Narrower and narrower, till at length ye force him

Yes, ye, — ye force him, in his desperation,

To set fire to his prison. Father ! father !

That never can end well — it can not— -will not!

And let it be decided as it may,

I see with boding heart the near approach

Of an ill-starr'd, unblest catastrophe.

For this great Monarch-spirit, if he fall,

Will drag a world into the ruin with him.

And as a ship (that midway on the ocean

Takes fire) at once, and with a thunder-burst

Explodes, and with itself shoots out its crew

In smoke and ruin betwixt sea and heaven ;

So will he, falling, draw down in his fall

All us, who 're fix'd and mortised to his fortune.

Deem of it what thou wilt ; but pardon me,

That I must bear me on in my own way.

All must remain pure betwixt him and me ;

And, ere the day-light dawns, it must be known

Which I must lose — my father, or my friend.

[During his exit the curtain drops,

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

Scene, a Room fitted up for astrological labors, and
provided with celestial Charts, with Globes, Tele-
scopes, Quadrants, and other mathematical Instru-
ments.— Seven Colossal Figures, representing the
Planets, each with a transparent Star of a different
Color on its head, stand in a semicircle in the Bach-
ground, so that Mars and Saturn are nearest the
Eye. — The Remainder of the Scene, and its Dispo-
sition, is given in the Fourth Scene of the Second
Act. — There must be a Curtain over the Figures,
which may be dropped, and conceal them on occasions.

[In the Fifth Scene of this Act it must be dropped ; but
in the Seventh Scene, it must be again drawn up
wholly or in part.]

Wallenstein at a black Table, on which a Speculum
Astrologicum is described with Chalk. Seni is taking
Observations through a Window.

WALLENSTEIN.

All well — and now let it be ended, Seni. — Come,
The dawn commences, and Mars rules the hour.
We must give o'er the operation. Come,
We know enough.

SENI.

Your Highness must permit mu
Just to contemplate Venus. She 's now rising ;
Like as a sun, so shines she in the east.

WALLENSTEIN.

She is at present in her perigee,

And shoots down now her strongest influences

[Contemplating the figure on the table.
163

154

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

Auspicious aspect ! fateful in conjunction,
At length the mighty three corradiate ;
And the two stars of blessing, Jupiter
And Venus, take between them the malignant
Slyly-malicious Mars, and thus compel
Into my service that old mischief-founder :
For long he view'd me hostilely, and ever
With beam oblique, or perpendicular,
Now in the Quartile, now in the Secundan,
Shot his red lightnings at my stars, disturbing
Their blessed influences and sweet aspects.
Now they have conquer'd the old enemy,
And bring him in the heavens a prisoner to me.

seni (who has come down from the window).
And in a corner house, your Highness — think of that !
That makes each influence of double strength.

WALLENSTEIN.

And sun and moon, too, in the Sextile aspect,
The soft light with the vehement — so I love it.
Sol is the heart, Luna the head of heaven,
Bold be the plan, fiery the execution.

SENI.

And both the mighty Lumina by no
Maleficus affronted. Lo ! Saturnus,
Innocuous, powerless, in cadente Domo.

WALLENSTEIN.

The empire of Saturnus is gone by ;

Lord of the secret birth of things is he ;

Within the lap of earth, and in the depths

Of the imagination dominates ;

And his are ail things that eschew the light.

The time is o'er of brooding and contrivance,

For Jupiter, the lustrous, lordeth now,

And the dark work, complete of preparation,

He draws by force into the realm of light.

Now must we hasten on to action, ere

The scheme, and most auspicious posture

Farts o'er my head, and takes once more its flight ;

For the heavens journey still, and sojourn not.

{There are knocks at the door.
There 's some one knocking there. See who it is.

tertsky (from without).
Open, and let me in.

WALLENSTEIN.

Ay — 'tis Tertsky.
What is there of such urgence ? We are busy.

tertsky (from without).
Lay all aside at present, I entreat you.
It suffers no delaying.

WALLENSTEIN.

Open, Seni !
[Wliile Seni opens the door for Tertsky, Wallen-
stein draws the curtain over the figures.
tertsky (enters).
Hast thou already heard it ? He is taken.
Galas has given him up to the Emperor.

[Seni draws off the black table, and exit.

Negotiation with the Swede and Saxon,

Through whose hands all and everything has pass'd—

wallenstein (drawing back).
Nay, not Sesina ? — Say, No ! I entreat thee.

tertsky.
All on his road for Regensburg to the Swede
He was plunged down upon by Galas' agent,
Who had been long in ambush lurking for him.
There must have been found on him my whole packet
To Thur, to Kinsky, to Oxenstiern, to Arnheim :
All this is in their hands ; they have now an insight
Into the whole — our measures, and our motives.

SCENE II.
Wallenstein, Count Tertsky.

WALLENSTEIN (to TERTSKY).

Who has been taken ? — Who is given up ?

TERTSKY.

The man who knows our secrets, who knows every

SCENE in.

To them enters Illo.

illo (to Tertsky).
Has he heard it ?

tertsky.

He has heard it

illo (to Wallenstein).

Thinkest thou still
To make thy peace with the Emperor, to regain
His confidence ? — E'en were it now thy wish
To abandon all thy plans, yet still they know
What thou hast wish'd ; then forwards thou must

press;
Retreat is now no longer in thy power.

TERTSKY.

They have documents against us, and in hands,
Which show beyond all power of contradiction —

WALLENSTEIN.

Of my handwriting — no iota. Thee
I punish for thy lies.

ILLO.

And thou believest,
That what this man, that what thy sister's husband
Did in thy name, will not stand on thy reck'ning ?
His word must pass for thy word with the Swede,
And not with those that hate thee at Vienna.

TERTSKY.

In writing thou gavest nothing — But bethink thee.
How far thou ventured 'st by word of mouth
With this Sesina ! And will he be silent ?
If he can save himself by yielding up
Thy secret purposes, will he retain them ?

ILLO.

Thyself dost not conceive it possible ;
And since they now have evidence authentic
How far thou hast already gone, speak ! — tell us,
What art thou waiting for ? thou canst no longer
Keep thy command ; and beyond hope of rescue
Thou'rt lost, if thou resign'st it.

WALLENSTEIN. \

In the army
Lies my security. The army will not
Abandon me. Whatever they may know,
The power is mine, and they must gulp it dow'n—
And substitute I caution for my fealty,
They must be satisfied, at least appear so.

ILLO.

The army, Duke, is thine now — for this moment—
T is thine : but think with terror on the slow.
The quiet power of time. From open violence
The attachment of thy soldiery secures thee
To-day — to-morrow ; but grant'st thou them a respite

164

THE PICCOLOMINI.

155

Unheard unseen, they '11 undermine that love
On which thou now dost feel so firm a footing
With wily theft will draw away from thee
One after the other

WALLENSTEIN.

'T is a cursed accident !

ILLO.

Oh I will call it a most blessed one,
If it work on thee as it ought to do,
Hurry thee on to action — to decision —
The Swedish General

WALLENSTEIN.

He 's arrived ! Know'st thou
What his commission is

ILLO.

To thee alone
Will he intrust the purpose of his coming.

WALLENSTEIN.

A cursed, cursed accident ! Yes, yes,
Sesina knows too much, and won't be silent.

TERTSKY.

He's a Bohemian fugitive and rebel.

His neck is forfeit. Can he save himself

At thy cost, think you he will scruple it ?

And if they put him to the torture, will he,

Will he, that dastardling, have strength enough

WALLENSTEIN (lost in thought).
Their confidence is lost — irreparably !
And I may act what way I will, I shall
Be and remain for ever in their thought
A traitor to my country. How sincerely
Soever I return back to my duty,
It will no longer help me

ILLO.

Ruin thee,
That it will do ! Not thy fidelity,
Thy weakness will be deem'd the sole occasion —

wallenstein (pacing up and down in extreme
agitation).
What ! I must realize it now in earnest,
Because I toy'd too freely with the thought ?
Accursed he who dallies with a devil!
And must I — I must realize it now —
Now, while I have the power, it must take place !

ILLO.

Now — now — ere they can ward and parry it !

wallenstein (looking at the paper of signatures).
I have the General's word — a written promise !
Max. Piccolommi stands not here — how 's that ?

It was he fancied

ILLO.

Mere self-willedness.
There needed no such thing 'twixt him and you.

wallenstein.
He is quite right— there needeth no such thing.
The regiments, loo, deny to march for Flanders-
Have sent me in a paper of remonstrance,
And openly resist the Imperial orders.
The first step to revolt 's already taken.

ILLO.

Believe me, thou wilt find it far more easy
To lead them over to (he enemy
Th&a to the Spaniard.

wallenstein.

I will hear, however,
What the Swede has to say to me.

ILLO (eagerly to Tertsxy).

Go, call him !
He stands without the door in waiting.

wallenstein.

Stay!
Stay yet a little. It hath taken me
All by surprise, — it came too quick upon me ;
'Tis wholly novel, that an accident,
With its dark lordship, and blind agency,
Should force me on with it.

And afler weigh it.

First hear him only,
[Exeunt Tertsky and Illo

SCENE IV.

wallenstein (in soliloquy)
Is it possible ?
Is 't so ? I can no longer what I would ?
No longer draw back at my liking ? I
Must do the deed, because I thought of it,
And fed this heart here with a dream ? Because
I did not scowl temptation from my presence,
Dallied with thoughts of possible fulfilment,
Commenced no movement, left all time uncertain,
And only kept the road, the access open ?
By the great God of Heaven ! It was not
My serious meaning, it was ne'er resolve.
I but amused myself with thinking of it.
The free-will tempted me, the power to do
Or not to do it. — Was it criminal
To make the fancy minister to hope,
To fill the air with pretty toys of air,
And clutch fantastic sceptres moving t'ward me !
Was not the world kept free ? Beheld I not
The road of duty close beside me — but
One little step, and once more I was in it !
Where am I ? Whither have I been transported ?
No road, no track behind me, but a wall,
Impenetrable, insurmountable,
Rises obedient to the spells I mutter'd
And meant not — my own doings tower behind me.

[Pauses and remains in deep thought
A punishable man I seem ; the guilt,
Try what I will, I cannot roll off from me ;
The equivocal demeanor of my life
Bears witness on my prosecutor's party.
And even my purest acts from purest motives
Suspicion poisons with malicious gloss.
Were I that thing for which I pass, that traitor,
A goodly outside I had sure reserved,
Had drawn the coverings thick and double round me
Been calm and chary of my utterance ;
But being conscious of the innocence
Of my intent, my uncorrupled will,
I gave way to my humors, to my passion :
Bold were my words, because my deeds were not.
Now every planless measure, chance event,
The threat of rage, the vaunt of joy and triumph,
And all the May-games of a heart o'erflowing,
Will they connect, and weave them all together
Into one web of treason ; all will be plan,
My eye ne'er absent from the far-off mark,
22 165

158

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

Step tracing step, each step a politic progress ;
And out of all they'll fabricate a charge
So specious, that I must myself stand dumb.
I am caught in my own net, and only force,
Naught but a sudden rent can liberate me.

[Pauses again.
How else ! since that the heart's unbiass'd instinct
Impell'd me to the daring deed, which now
Necessity, self-preservation, orders.
Stern is the On-look of Necessity,
Not without shudder may a human hand
Grasp the mysterious urn of destiny.
My deed was mine, remaining in my bosom :
Once surfer'd to escape from its safe corner
Within the heart, its nursery and birth-place,
Sent forth into the Foreign, it belongs
For ever to those sly malicious powers
Whom never art of man conciliated.

[Paces in agitation through the chamber, then pauses,
and, after the pause, breaks out again into
audible soliloquy.
What is thy enterprise ? thy aim ? thy object ?
Hast honestly confess'd it to thyself?
Power seated on n quiet throne thou 'dst shake,
Power on an ancient consecrated throne,
Strong in possession, founded in old custom ;
Power by a thousand tough and stringy roots
Fix'd to the people's pious nursery-faith.
This, this will be no strife of strength with strength.
That fear'd I not. I brave each combatant,
Whom I can look on, fixing eye to eye,
Who, full himself of courage, kindles courage
In me too. 'Tis a foe invisible.
The which I fear — a fearful enemy,
Which in the human heart opposes me,
By its coward fear alone made fearful to me.
Not that, which full of life, instinct with power,
Makes known its present being ; that is not
The true, the perilously formidable.
O no ! it is the common, the quite common,
The thing of an eternal yesterday,
What ever was, and evermore returns,
Sterling to-morrow, for to-day 't was sterling I
For of the wholly common is man made,
And custom is his nurse ! Woe then to them,
Who lay irreverent hands upon his old
House furniture, the dear inheritance
From his forefathers ! For time consecrates ;
And what is gray with age becomes religion.
Be in possession, and thou hast the right,
And sacred will the many guard it for thee !

[To the Page, who here enters.
The Swedish officer ? — Well, let him enter.

[The Page exit, Wallen stein fixes his eye in deep
thought on the door.
Yet is it pure — as yet ! the crime has come
Not o'er this threshold yet — so slender is
The boundary that divideth life's two paths.

SCENE V.

Wallenstein and Wrangel .

wallenstein (after having fixed a searching look on

him).
Vour name is Wrangel ?

WRANGEL.

Gustave Wrangel, General
Of the Sudermanian Blues.

WALLENSTEIN.

It was a Wrangel
Who injured me materially at Stralsund,
And by his brave resistance was the cause
Of the opposition which that sea-port made.

WRANGEL.

It was the doing of the element

With which you fought, my Lord ! and not my merit.

The Baltic Neptune did assert his freedom :

The sea and land, it seem'd, were not to serve

One and the same.

wallenstein (makes the motion for him to take a seat,

and seals himself).

And where are your credentials 1
Come you provided with full powers, Sir General ?

WRANGEL.

There are so many scruples yet to solve

wallenstein (having read the credentials).
An able letter ! — Ay — he is a prudent
Intelligent master, whom you serve, Sir General !
The Chancellor writes me, that he but fulfils
His late departed Sovereign's own idea
In helping me to the Bohemian crown.

WRANGEL.

He says the truth. Our great King, now in heaven

Did ever deem most highly of your Grace's

Pre-eminent sense and military genius ;

And always the commanding Intellect,

He said, should have command, and be the King..

WALLENSTEIN.

Yes, he might say it safely. — General Wrangel,

[Taking his hand affectionately
Come, fair and open. — Trust me, I was always
A Swede at heart. Ey ! that did you experience
Both in Silesia and at Nuremburg ;
I had you often in my power, and let you
Always slip out by some back-door or other.
'T is this for which the Court can ne'er forgive me.
Which drives me to this present step : and since
Our interests so run in one direction,
E'en let us have a thorough confidence
Each in the other.

WRANGEL.

Confidence will come
Has each but only first security.

WALLENSTEIN.

The Chancellor still, I see, does not quite trust me
And, I confess — the game does not lie wholly
To my advantage — Without doubt he thinks.
If I can play false with the Emperor,
Who is my Sov'reign, I can do the like
With the enemy, and that the one too were
Sooner to be forgiven me than the other.
Is not this your opinion too, Sir General ?

WRANGEL.

I have here an office merely, no opinion.

WALLENSTEIN.

The Emperor hath urged me to the uttermost
I can no longer honorably serve him.
For my security, in self-defence,
I take this hard step, which my conscience blames
166

THE PICCOLOMINL

157

WRANGEL.

That I believe. So far would no one go
Who was not forced to it. [After a pause.

What may have impell'd
Your princely Highness in this wise to act
Toward your Sovereign Lord and Emperor,
Beseems not us to expound or criticise.
The Swede is fighting for his good old cause,
With his good sword and conscience. This concur-
rence,
This opportunity, is in our favor,
And all advantages in war are lawful.
We take what offers without questioning ;
And if all have its due and just proportions — ■. —

WALLENSTEIN.

Of what then are ye doubting ? Of my will ?

Or of my power ? I pledged me to the Chancellor,

Would he trust me with sixteen thousand men,

That I would instantly go over to them

With eighteen thousand of the Emperor's troops.

WRANGEL.

Your Grace is known to be a mighty war-chief,
To be a second Attila and Pyrrhus.
'Tis talk'd of still with fresh astonishment,
How some years past, beyond all human faith,
You call'd an army forth, like a creation :
But yet

WALLENSTEIN.

But yet ?

WRANGEL.

But still the Chancellor thinks,
It might yet be an easier thing from nothing
To call forth sixty thousand men of battle,
Than to persuade one sixtieth part of them —

WALLENSTEIN.

What now ? Out with it, friend ?

WRANGEL.

To break their oaths.

WALLENSTEIN

And he thinks so 1 — He judges like a Swede,
And like a Protestant. You Lutherans
Fight for your Bible. You are interested
About the cause ; and with your hearts you follow
Your banners. — Among you, whoe'er deserts
To the enemy, hath broken covenant
With two Lords at one time. — We 've no such fan-
cies.

WRANGEL.

Great God in Heaven ! Have then the people here
No house and home, no fire-side, no altar ?

WALLENSTEIN.

I will explain that to you, how it stands : —
The Austrian has a country, ay, and loves it,
And has good cause to love it — but this army,
That calls itself the Imperial, this that houses
Here in Bohemia, this has none — no country ;
This is an outcast of all foreign lands,
Unclaim'd by town or tribe, to whom belongs
Nothing, except the universal sun.

WRANGEL.

But then the Nobles and the Officers ?
Such a desertion, such a felony,
It is without example, my Lord Duke,
In the world's history.

WALLENSTEIN.

They are all mine —
Mine unconditionally — mine on all terms.
P2

Not me, your own eyes you must trust.

[He gives him the paper containing the written
oath. Wrangel reads it through, and, having
read it, lays it on the table, remaining silent.
So then ?
Now comprehend you ?

WRANGEL.

Comprehend who can !
My Lord Duke ; I will let the mask drop — yes !
I 've full powers for a final settlement
The Rhinegrave stands but four days' march from

here
With fifteen thousand men, and only wraits
For orders to proceed and join your army
Those orders / give out, immediately
We're compromised.

WALLENSTEIN

What asks the Chancellor ?
wrangel (considerately). .
Twelve regiments, every man a Swede — my head
The warranty — and all might prove at last

Only false play

wallenstein (starting).

Sir Swede !

wrangel (calmly proceeding).

Am therefore forced
T' insist thereon, that he do formally,
Irrevocably break with the Emperor,
Else not a Swede is trusted to Duke Friedland.

WALLENSTEIN.

Come, brief, and open ! What is the demand ?

WRANGEL.

That he forthwith disarm the Spanish regiments
Attach'd to the Emperor, that he seize Prague,
And to the Swedes give up that city, with
The strong pass Egra.

WALLENSTEIN.

That is much indeed !

Prague! — Egra's granted — But — but Prague! —

'T won't do.
I give you every security

Which you may ask of me in common reason —
But Prague — Bohemia — these, Sir General,
I can myself protect.

WRANGEL.

We doubt it not.
But 'tis not the protection that is now
Our sole concern. We want security,
That we shall not expend our men and money
All to no purpose.

WALLENSTEIN,

'Tis but reasonable.

WRANGEL.

And till we are indemnified, so long
Stays Prague in pledge.

WALLENSTEIN

Then trust you us so little ?
wrangel (rising).
The Swede, if he would treat well with the German.
Must keep a sharp look-out. We have been call'd
Over the Baltic, we have saved the empire
From ruin — with our best blood have we seal'd
The liberty of faith, and gospel truth.
But now already is the benefaction

No longer felt, the load alone is felt,

Ye look askance with evil eye upon us,
As foreigners, intruders in the empire,
* 67

158

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

And would fain send us, with some paltry sum
Of money, home again to our old forests.
No, no ! my Lord Duke ! no ! — it never was
For Judas' pay, for chinking gold and silver,
That we did leave our King by the Great Stone.*
No, not for gold and silver have there bled
So many of our Swedish Nobles — neither
Will we, with empty laurels for our payment,
Hoist sail for our own country. Citizens
Will we remain upon the soil, the which
Our Monarch conquer'd for himself, and died.

WALLENSTEIN.

Help to keep down the common enemy,
And the fair border-land must needs be yours.

WRANGEL.

But when the common enemy lies vanquish'd,

Who knits together our new friendship then ?

We know, Duke Friedland. though perhaps the Swede

Ought not f have known it, that you carry on

Secret negotiations with the Saxons.

Who is our warranty, that we are not

The sacrifices in those articles

Which 'tis thought needful to conceal from us?

WALLENSTEIN (rises).

Think you of something better, Gustave Wrangel !
Of Prague no more.

WRANGEL.

Here my commission ends.

WALLENSTEIN.

Surrender up to you my capital !

Far liever would I face about, and step

Back to my Emperor.

WRANGEL.

If time yet permits

WALLENSTEIN.

That lies with me, even now, at any hour.

WRANGEL.

Some days ago, perhaps. To-day, no longer ;
No longer since Sesina 's been a prisoner.

[wallenstein is struck, and silenced.
My Lord Duke, hear me — We believe that you
At present do mean honorably by us.
Since yesterday we 're sure of that — and now
This paper warrants for the troops, there 's nothing
Stands in the way of our full confidence.
Prague shall not part us. Hear ! The Chancellor
Contents himself with Albstadt ; to your Grace
He gives up Ratschin and the narrow side.
But Egra above all must open to us,
Ere we can think of any junction.

WALLENSTEIN.

You,

You therefore must I trust, and you not me ?
I will consider of your proposition.

WRANGEL.

I must entreat, that your consideration
Occupy not too long a time. Already
Has this negotiation, my Lord Duke !
Crept on into the second year. If nothing
Is settled this time, will the Chancellor
Consider it as broken off for ever.

* A great stone near Liitzen, since called the Swede's Stone,
the body of their great king having been found at the foot of it,
after the ijatde in which he lost his life.

WALLENSTEIN.

Ye press me hard. A measure, such as this,
Ought to be thought of.

WRANGEL.

Ay ! but think of this too.
That sudden action only can procure it
Success — think first of this, your Highness.

[Exit Wrangel

SCENE VI.
Wallenstein, Tertsky, and Illo (re-enter).

ILLO.

Is 'tall right?

TERTSKY.

Are you compromised ?

ILLO.

This Swede
Went smiling from you. Yes! you're compromised

WALLENSTEIN.

As yet is nothing settled : and (well weigh'd)
I feel myself inclined to leave it so.

TERTSKY.

How ? What was that ?

WALLENSTEIN.

Come on me what may come
The doing evil to avoid an evil
Can not be good !

TERTSKY.

Nay, but bethink you, Duke.

WALLENSTEIN.

To live upon the mercy of these Swedes !

Of these proud-hearted Swedes ! — I could not bear it

ILLO.

Goest thou as fugitive, as mendicant ?

Bringest thou not more to them than thou receivest

SCENE VII.

To these enter the Countess Tertsky.

WALLENSTEIN.

Who sent for you ? There is no business here
For women.

COUNTESS.

I am come to bid you joy.

WALLENSTEIN.

Use thy authority, Tertsky ; bid her go.

COUNTESS.

Come I perhaps too early ? I hope not.

WALLENSTEIN.

Set not this tongue upon me, I entreat you :
You know it is the weapon that destroys me.
I am routed, if a woman but attack me : '
I cannot traffic in the trade of words
With that unreasoning sex.

COUNTESS.

I had already
Given the Bohemians a king.

wallenstein (sarcastically).

They have one,
In consequence, no doubt.

countess (to the others).

Ha ! what new scruple 1
tertsky.
The Duke will not.

168

THE PICCOLOMINI.

15JJ

COUNTESS.

lie will not what he must !

ILLO.

It lies with you now. Try. For I am silenced,
When folks begin to talk to me of conscience,
And of fidelity.

COUNTESS.

How ? then, when all
Lay in the far-off distance, when the road
Stretch'd out before thine eyes interminably,
Then hadst thou courage and resolve ; and now,
Now that the dream is being realized,
The purpose ripe, the issue ascertain'd,
Dost thou begin to play the dastard now ?
Plann'd merely, 'tis a common felony ;
Accomplish'd, an immortal undertaking :
And with success comes pardon hand in hand ;
For all event is God's arbitrament.

servant (enters).
The Colonel Piccolomini.

countess (hastily).

— Must wait

WALLENSTEIN.

I cannot see him now. Another time.

SERVANT.

But for two minutes he entreats an audience :
Of the most urgent nature is his business.

WALLENSTEIN.

Who knows what he may bring us ! I will hear him,

countess (laughs).
Urgent for him, no doubi ; out thou may est wait.

WALLENSTEIN.

What is it ?

COUNTESS.

Thou shalt be inform'd hereafter.
First let the Swede and thee be compromised.

[Exit Servant.

WALLENSTEIN.

II there were yet a choice ! if yet some milder
Way of escape were possible — I still

Will choose it, and avoid the last extreme.

COUNTESS.

Desirest thou nothing further ? Such a way

Lies still before thee. Send this Wrangel off

Forget thou thy old hopes, cast far away

All thy past life ; determine to commence

A new one. Virtue hath her heroes too,

As well as Fame and Fortune. — To Vienna —

Hence — to the Emperor — kneel before the throne ;

Take a full coffer with thee — say aloud,

Thou didst but wish to prove thy fealty ;

Thy whole intention but to dupe the Swede.

ILLO.

For that too 't is too late. They know too much :
He wouid but bear his own head to the block.

COUNTESS.

1 fear not that They have not evidence

To attaint him legally, and they avoid

The avowal of an arbitrary power.

They '11 let the Duke resign without disturbance.

I see how all will end. The King of Hungary

Makes his appearance, and 'twill of itself

Be understood, that then the Duke retires,

There will not want a formal declaration :

The young king will administer the oath

To the whole army ; and so all returns

To the old position. On some morrow morning

The Duke departs ; and now 't is stir and bustle

Within his castles. He will hunt, and build ,

Superintend his horses' pedigrees,

Creates himself a court, gives golden keys,

And introduceth strictest ceremony

In fine proportions, and nice etiquette ;

Keeps open table with high cheer ; in brief,

Commenceth mighty King — in miniature.

And while he prudently demeans himself,

And gives himself no actual importance,

He will be let appear whate'er he likes :

And who dares doubt, that Friedland will appear

A mighty Prince to his last dying hour ?

Well now, what then ? Duke Friedland is as others

A fire-new Noble, whom the war hath raised

To price and currency, a Jonah's gourd,

An over-night creation of court-favor,

Which with an undistinguishable ease

Makes Baron or makes Prince.

wallenstein (in extreme agitation)

Take her away.
Let in the young Count Piccolomini.

COUNTESS.

Art thou in earnest ? I entreat thee ! Canst thot
Consent to bear thyself to thy own grave
So ignominiously to be dried up ?
Thy life, that arrogated such a height,
To end in such a nothing ! To be nothing,
When one was always nothing, is an evil
That asks no stretch of patience, a light evil ;
But to become a nothing, having been

wallenstein (starts up in violent agitation).
Show me a way out of this stifling crowd.
Ye Powers of Aidance ! Show me such a way
As I am capable of going. — I
Am no tongue-hero, no fine virtue-prattler ;
I cannot warm by thinking ; cannot say
To the good luck that turns her back upon me,
Magnanimously : " Go ; I need thee not."
Cease I to work, I am annihilated.
Dangers nor sacrifices will I shun,
If so I may avoid the last extreme ; '
But ere I sink down into nothingness,
Leave off so little, who began so great,
Ere that the world confuses me with those
Poor wretches, whom a day creates and crumbles,
This age and after ages* speak my name
With hate and dread ; and Friedland be redemption
For each accursed deed !

COUNTESS.

What is there here, then.
So against nature ? Help me to perceive it !
O let not Superstition's nightly goblins
Subdue thy clear bright spirit ! Art thou bid
To murder ? — with abhorr'd accursed poniard,
To violate the breasts that nourish'd thee ?
That were against our nature, that might aptly
Make thy flesh shudder, and thy whole heart sicken.}

* Could 1 have hazarded such a Germanism, a<9 the use of
the word after-world, for posterity, ••" Es spreche Welt und
Nach welt meinen Namen" — might have been rendered with
more literal fidelity : — Let world ana after-world speak out my
name, etc.

1 1 have not ventured to affront the fastidious delicacy of >ur
age with the literal translation of this line,

werth
Die Eingevveide schaudcrnd auf/.uregon

16<1

160

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

Yet not a few, and for a meaner object,
\Iave ventured even this, ay, and perform'd it.
What is there in thy case so black and monstrous ?
Thou art accused of treason — whether with
Or without justice is not now the question —
Thou art lost if thou dost not avail thee quickly
Of the power which thou possessest— Friedland ! Duke !
Tell me, where lives that thing so meek and tame,
That doth not all his living faculties
Put forth in preservation of his life !
What deed so daring, which necessity
And desperation will not sanctify ?

WALLENSTEIN.

Once was this Ferdinand so gracious to me :

He loved me ; he esteem'd me ; I was placed

The nearest to his heart. Full many a time

We, like familiar friends, both at one table,

Have banqueted together. He and I —

And the young kings themselves held me the basin

Wherewith to wash me — and is 't come to this ?

COUNTESS.

So faithfully preservest thou each small favor,

And hast no memory for contumelies ?

Must I remind thee, how at Regensburg

This man repaid thy faithful services ?

All ranks and all conditions in the empire

Thou hadst wrong'd, to make him great, — hadst

loaded on thee,
On thee, the hate, the curse of the whole world.
No friend existed for thee in all Germany,
And why ! because thou hadst existed only
For the Emperor. To the Emperor alone
Clung Friedland in that storm which gather'd round

him
At Regensburg in the Diet — and he dropp'd thee !
He let thee fall ! He let thee fall a victim
To the Bavarian, to that insolent !
Deposed, stript bare of all thy dignity
And power, amid the taunting of thy foes,
Thou wert let drop into obscurity. —
Say not, the restoration of thy honor
Has made atonement for that first injustice.
No honest good-will was it that replaced thee ;
The law of hard necessity replaced thee,
Which they had fain opposed, but that they could not.

WALLENSTEIN.

Not to their good wishes, that is certain,
Nor yet to his affection, I 'm indebted
For this high office ; and if I abuse it,
T shall therein abuse no confidence.

COUNTESS.

Affection ! confidence ! — They needed thee.

Necessity, impetuous remonstrant !

Who not with empty names, or shows of proxy,

Is served, who '11 have the thing and not the symbol,

Ever seeks out the greatest and the best,

And at the rudder places him, e'en though

She had been forced to take him from the rabble —

She, this Necessity, it was that placed thee

In this high office ; it was she that gave thee

Thy letters-patent of inauguration.

For, to the uttermost moment that they can,

This race still help themselves at cheapest rate

With slavish souls, with puppets ! At the approach

Of extreme peril, when a hollow image

Is found a hollow image and no more,

Then falls the power into the mighty hands

Of Nature, of the spirit giant-born,
Who listens only to himself, knows nothing
Of stipulations, duties, reverences,
And, like the emancipated force of fire,
Unmaster'd scorches, ere it reaches them,
Their fine-spun webs, their artificial policy.

WALLENSTEIN.

'Tis true ! they saw me always as I am —
Always ! I did not cheat them in the bargain.
I never held it worth my pains to hide
The bold all-grasping habit of my soul.

COUNTESS.

Nay rather — thou hast ever shown thyself

A formidable man, without restraint ;

Hast exercised the full prerogatives

Of thy impetuous nature, which had been

Once granted to thee. Therefore, Duke, not thou,

Who hast still remain'd consistent with thyself,

But they are in the wrong, who fearing thee,

Intrusted such a power in hands they fear'd.

For, by the laws of Spirit, in the right

Is every individual character

That acts in strict consistence with itself.

Self-contradiction is the only wrong.

Wert thou another being, then, when thou

Eight years ago pursuedst thy march with fire

And sword, and desolation, through the Circles

Of Germany, the universal scourge,

Didst mock all ordinances of the empire,

The fearful rights of strength alone exertedst,

Trampledst to earth each rank, each magistracy,

All to extend thy Sultan's domination ?

Then was the time to break thee in, to curb

Thy haughty will, to teach thee ordinance.

But no, the Emperor felt no touch of conscience

WThat served him pleased him, and without a murmur

He stamp'd his broad seal on these lawless deeds.

Wnat at that time was right, because thou didst it

For him, to-day is all at once become

Opprobrious, foul, because it is directed

Against him. — O most flimsy superstition !

wallenstein {rising).
I never saw it in this light before.
'Tis even so. The Emperor perpetrated
Deeds through my arm, deeds most unorderly.
And even this prince's mantle, which I wear,
I owe to what were services to him,
But most high misdemeanors 'gainst the empire.

COUNTESS.

Then betwixt thee and him (confess it, Friedland .')
The point can be no more of right and duty,
Only of power and the opportunity.
That opportunity, lo ! it comes yonder
Approaching with swift steeds ; then with a swing
Throw thyself up into the chariot-seat,
Seize with firm hand the reins, ere thy opponent
Anticipate thee, and himself make conquest
Of the now empty seat. The moment comes j
It is already here, when thou must write
The absolute total of thy life's vast sum.
The constellations stand victorious o'er thee,
The planets shoot good fortune in fair junctions,
And tell thee, " Now's the time !" The starry course*
Hast thou thy life-long measured to no purpose ?
The quadrant and the circle, were they playthings *
[Pointing to the different objects in the room.
170

THE PICCOLOMINI.

161

The zodiacs, the rolling orbs of heaven,

Hast pictured on these walls, and all around thee

In dumb, foreboding symbols hast thou placed

These seven presiding Lords of Destiny —

For toys ? Is all this preparation nothing ?

Is there no marrow in this hollow art,

That even to thyself it doth avail

Nothing, and has no influence over thee

In the great moment of decision ?

wallenstein {during this last speech walks up and
down with inward struggles, laboring with passion ;
stops suddenly, stands still, then interrupting the
Countess).

Send Wrangel to me — I will instantly

Dispatch three couriers

illo (hurrying out).

God in heaven be praised !

W ALLEN STEIN.

It is his evil genius and mine.

Our evil genius.1 It chastises him

Through me, the instrument of his ambition ; r^

And I expect no less, than that Revenge

E'en now is whetting for my breast the poniard.

Who sows the serpent's teeth, let him not hope

To reap a joyous harvest. Every crime

Has, in the moment of its perpetration,

Its own avenging angel — dark misgiving,

An ominous sinking at the inmost heart.

He can no longer trust me — Then no longer

Can I retreat — so come that which must come. —

Still Destiny preserves its due relations :

The heart within us is its absolute

Vicegerent.

[To Tertsky.
Go, conduct you Gustave Wrangel
To my state-cabinet. — Myself will speak to
The couriers. — And dispatch immediately
A servant for Octavio Piccolomini.

[To the Countess, who cannot conceal her triumph.
No exultation ! woman, triumph not !
For jealous are the Powers of Destiny.
Joy premature, and shouts ere victory,
Encroach upon their rights and privileges.
We sow the seed, and they the growth determine.
[While he is making his exit, the curtain

ACT V.

SCENE I.

Scene, as in the preceding Act.

Wallenstein, Octavio Piccolomini.

wallenstein (coming forward in conversation).
He sends me word from Linz, that he lies sick ,•
But I have sure intelligence, that he
Secretes himself at Frauenberg with Galas.
Secure them both, and send them to me hither.
Remember, thou takest on thee the command
Of those same Spanish regiments, — constantly
Make preparation, and be never ready ;
And if they urge thee to draw out against me,
Still answer yes, and stand as thou wert fetter'd.
I know, that it is doing thee a service
To keep thee out of action in this business.
Thou lovest to linger on in fair appearances ;

Steps of extremity are not thy province,
Therefore have I sought out this part for thee.
Thou wilt this time be of most service to me
By thy inertness. The mean time, if fortune
Declare itself on my side, thou wilt know
What is to do.

Enter Max. Piccolomini.
Now go, Octavio.
This night must thou be off: take my own horses .
Him here I keep with me — make short farewell —
Trust me, I think we all shall meet again
In joy and thriving fortunes.

octavio (to his son).

I shall see you
Yet ere I go.

SCENE II.

Wallenstein, Max. Piccolomini.

max. (advances to him).
My General !

wallenstein.
That am I no longer, if
Thou stylest thyself the Emperor's officer

MAX.

Then thou wilt leave the army, General ?

wallenstein.
I have renounced the service of the Emperor.

MAX.

And thou wilt leave the army ?
wallenstein

Rather hope I
To bind it nearer still and faster to me.

[He seats himself
Yes, Max., I have delay'd to open it to thee,
Even till the hour of acting 'gins to strike.
Youth's fortunate feeling doth seize easily
The absolute right, yea, and a joy it is
To exercise the single apprehension
Where the sums square in proof;
But where it happens, that of two sure evils
One must be taken, where the heart not wholly
Brings itself back from out the strife of duties,
There 't is a blessing to have no election,
And blank necessity is grace and favor.
— This is now present : do not look behind thee,—
It can no more avail thee. Look thou forwards !
Think not ! judge not ! prepare thyself to act '
The Court — it hath determined on my ruin,
Therefore I will to be beforehand with them.
We '11 join the Swedes — right gallant fellows are

they,
And our good friends.

[He stops himself, expecting Piccolomini's answei .
I have ta'en thee by surprise Answer me not
I grant thee time to recollect tnyself.

[He rises, and retires to the back of the stage
Max. remains for d, long time motionless,
in a trance of excessive anguish. At his
first motion Wallenstein returns and
places himself before him.

MAX.

My General, this day thou makest me
Of age to speak in my own right and person,
For till this day I have been spared the trouble
To find out my own road. Thee have I fellow'd
171

f-

162

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

With most implicit unconditional faith,
Sure of the right path if I follow'd thee.
To-day, for the first time, dost thou refer
Me to myself, and forcest me to make
Election between thee and my own heart.

WALLENSTEIN,

Soft cradled thee thy Fortune till to-day ;
Thy duties thou couldst exercise in sport,
Indulge all lovely instincts, act for ever
With undivided heart. It can remain
No longer thus. Like enemies, the roads
Start from each other. Duties strive with duties.
Thou must needs choose thy party in the war
Which is now kindling 'twixt thy friend and him
Who is thy Emperor.

MAX.

War ! is that the name ?
War is as frightful as heaven's pestilence.
Yet it is good, is it heaven's will as that is.
Is that a good war, which against the Emperor
Thou wagest with the Emperor's own army ?
O God of heaven ! what a change is this !
Beseems it me to offer such persuasion
To thee, who like the fix'd star of the pole
Wert all 1 gazed at on life's trackless ocean ?
O ! what a rent thou makest in my heart !
The ingrain'd instinct of old reverence,
The holy habit of obediency,
Must I pluck live asunder from thy name ?
Nay, do not turn thy countenance upon me —
It always was as a god looking at me !
Duke Wallenstein, its power is not departed :
The senses still are in thy bonds, although.
Bleeding, the soul hath freed itself.

WALLENSTEIN.

Max., hear me.

O ! do it not, I pray thee, do it not !
There is a pure and noble soul within thee,
Knows not of this Tin blest, unlucky doing.
Thy will is chaste, it is thy fancy only
Which hath polluted thee — and innocence,
It will not let itself be driven away
From that world-awing aspect. Thou wilt not,
Thou canst not, end in this. It would reduce
All human creatures tp disloyalty
Against the nobleness of their own nature.
T will justify the vulgar misbelief,
Which holdeth nothing noble in free-will,
And trusts itself to impotence alone,
Made powerful only in an unknown power.

WALLENSTEIN.

The world will judge me sternly, I expect it.
Already have I said to my own self
All thou canst say to me. Who but avoids
The extreme, can he by going round avoid it ?
But here there is no choice. Yes— I must use
Or suffer violence — so stands the case,
There remains nothing possible but that.

MAX.

O that is never possible for thee !

'T is the last desperate resource of those

Cheap souls, to whom their honor, their good name

Is iheir poor saving; their last worthless keep,

Which having staked and lost, they stake themselves

In the mad rage of gaming. Thou art rich,

And glorious ; with an unpolluted heart

Thou canst make conquest of whate'er seems

highest !
But he, who once hath acted infamy,
Does nothing more in this world.

wallenstein (grasps his hand).

Calmly, Max. J
Much that is great and excellent will we
Perform together yet. And if we only
Stand on the height with dignity, 't is soon
Forgotten, Max., by what road we ascended.
Believe me, many a crown shines spotless now, %
That yet was deeply sullied in the winning.
To the evil spirit doth the earth belong,
Not to the good. All, that the powers divine
Send from above, are universal blessings :
Their light rejoices us, their air refreshes,
But never yet was man enrich'd by them :
In their eternal realm no property
Is to be struggled for — all there is general.
The jewel, the all-valued gold we win
From the deceiving Powers, depraved in nature
That dwell beneath the day and blessed sun-light
Not without sacrifices are they render'd
Propitious, and there lives no soul on earth
That e'er retired unsullied from their service,

MAX.

Whate'er is human, to the human being

Do I allow — and to the vehement

And striving spirit readily I pardon

The excess of action ; but to thee, my General 1

Above all others make I large concession.

For thou must move a world, and be the master —

He kills thee, who condemns thee to inaction

So be it then ! maintain thee in thy post

By violence. Resist the Emperor,

And if it must be, force with force repel .

I will not praise it, yet I can forgive it.

But not — not to the traitor — yes ! — the word

Is spoken out

Not to the traitor can I yield a pardon.
That is no mere excess ! that is no error
Of human nature — that is wholly different,
O that is black, black as the pit of hell !

[Wallenstein betrays a sudden agitation
Thou canst not hear it named, and wilt thou do it ?

0 turn back to thy duty. That thou canst,

1 hold it certain. Send me to Vienna :

I '11 make thy peace for thee with the Emperor.
He knows thee not. But I do know thee. He
Shall see thee, Duke ! with my unclouded eye,
And I bring back his confidence to thee.

wallenstein.
It is too late. Thou knowest not what has happen'd

MAX.

Were it too late, and were things gone so far,

That a crime only could prevent thy fall,

Then — fall ! fall honorably, even as thou stood'st.

Lose the command. Go from the stage of war.

Thou canst with splendor do it — do if too

With innocence. Thou hast lived much for others

At length live thou for thy own self. I follow thee

My destiny I never part from thine.

WALLENSTEIN.

It is too late ! Even now, while thou art losing
Thy words, one after the other are the mile-stones
Left fast behind by my post couriers,

172

THE PICCOLOMINI.

16b

Who bear the order on to Prague and Egra.

[Max. stands as convulsed, with a gesture and
countenance expressing the most intense an-
guish.

Yield thyself to it. We act as we are forced.

I cannot give assent to my own shame

And ruin. TJtcu — no — thou canst not forsake me !

So let us do, what must be done, with dignity,

With a firm step. What am I doing worse

Than did famed Caesar at the Rubicon,

When he the legions led against his country,

The which his country had deliver'd to him ?

HaTi he thrown down the sword, he had been lost,

As I were, if I but disarm'd myself.

I trace out something in me of his spirit ;

Give me his luck, that other thing I '11 bear.

[Max. quits him abruptly. Wallen stein, startled
and overpowered, continues looking after him,
and is still in this posture when Tertsky

SCENE III.

Wallenstein, Tertsky.

TERTSKY.

Max. Piccolomini just left you ?

WALLENSTEIN.

Where is Wrangel ?

TERTSKY.

He is already gone.

WALLENSTEIN.

In such a hurry ?

TERTSKY.

It is as if the earth had swallow'd him.

He had scarce left thee, when I went to seek him.

I wish'd some words with him — but he was gone.

How, when, and where, could no one tell me. Nay,

I half believe it was the devil himself;

A human cioamre could not so at once

Have vanish'd

illo (enters).
Is it true that thou wilt send
Octavio ?

TERTSKY.

How, Octavio ! Whither send him !

WALLENSTEIN.

He goes to Frauenberg, and will lead hither
The Spanish and Italian regiments.

ILLO.

No!

Nay, Heaven forbid ?

WALLENSTEIN.

And why should Heaven forbid ?

ILLO.

Him ! — that deceiver ! Wouldst thou trust to him
The soldiery ? Him wilt thou let slip from thee,
Now, in the very instant that decides us

TERTSKY.

Thou wilt not do this ! — No ! I pray thee, no !

WALLENSTEIN.

Ye are whimsical.

ILLO.

O but for this time, Duke,
Yield to our warning! Let him not depart.

WALLENSTEIN.

And why should I not trust him only this time,

Who have always trusted him? What, then, has

happen'd,
That I should lose my good opinion of him ?
In complaisance to your whims, not my own,
I must, forsooth, give up a rooted judgment.
Think not I am a woman. Having trusted him
E'en till to-day, to-day too will I trust him.

TERTSKY.

Must it be he — he only ? Send another.

WALLENSTEIN.

It must be he, whom I myself have chosen ;
He is well fitted for the business. Therefore
I gave it him.

ILLO.

Because he 's an Italian —
Therefore is he well fitted for the business !

WALLENSTEIN.

I know you love them not — nor sire nor son —

Because that I esteem them, love them — visibly

Esteem them, love them more than you and others,

E'en as they merit. Therefore are they eye- blights

Thorns in your foot-path. But your jealousies,

In what affect they me or my concerns ?

Are they the worse to me because you hate them?

Love or hate one another as you will,

I leave to each man his own moods and likings ;

Yet know the worth of each of you to me.

ILLO.

Von Questenberg, while he was here, was always
Lurking about with this Octavio.

WALLENSTEIN.

It happen'd with my knowledge and permission.

ILLO.

I know that secret messengers came to him
From Galas

WALLENSTEIN.

That's not true.

ILLO.

O thou art blind
With thy deep-seeing eyes !

WALLENSTEIN.

Thou wilt not shake
My faith for me — my faith, which founds itself
On the profoundest science. If 'tis false,
Then the whole science of the stars is false ;
For know, I have a pledge from Fate itself,
That he is the most faithful of my friends.

ILLO.

Hast thou a pledge, that this pledge is not false ?

WALLENSTEIN.

There exist moments in the life of man,
When he is nearer the great Soul of the woild
Than is man's custom, and possesses freely
The power of questioning his destiny :
And such a moment 'twas, when in the night
Before the action in the plains of Liitzen,
Leaning against a tree, thoughts crowding thoughts
I look'd out far upon the ominous plain.
My whole life, past and future, in this moment
Before my mind's eye glided in procession,
And to the destiny of the next morning
The spirit, fill'd with anxious presentiment,
Did knit the most removed futurity.
Then said I also to myself, " So many
Dost thou command. They follow all thy stars
And as on some great number set their All
Upon thy single head, and only man
23 '73

t64

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

The vessel of thy fortune. Yet a day-
Will come, when Destiny shall once more scatter
All these in many a several direction:
Few be they who will stand out faithful to thee."
I yearn'd to know which one was faithfullest
Of all, this camp included. Great. Destiny,
Give me a sign ! And he shall be the man,
Who, on the approaching morning, comes the first
To meet me with a token of his love :
And thinking this, I fell into a slumber.
Then midmost in the battle was I led
In spirit. Great the pressure and the tumult!
Then was my horse kill'd under me : I sank ;
And over me away all unconcernedly,
Drove horse and rider — and thus trod to pieces
I lay, and panted like a dying man ;
Then seized me suddenly a savior arm :
It was Octavio's — I awoke at once,
'Twas broad day, and Octavio stood before me.
" My brother," said he, " do not ride to-day
The dapple, as you 're wont ; but mount the horse
Which 1 have chosen for thee. Do it, brother !
In love to me. A strong dream warn'd me so."
It was the swiftness of this horse that snatch'd me
From the hot pursuit of Bannier's dragoons.
My cousin rode the dapple on that day,
And never more saw I or horse or rider.

ILLO.

That was a chance.

wallenstein (significantly).

There 's no such thing as chance.
In brief, 'tis sign'd and seal'd that this Octavio
Is my good angel — and now no word more.

[He is retiring.

TERTSKY.

This is my comfort — Max. remains our hostage.

ILLO.

And he shall never stir from here alive.

wallenstein (stops and turns himself round).
Are ye not like the women, who for ever
Only recur to their first word, although
One had been talking reason by the hour !
Know, that the human being's thoughts and deeds
Are not, like ocean billows, blindly moved.
The inner world, his microcosmus, is
The deep shaft, out of which they spring eternally.
They grow by certain laws, like the tree's fruit —
No juggling chance can metamorphose them.
Have I the human kernel first examined ?
Then I know, too, the future will and action.

SCENE IV.

Scene — A chamber in Piccolomini's Dwelling-House.

Octavio Piccolomini, Isolani, entering.

ISOLANI.

Here am I — Well ! who comes yet of the others 1

octavio (with an air of mystery).
But, first a word with you, Count Isolani.

isolani (assuming the same air of mystery).
Will it explode, ha ? — Is the Duke about
To make the attempt ? In me, friend, you may place
Full confidence. — Nay, put me to the proof.

octavio.
That may happen.

isolani.
Noble brother, I am
Not one of those men who in words are valiant,
And when it comes to action skulk away.
The Duke has acted towards me as a friend.

God knows it is so; and I owe him all

He may rely on my fidelity.

octavio.
That will be seen hereafter.

isolani.

Be on your guard-
All think not as I think ; and there are many .
Who still hold with the Court — yes, and they say
That those stolen signatures bind them to nothing

OCTAVIO.

I am rejoiced to hear it.

ISOLANI.

You rejoice !

OCTAVIO.

That the Emperor has yet such gallant servants,
And loving friends.

ISOLANI.

Nay, jeer not, I entreat you.
They ire no such worthless fellows, I assure you.

OCTAVIO.

I am assured already. God forbid

That I should jest ! — In very serious earnest,

I am rejoiced to see an honest cause

So strong.

ISOLANI.

The Devil! — what! — why, what means this
Are you not, then For what, then, am I here

OCTAVIO.

That you may make full declaration, whether
You will be call'd the friend or enemy
Of the Emperor.

isolani (with an air of defance).
That declaration, friend,
I '11 make to him in whom a right is placed
To put that question to me.

OCTAVIO.

Whether, Count,
That right is mine, this paper may instruct you.

isolani (stammering).
Why — why — what ! this is the Emperor's hand and
seal ! [Reads

" Whereas, the officers collectively
Throughout our army will obey the orders
Of the Lieutenant-general Piccolomini.

As from ourselves " Hem .' — Yes ! so ! — Yes '

yes! —
I — I give you joy, Lieutenant-general !

octavio.
And you submit you to the order ?
isolani.

But you have taken me so by surprise —

Time for reflection one must have

octavio.

Two minutes
isolani.

My God ! But then the case is

octavio.

Plain and simple
You must declare you, whether you determine
To act a treason 'gainst your Lord and Sovereign,
Or whether you will serve him faithfully.
174

THE PICCOLOMINI.

165

ISOLANI.

Treason ! — My God ! — But who talks then of treason ?

OCTAVIO.

That is the case. The Prince-duke is a traitor —

Means to lead over to the enemy

The Emperor's army. — Now, Count! — brief and

full-
Say, will you break your oath to the Emperor ?
Sell yourself to the enemy ? — Say, will you %

ISOLANI.

What mean you? I — I break my oath, d'ye say,

To his Imperial Majesty ?

Did I say so ?— -When, when have I said that ?

OCTAVIO.

You have not said it yet — not yet. This instant
I wait to hear, Count, whether you will say it.

ISOLANI.

Ay ! that delights me now, that you yourself
Bear witness for me that I never said so.

OCTAVIO.

And you renounce the Duke, then ?

ISOLANI.

If he 's planning
Treason — why, treason breaks all bonds asunder.

OCTAVIO.

And are determined, too, to fight against him 1

ISOLANI.

He has done me service — but if he 's a villain,
Perdition seize him! — All scores are rubb'd off

OCTAVIO.

I am rejoiced that you 're so well-disposed.
This rnght break oil in the utmost secrecy
With all the light-arm'd troops — it mast appear
As came the order from the Duke himself.
At Frauenberg 's the place of rendezvous ;
There will Count Galas give you further orders.

ISOLANI.

It shall be done. But you '11 remember me

With the Emperor — how well-disposed you found me.

OCTAVIO.

I will not fail to mention it honorably.

[Exit Isolani. A Servant enters.
What, Colonel Butler ! — Show him up.

isolani (returning).
Forgive me too my bearish ways, old father !
Lord God ! how should I know, then, what a great
Person I had before me ?

OCTAVIO.

No excuses !

ISOLANI.

I am a merry lad, and if at time
A rash word might escape me 'gainst the court
Amidst my wine — you know no harm was meant.

[Exit.

OCTAVIO.

You need not be uneasy on that score.
That has succeeded. Fortune favor us
With all the others only but as much !

SCENE V.
Octavio, Piccolomini, Butler.

BUTLER.

At your command, Lieutenant-General.

OCTAVIO.

Welcome, as honor'd friend and visitor

a

BUTLER.

You do me too much honor.

octavio (after both have seated themselves).
fou have not
Return'd the advances which I made you yesterday —
Misunderstood them, as mere empty forms.
That wish proceeded from my heart — I was
In earnest with you — for 'tis now a time
In which the honest should unite most closely.

BUTLER.

'Tis only the like-minded can unite.

OCTAVIO,

True ! and I name all honest men like-minded.

I never charge a man but with those acts

To which his character deliberately

Impels him ; for alas ! the violence

Of blind misunderstandings often thrusts

The veiy best of us from the right track.

You came through Frauenberg. Did the Count Galas

Say nothing to you ? Tell me. He 's my friend.

BUTLER.

His words were lost on me.

OCTAVIO.

It grieves me sorely,
To hear it : for his counsel was most wise.
I had myself the like to offer.

BUTLER.

Spare
Yourself the trouble — me th' embarrassment,
To have deserved so ill your good opinion.

OCTAVIO.

The time is precious — let us talk openly.
You know how matters stand here. Wallenstein
Meditates treason — I can tell you further —
He has committed treason ; but few hours
Have past, since he a covenant concluded
With the enemy. The messengers are now
Full on their way to Egra and to Prague.
To-morrow he intends to lead us over
To the enemy. But he deceives himself;
For Prudence wakes — the Emperor has still
Many and faithful friends here, and they stand
In closest union, mighty though unseen.
This manifesto sentences the Duke —
Recalls the obedience of the army from him,
And summons all the loyal, all the honest,
To join and recognize in me their leader.
Choose — will you share with us an honest cause ?
Or with the evil share an evil lot.

His lot is mine.

It is.

butler (rises).

OCTAVIO.

Is that your last resolve ?

BUTLER.

OCTAVIO.

Nay, but bethink you, Colonel Butler !
As yet you have time. Within my faithful breast
That rashly-utter'd word remains interr'd.
Recall it, Butler ! choose a better party :
You have not chosen the right one.
butler (going).

Any other
Commands for me, Lieutenant-General ?

OCTAVIO.

See your white hairs ! Recall that word !
175

I GO

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

BLTLER.

Farewell !

OCTAVIO.

What ? Would you draw this good and gallant sword
In such a cause ? Into a curse would you
Transform the gratitude which you have earn'd
By forty years' fidelity from Austria ?

butler (laughing with bitterness).
Gratitude from the House of Austria ! [He is going.
octavio (permits him to go as far as the door, then

calls after him).
Butler.

BUTLER.

What wish you ?

OCTAVIO.

How was 't with the Count ?

BUTLER.

Count what ?

octavio (coldly).
The title that you wish'd, I mean.
butler (starts in sudden passion).
Hell and damnation !

octavio (coldly).

You petition'd for it —
And your petition was repell'd — Was it so ?

BUTLER.

Your insolent scoff shall not go by unpunish'd.
Draw!

octavio.
Nay! your sword to 'ts sheath! and tell me calmly
How all that happen'd. I will not refuse you
Your satisfaction afterwards. — Calmly, Butler !

BUTLER.

Be the whole world acquainted with the weakness

For which I never can forgive myself.

Lieutenant-General ! Yes — I have ambition.

Ne'er was I able to endure contempt.

It stung me to the quick, that birth and title

Should have more weight than merit has in the army

I would fain not be meaner than my equal.

So in an evil hour I let myself

Be tempted to that measure — It was folly !

But yet so hard a penance it deserved not.

It might have been refused ; but wherefore barb

And venom the refusal with contempt ?

Why dash to earth and crush with heaviest scorn

The gray-hair'd man, the faithful veteran ?

Why to the baseness of his parentage

Refer him with such cruel roughness, only

Because he had a weak hour and forgot himself?

But Nature gives a sting e'en to the worm

Which wanton Power treads on in sport and insult.

OCTAVIO.

You must havp been calumniated. Guess you
The enemy, who did you this ill service ?

BUTLER.

Be 't who it will — a most low-hearted scoundrel,
Some vile court-minion must it be, some Spaniard,
Some young squire of some ancient family,
In whose light I may stand, some envious knave,
Stung to the soul by my fair self-earn'd honors !

OCTAVIO.

But tell me ! Did the Duke approve that measure ?

BUTLER.

Himself impell'd me to it, used his interest

In my behalf with all the warmth of friendship.

OCTAVIO.

Ay ? are you sure of that ?

BUTLER.

I read the letter

OCTAVIO.

And so did I — but the contents were different.

[Butler is suddenly struck
By chance I 'm in possession of that letter —
Can leave it to your own eyes to convince you.

{He gives him the letter

BUTLER.

Ha ! what is this ?

OCTAVIO.

I fear me, Colonel Butler,
An infamous game have they been playing with you
The Duke, you say, impell'd you to this measure ?
Now, in this letter talks he in contempt
Concerning you, counsels the minister
To give sound chastisement to your conceit,
For so he calls it.

[Butler reads through the letter, his knees tremble
he seizes a chair, and sinks down in it.
You have no enemy, no persecutor ;
There 's no one wishes ill to you. Ascribe
The insult you received to the Duke only.
His aim is clear and palpable. He wish'd '
To tear you from your Emperor — he hoped
To gain from your revenge what he well knew
(What your long-tried fidelity convinced him)
He ne'er could dare expect from your calm reason
A blind tool would he make you, in contempt
Use you, as means of most abandon'd ends.
He has gain'd his point. Too well has he succeeded
In luring you away from that good path
On which you had been journeying forty years !

Butler (his voice trembling).
Can e'er the Emperor's Majesty forgive me ?

OCTAVIO.

More than forgive you. He would fain compensate
For that affront, and most unmerited grievance
Sustain'd by a deserving, gallant veteran.
From his free impulse he confirms the present,
Which the Duke made you for a wicked purpose.
The regiment, which you now command, is your's.
[Butler attempts to rise, sinks down again. He
labors inwardly with violent emotions ; tries
to speak, and cannot. At length he takes his
sword from the belt, and offers it to Picco-

LOM1NI.

OCTAVIO.

What wish you? Recollect yourself, friend.

BUTLER.

OCTAVIO.

But to what purpose ? Calm yourse1^

Take it

O take it ,

I am no longer worthy of this sword.

OCTAVIO.

Receive it then anew from my hands — and
Wear it with honor for the right cause ever

BUTLER.

Perjure myself to such a gracious Sovereign

OCTAVIO.

You '11 make amends. Quick ! break off from the Duke
176

THE PICCOLOMINL

67

Break off from him !

OCTAVIO.

What now ? Bethink thyself.
butler (no longer governing his emotion).
Only break off from him ? He dies ! he dies !

OCTAVIO.

Come after me to Frauenberg, where now
All who are loyal, are assembling under
Counts Altringer and Galas. Many others
I 've brought to a remembrance of their duty.
Tins night be sure that you escape from Pilsen.

butler (strides up and down in excessive agitation,
then steps up to Octavio with resolved countenance).
Count Piccolomini ! Dare that man speak
Of honor to you, who once broke his troth ?

OCTAVIO.

He, who repents so deeply of it, dares.

BUTLER.

Then leave me here, upon my word of honor !

OCTAVIO.

What 's your design ?

BUTLER.

Leave me and my regiment.

OCTAVIO.

I have full confidence in you. But tell me
What are you brooding ?

B'JTLER.

That the deed will tell you.
Ask me no more at present. Trust to me.
Ye may trust safely. By the living God
Ye give him over, not to his good angel !
Farewell. [Exit Butler,

servant {enters with a billet).
A stranger left it, and is gone.
The Prince-duke's horses wait for you below.

[Exit Servant.
octavio (reads).
" Be sure make haste ! Your faithful Isolan."
— O that I had but left this town behind me,
To split upon a rock so near the haven ! —
Away ! This is no longer a safe place for me !
Where can my son be tarrying ?

SCENE VI.

Octavio and Max. Piccolomini.

Max. enters almost in a state of derangement from
extreme agitation, his eyes roll wildly, his walk is
unsteady, and he appears not to observe his father,
who stands at a distance, and gazes at him with a
countenance expressive of compassion. He paces
viifh long strides through the chamber, then stands
still again, and at last throws himself into a chair,
staring vacantly at the object directly before him.

octavio (advances to him).
I am going off, my son.

[Receiving no answer, he takes his hand.
My son, farewell.
max.
Farewell.

OCTAVIO.

Thou wilt soon follow me ?

I follow thee I
Thy way is crooked — it is not my way.

[Octavio drops Ms hand, and starts back
O, hadst thou been but simple and sincere,
Ne'er had it come to this — all had stood otherwise.
He had not done that foul and horrible deed :
The virtuous had retain'd their influence o'er him :
He had not fallen into the snares of villains.
Wherefore so like a thief, and thief's accomplice,
Didst creep behind him — lurking for thy prey ?
O, unblest falsehood ! Mother of all evil !
Thou misery-making demon, it is thou
That sink'st us in perdition. Simple truth,
Sustainer of the world, had saved us all !
Father, I will not, I can not excuse thee !
Wallenstein has deceived me — O, most foully !
But thou hast acted not much better.

OCTAVIO.

Son!
My son, ah ! I forgive thy agony !

max. (rises, and contemplates his father with looks of

suspicion).
Was 't possible ? hadst thou the heart, my father,
Hadst thou the heart to drive it to such lengths,
With cold premeditated purpose ? Thou —
Hadst thou the heart, to wish to see him guilty,
Rather than saved ? Thou risest by his fall.
Octavio, 't will not please me.

OCTAVIO.

God in Heaven !

MAX.

O, woe is me ! sure I have changed my nature.
How comes suspicion here — in the free soul ?
Hope, confidence, belief, are gone ; for all
Lied to me, all that I e'er loved or honor'd.
No ! no ! not all ! She — she yet lives for me,
And she is true, and open as the heavens !
Deceit is everywhere, hypocrisy,
Murder, and poisoning, treason, perjury :
The single holy spot is our love,
The only unprofaned in human nature.

OCTAVIO.

Max.! — we will go together. 'Twill be better.

MAX.

What ? ere I 've taken a last parting leave,
The very last — no, never!

OCTAVIO.

Spare thyself
The pang of necessary separation.
Come with me ! Come, my son !

[Attempts to lake him with him,

MAX.

No ! as sure as God lives, no !

octavio (more urgently).
Come with me, I command thee ! I, thy father.

MAX.

Command me what is human. I stay here.

octavio.
Max.! in the Emperor's name I bid thee come.

MAX.

No Emperor has power to prescribe
Laws to the hearl ; and vvouldst thou wish to rob me
Of the sole blessing which my fate has left me.
Her sympathy ? Must then a cruel deed
Be done with cruelty ? The unalierable
177

168

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

Shall I perform ignobly — steal away,
With stealthy coward flight forsake her ? No !
She shall behold my suffering, my sore anguish,
Hear the complaints of the disparted soul,
4nd weep tears o'er me. Oh ! the human race
Have steely souls — but she is as an angel.
From the black deadly madness of despair
Will she redeem my soul, and in soft words
Of comfort, plaining, loose this pang of death !

OCTAVIO.

Thou wilt not tear thyself away ; thou canst not
O, come, my son ! I bid thee save thy virtue.

MAX.

Squander not thou thy words in vain.
The heart I follow, for I. dare trust to it.

octavio {trembling, and losing all self-command).
Max. ! Max. ! if that most damned thing could be,
If thou — my son — my own blood — (dare I think it?)
Do sell thyself to him, the infamous,
Do stamp this brand upon our noble house,
Then shall the world behold the horrible deed,
And in unnatural combat shall the steel
Of the son trickle with the father's blood.

MAX.

O hadst thou always better thought of men,
Thou hadst then acted better. Curst suspicion !
Unholy, miserable doubt! To him
Nothing on earth remains unwrench'd and firm,
Who has no faith.

OCTAVIO.

And if I trust thy heart,
Will it be always in thy power to follow it ?

MAX.

The heart's voice thou hast not o'erpower'd — as litt '
Will Wallenstein be able to o'erpower it.

OCTAVIO.

0, Max.! I see thee never more again !

MAX.

Unworthy of thee wilt thou never see me

OCTAVIO.

I go to Frauenberg — the Pappenheimere

I leave thee here, the Lothrings too ; Toskana

And Tiefenbach remain here to protect thee.

They love thee, and are faithful to their oath,

And will far rather fall in gallant contest

Than leave their rightful leader, and their honor.

MAX.

Rely on this, I either leave my life

In the struggle, or conduct them out of Pilsen.

OCTAVIO.

Farewell, my son !

MAX.

Farewell !

OCTAVIO.

How ! not one look
Of filial love ? No grasp of the hand at parting \
It is a bloody war to which we are going,
And the event uncertain and in darkness.
So used we not to part — it was not so !
I3 it then true ? I have a son no longer ?

[Max. falls into his arms, they hold each other
for a long time in a speechless embrace,
then go away at different sides.
{The Curtain drops).

SCtie Heatfi of 8Z?aUeti0ttltk ;

A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.

PREFACE.

The Uxo Dramas, Piccolomini, or the first part of
Wallenstein, and Wallenstein, are introduced in
the original manuscript by a Prelude in one Act, en-
titled Wallenstein's Camp. This is written in
rhyme, and in nine-syllable verse, in the same lilting
metre (if that expression may be permitted) with the
second Eclogue of Spencer's Shepherd's Calendar.

This Prelude possesses a sort of broad humor, and
is not deficient in character ; but to have translated
it into prose, or into any other metre than that of the
original, would have given a false idea both of its
style and purport ; to have translated it into the same
metre would been incompatible with a faithful ad-
herence to the sense of the German, from the com-
parative poverty of our language in rhymes ; and it
would have been unadvisable, from the incongruity
of those lax verses with the present taste of the
English Public. Schiller's intention seems to have
been merely to have prepared his reader for the
Tragedies by a lively picture of the laxity of dis-
cipline, and the mutinous dispositions of Wallen-
stein's soldiery. It is not necessary as a preliminary

explanation. For these reasons it has been thought
expedient not to translate it.

The admirers of Schiller, who have abstracted
their idea of that author from the Robbers, and the
Cabal and Love, plays in which the main interest is
produced by the excitement of curiosity, and in
which the curiosity is excited by terrible and extra-
ordinary incident, will not have perused without
some portion of disappointment the Dramas, which
it has been my employment to translate. They
should, however, reflect that these a^e Historical
Dramas, taken from a popular German History ; that
we must therefore judge of them in some measure
with the feelings of Germans ; or by analogy, with
the interest excited in us by similar Dramas in our
own language. Few, I trust, would be rash or ignorant
enough to compare Schiller with Shakspeare ; yet,
merely as illustration, I would say that we should
proceed to the perusal of Wallenstein, not from Lear
or Othello, but from Richard the Second, or the tl j-ee
parts of Henry the Sixth. We scarcely expect rapid-
ity in an Historical Drama ; and many prolix speeches
are pardoned from characters, whose names and ac-
tions have formed the most amusing tales of our early
life. On the other hand, there exist in these plays

178

THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN.

ICO

more individua- beauties, more passages whose ex-
cellence will bear reflection, than in the former pro-
ductions of Schiller. The description of the Astro-
logical Tower, and the reflections of the Young
Lover, which follow it, form in the original a fine
poem ; and my translation must have been wretched
indeed, if it can have wholly overclouded the beauties
of the Scene in the first Act of the first Play between
Questenberg, Max., and Octavio Piccolomini. If we
except the Scene of the setting sun in the Robbers,
I know of no part in Schiller's Plays which equals
the whole of the first Scene of the fifth Act of the
concluding Play. It would be unbecoming in me to
be more diffuse on this subject. A translator stands
connected with the original Author by a certain law
of subordination, which makes it more decorous to
point out excellencies than defects : indeed he is not
likely to be a fair judge of either. The pleasure or
disgust from his own labor will mingle with the
feelings that arise from an after-view of the original,
Even in the first perusal of a work in any foreign
language which we understand, we are apt to at-
tribute to it more excellence than it really possesses,
from our own pleasurable sense of difficulty over-
come without effort. Translation of poetry into poetry
is difficult, because the translator must give a bril-
liancy to his language without that warmth of original
conception, from which such brilliancy vould follow
of its own accord. But the Translator of a living
Author is encumbered with additional inconveni-
ences. If he render his original faithfully, as to the
sense of each passage, he must necessarily destroy a
considerable portion of the spirit ; if he endeavor to
give a work executed according to laws of compensa-
tion, he subjects himself to imputations of vanity, or
misrepresentation. I have thought it my duty to re-
main bound by the sense of my original, with as few
exceptions as the nature of the languages rendered

DRAMATIS PERSONS.

THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Scene — A Chamber in the House of the Duchess of
Friedland.

Countess Tertsky, Thekla, Lady Neubrunn {the
two latter sit at the same table at work).

countess (watching them from the opposite side)
So you have nothing to ask me — nothing ?
I have been waiting for a word from you.
And could you then endure in all this time
Not once to speak his name ?

[Thekla remaining silent, the Countess rises
and advances to her.

Why, how comes this ?
Perhaps I am already grown superfluous,
And other ways exist, besides through me ?
Confess it to me, Thekla ; have you seen him ?

THEKLA.

To-day and yesterday I have not seen him.

COUNTESS.

And not heard from him, either ? Come, be open.

No syllable.

I am.

COUNTESS.

And still you are so calm ?

THEKLA.
COUNTESS.

May't please you, leave us, Lady Neubrunn.
[Exit Lady Neubrunn

Wallenstein, Dulce of Friedland, Generalissimo of
the Imperial forces in the Thirty-years' War.

Duchess of Friedland, Wife of Wallenstein.

Thekla, her Daughter, Princess of Friedland.

The Countess Tertsky, Sister of the Duchess.

Lady Neubrunn.

Octavio Piccolomini, Lieutenant-General.

Max. Piccolomini, his Son, Colonel of a Regiment
of Cuirassiers.

Coukt Tertsky, the Commander of several Regi-
ments, and Brother-in-law of Wallenstein.

Illo, Field Marshal, Wallenslein's Confidant.

Butler, an Irishman, Commander of a Regiment of
Dragoons.

Gordon, Governor of Egra.

Major Geraldin.

Captain Devereux.

Macdonald.

Neumann, Captain of Cavalry, Aid-de-camp to Terlslcy.

Swedish Captain.

Sen i.

Burgomaster of Egra.

Anspessade of the Cuirassiers.

Groom of the Chamber, ) „ T . T _ 7

A Pagf i Belonging to the Duke.

Cuirassiers, Dragoons, Servants
a2

SCENE II.

The Countess, Thekla.

countess.
It does not please me, Princess, that he holds
Himself so still, exactly at this time.

thekla.
Exactly at this time ?

COUNTESS.

He now knows all :
'Twere now the moment to declare himself.

THEKLA.

If I 'm to understand you, speak less darkly.

COUNTESS.

Twas for that purpose that I bade her leave us.

Thelka, you are no more a child. Your heart

Is now no more in nonage : for you love,

And boldness dwells with love — thai you have proved

Your nature moulds itself upon your father's

More than your mother's spirit. Therefore may yoii

Hear, what were too much for her fortitude.

THEKLA.

Enough : no further preface, I entreat you
At once, out with it ! Be it what it may,
It is not possible that it should torture me
More thai* this introduction. What have you
To say to me ? Tell me the whole, and briefly

COUNTESS.

You'll not be frighten'd

119

170

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

THEKLA.

Name it, I entreat you.

COUNTESS.

[t lies within your power to do your father
A weighty service

THEKLA.

Lies within my power ?

COUNTESS.

Max. Piccolomini loves you. You can link him
Indissolubly to your father.

THEKLA.

I?

What need of me for that ? And is he not
Already link'd to him ?

COUNTESS

He was.

THEKLA.

And wherefore
Should he not be so now — not be so always ?

COUNTESS.

He cleaves to the Emperor too.

THEKLA.

Not more than duty
And honor may demand of him.

COUNTESS.

We ask
Proofs of his love, and not proofs of his honor.
Duty and honor !

Those are ambiguous words with many meanings.
You should interpret them for him : his love
Should be the sole deiiner of his honor.

THEKLA.

How?

COUNTESS.

The Emperor or you must he renounce.

THEKLA.

He will accompany my father gladly

In his retirement. From himself you heard,

How much he wish'd to lay aside the sword.

COUNTESS.

He must not lay the sword aside, we mean ;
He must unsheathe it in your father's cause.

THEKLA.

He '11 spend with gladness and alacrity

His life, his heart's-blood in my father's cause,

If shame or injury be intended him.

COUNTESS.

You will not understand me Well, hear then : —
Your father has fallen off from the Emperor,
And is about to join the enemy
WTith the whole soldiery

THEKLA.

Alas, my mother !

COUNTESS.

There needs a great example to draw on
The army after him. The Piccolomini
Possess the love and reverence of the troops ;
They govern all opinions, and wherever
They lead the way, none hesitate to follow.
The son secures the father to our interests —
You've much in your hands at this moment.

THEKLA.

Ah.

My miserable mother ! what a death-stroke
■Awaits thee ! — No ! she never will survive it.

COUNTESS.

She will accommodate her soul to that

Which is and must be. I do know your mother

The far-off future weighs upon her heart

With torture of anxiety ; but is it

Unalterably, actually present,

She soon resigns herself, and bears it calmly.

THEKLA.

0 my foreboding bosom ! Even now,

E'en now 'tis here, that icy hand of horror!
And my young hope lies shuddering in its grasp,

1 knew it well — no sooner had I enter'd,
A heavy ominous presentiment

Reveal'd to me, that spirits of death were hoveling
Over my happy fortune. But why think I
First of myself? My mother! O my mother!

COUNTESS.

Calm yourself! Break not out in vain lamenting !
Preserve you for your father the firm friend,
And for yourself the lover, all will yet
Prove good and fortunate.

THEKLA.

Prove good ! WTiat good
Must we not part ? — part ne'er to meet again ?

COUNTESS.

He parts not from you ! He can not part from you

THEKLA.

Alas for his sore anguish ! It will rend
His heart asunder.

COUNTESS.

If indeed'he loves you
His resolution will be speedily taken.

THEKLA.

His resolution will be speedily taken —
O do not doubt of that ! A resolution !
Does there remain one to be taken ?

COUNTESS.

Hush !
Collect yourself! I hear your mother coming.

THEKLA.

How shall I bear to see her ?

COUNTESS.

Collect yourself.

SCENE HI.

To them enter the Duchess.

duchess (to the Countess).
Who was here, sister ? I heard some one talking,
And passionately too.

COUNTESS.

Nay ! There was no one.

DUCHESS.

I am grown so timorous, eveiy trifling noise
Scatters my spirits, and announces to me
The footstep of some messenger of evil.
And you can tell me, sister, what the event is •.
Will he agree to do the Emperor's pleasure,
And send the horse-regiments to the Cardinal?
Tell me, has he dismiss'd Von Questenberg
With a favorable answer ?

COUNTESS.

No, he has not.

DUCHESS.

Alas ! then all is lost ! I see it coming,
The worst that can come ! Yes, they v ill depose him
180

THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN.

171

The accursed business of the Regensburg diet
Will all be acted o'er again !

COUNTESS.

No! never!
Make your heart easy, sister, as to that.

[Thekla, in extreme agitation, throws herself upon
her mother and enfolds her in Iter arms, weeping.

DUCHESS.

Yes, my poor child!

Thou too hast lost a most affectionate godmother

In the Empress. O that stern unbending man !

In this unhappy marriage what have I

Not suffer'd, not endured ? For even as if

I had been link'd on to some wheel of fire

That restless, ceaseless, whirls impetuous onward,

I have pass'd a life of frights and horrors with him,

And ever to the brink of some abyss

With dizzy headlong violence he whirls me.

Nay, do not weep, my child ! Let not my sufferings

Presignify unhappiness to thee, "

Nor blacken with their shade the fate that waits thee.

There lives no second Friedland : thou, my child,

Hast not to fear thy mother's destiny.

THEKLA.

0 let us supplicate him, dearest mother !
Quick ! quick ! here 's no abiding-place for us.
Here every coming hour broods into life
Some new affrightful monster.

DUCHESS.

Thou wilt share
An easier, calmer lot, my child ! We too,

1 and thy father, witness'd happy days.

Still think I with delight of those first years,

When he was making progress with glad effort,

When his ambition was a genial fire,

Not that consuming flame which now it is.

The Emperor loved him, trusted him : and all

He undertook could not but be successful.

But since that ill-starr'd day at Regensburg,

Which plunged him headlong from his dignity,

A gloomy uncompanionable spirit,

Unsteady and suspicious, has possess'd him.

His quiet mind forsook him, and no longer

Did he yield up himself in joy and faith

To his old luck, and individual power ;

But thenceforth turn'd his heart and best affections

All to those cloudy sciences, which never

Have yet made happy him who follow'd them.

COUNTESS.

You see it, sister ! as your eyes permit you.

But surely this is not the conversation

To pass the time in which we are waiting for him.

You know he will be soon here. Would you have

him
Find her in this condition ?

DUCHESS.

Come, my child !
Come wipe avsay thy tears, and show thy father
A cheerful countenance. See, the tie-knot here
Is off— this hair must not hang so dishevell'd.
Come, dearest! dry thy tears up. They deform
Thy gentle eye.— Well now— what was I saying ?
Yos, in good truth, this Piccolomini
Is a most noble and deserving gentleman.

COUNTESS.

That is he, sister !

thekla (to the Countfss, with marks of great oppres
sion of spirits).
Aunt, you will excuse me ? (Is going)

COUNTESS.

But whither ? See, your father comes.

thekla.
I cannot see him now.

COUNTESS.

Nay, but bethink you.

THEKLA.

Believe me, I cannot sustain his presence.

COUNTESS.

But he will miss you, will ask after you.

DUCHESS.

What now ? Why is she going ?

COUNTESS.

She 's not well.
duchess (anxiously).
What ails then my beloved child ?

[Both follow the Princess, and endeavor to detain
her. During this Wallenstein appears, engaged
in conversation with Illo.

SCENE IV.
Wallenstein, Illo, Countess, Duchess, Thekla.

wallenstein.
All quiet in the camp ?

illo.

It is all quiet.

wallenstein.
In a few hours may couriers come from Praguo
With tidings, that this capital is ours.
Then we may drop the mask, and to the troops
Assembled in this town make known the measure
And its result together. In such cases
Example does the whole. Whoever is foremost
Still leads the herd. An imitative creature
Is man. The troops at Prague conceive no other,
Than that the Pilsen army has gone through
The forms of homage to us ; and in Pilsen
They shall swear fealty to us, because
The example has been given them by Prague.
Butler, you tell me, has declared himself?

ILLO,

At his own bidding, unsolicited,

He came to offer you himself and regiment.

wallenstein.
I find we must not give implicit credence
To every warning voice that makes itself
Be listen'd to in the heart. To hold us back,
Oft does the lying Spirit counterfeit
The voice of Truth and inward Revelation,
Scattering false oracles. And thus have I
To entreat forgiveness, for that secretly
I 've wrong'd this honorable gallant man,
This Butler : for a feeling, of the which
I am not master (fear I would not call it),
Creeps o'er me instantly, with sense of shuddering
At his approach, and slops love's joyous motion.
And this same man, against whom I am warn'd,
This honest man is he, who reaches to me
The first pledge of my fortune.

ILLO.

And doubt not
24 181

172

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

That his example will win over to you

The best men in the army.

WALLENSTEIN.

Go and send
Isalani hither. Send him immediately.
He is under recent obligations to me :
With him will I commence the trial. Go.

[Exit Illo.

wallenstein (turns himself round to the females).
Lo, there the mother with the darling daughter :
For once we '11 have an interval of rest —
Come ! my heart yearns to live a cloudless hour
In the beloved circle of my family.

COUNTESS.

'Tis long since we've been thus together, brother.

wallenstein (to the Countess aside).
Can she sustain the news ? Is she prepared ?

countess.
Not yet.

WALLENSTEIN.

Come here, my sweet girl! Seat thee by me,
For there is a good spirit on thy lips.
Thy mother praised to me thy ready skill :
She says a voice of melody dwells in thee,
Which doth enchant the soul. Now such a voice
Will drive away from me the evil demon
That beats his black wings close above my head.

DUCHESS.

Where is thy lute, my daughter ? Let thy father
Hear some small trial of thy skill.

THEKLA.

My mother !
I—

DUCHESS.

Trembling ? come, collect thyself. Go, cheer
Thy father.

THEKLA.

O my mother ! I — I cannot

COUNTESS.

How, what is that, niece ?

thekla {to the Countess).
O spare me — sing — now — in this sore anxiety
Of the o'erburthen'd soul — to sing to him,
Who is thrusting, even now, my mother headlong
Into her grave.

duchess.
How, Thekla! Humorsome •?
What ! shall thy father have express'd a wish
In vain ?

countess.
Here is the lute.

THEL.LA.

My God ! how can I —
[The orchestra plays. During the riiomelloTKEKL. A.
expresses in her gestures and countenance the
struggle of her feelings : and at the moment,
that she should begin to sing, contracts her-
self together, as one shuddering, throws the
instrument down, and retires abruptly.
duchess.
My cmld ! O she is ill—

wallenstein.

What ails the maiden ?
Say, is she often so ?

COUNTESS.

Since then herself

Has now betray'd it, I too must no longer
Conceal it.

WALLENSTEIN.

What?

COUNTESS.

She loves him!

WALLENSTEIN.

Loves him ! Whom

COUNTESS.

Max. does she love ! Max. Piccolomini.

Hast thou ne'er noticed it ? Nor yet my sister ?

DUCHESS.

Was it this that lay so heavy on her heart ?

God's blessing on thee, my sweet child thou need's?.

Never take shame upon thee for thy choice.

COUNTESS.

This journey, if 'twere not thy aim, ascribe it

To thine own self. Thou shouldst have chosen an

other
To have attended her.

WALLENSTEIN.

And does he know it ?

COUNTESS.

Yes, and he hopes to win her.

WALLENSTEIN.

Hopes to win her !
Is the boy mad ?

COUNTESS.

Well, hear it from themselves.

XVALLENSTEIN.

He thinks to carry off Duke Friedland's daughter!

Ay ? the thought pleases me.

The young man has no grovelling spirit

COUNTESS

Since
Such and such constant favor you have shown him.

WALLENSTEIN.

He chooses finally to be my heir.

And true it is, I love the youth ; yea, honor him

But must he therefore be my daughter's husband *

Is it daughters only ? Is it only children

That we must show our favor by ?

DUCHESS.

His noble disposition and his manners —

WALLENSTEIN.

Win him my heart, but not my daughter.

DUCHESS.

Then
His rank, his ancestors —

WALLENSTEIN.

Ancestors! What?
He is a subject, and my son-in-law
I will seek out upon the thrones of Europe.

DUCHESS.

O dearest Albrecht ! Climb we not too high,
Lest we should fall too low.

WALLENSTEIN.

What ? have I paid
A price so heavy to ascend this eminence,
And jut out high above the common herd,
Only to close the mighty part I play
In Life's great drama, with a common kinsman ?
Have I for this —

[Stops suddenly, repressing himself
She is the only thing
That will remain behind of me on earth ;
And I will see a crown around her head,

182

THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN.

173

Or die in the attempt to place it there.
I hazard all — all ! and for this alone,
To lift her into greatness —

Yea, in this moment, in the which we are speaking-
[He recollects himself
And I must now, like a soft-hearted father,
Couple together in good peasant-fashion
The pair, that chance to suit each other's liking —
And I must do it now, even now, when I
Am stretching out the wreath that is to twine
My full accomplish'd work — no ! she is the jewel,
Which I have treasured long, my last, my noblest,
And 'tis my purpose not to let her from me
For less than a king's sceptre.

DUCHESS.

O my husband !
You're ever building, building to the clouds,
Still building higher, and still higher building,
And ne'er reflect, that the poor narrow basis
Cannot sustain the giddy tottering column.

WALLENSTEIN (to the COUNTESS.)

Have you announced the place of residence
Which I have destined for her ?

COUNTESS.

No ! not yet.
T were better you yourself disclosed it to her,

DUCHESS.

How ? Do we not return to Karn then ?

No.

SCENE V.
To them enter Count Tertsky.

COUNTESS.

—Tertsky!
What ails him ? What an image of affright !
He looks as he had seen a ghost.

tertsky {leading Wallenstein aside}.
Is it thy command that all the Croats —

WALLENSTEIN.

Mine'

TERTSKY.

We are betray'd.

WALLENSTEIN.

What?

TERTSKY.

They are off! This night
The Jagers likewise — all the villages
In the whole round are empty.

WALLENSTEIN.

Isolani ?

TERTSKY.

Him thou hast sent away. Yes, surely

WALLENSTEIN.

I?
TERTSKY.

No ! Hast thou not sent him off? Nor Deodate ?
They are vanish'd both of them.

WALLENSTEIN.
DUCHESS.

And to no other of your lands or seats ?

WALLENSTEIN.

You would not be secure there.

DUCHESS.

Not secure
In the Emperor's realms, beneath the Emperor's
Protection ?

WALLENSTEIN.

Friedland's wife may be permitted
No longer to hope that.

DUCHESS.

O God in Heaven !
And have you brought it even to this !

WALLENSTEIN

In Holland
You'll find protection.

DUCHESS.

In a Lutheran country ?
What? And y^u send us into Lutheran countries ?

WALLENSTEIN.

Duke Franz of Lauenburg conducts you thither.

DUCHESS.

Duke Franz of Lauenburg ?

The ally of Sweden, the Emperor's enemy.

WALLENSTEIN.

The Emperor's enemies are mine no longer.
duchess (casting a look of terror on the Duke and the

Countess.)
Is it then true ? It is. You are degraded ?
Deposed from the command ? O God in Heaven !

countess (aside to the Duke).
Leave her in this belief Thou seest she can not
Support the real truth.

SCENE VI.
To them enter Illo.
illo.
Has Tertsky told thee ?

tertsky.
He knows all.
illo.

And likewise
That Esterhatzy, Goetz, Maradas, Kaunitz,
Kolatto, Pain, have forsaken thee.

TERTSKY.

Damnation !

wallenstein (winks at them).
Hush!
countess (who has been watching them anxiously from

the distance, and now advances' to them).
Tertsky ! Heaven ! What is it ? What has happen'd ?

wallenstein (scarcely suppressing 7iis emotion).
Nothing ! let us be gone !

tertsky (following him).

Theresa, it is nothing.
countess (holding him back).
Nothing ? Do I not see, that all the life-blood
Has left your cheeks — look you not like a ghost ?
That even my brother but affects a calmness ?

page (enters).
An Aid-de-Camp inquires for the Count Tertsky
[Tertsky follows the Page.

WALLENSTEIN.

Go, hear his business.

(To Illo).
This could not have happen'd
So unsuspected without mutiny.
Who was on guard at the gates ?

ILLO.

T was Tiefenbacn-
183

174

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

WALLENSTEIN.

Let Tiefenbach leave guard without delay,
And Tertsky's grenadiers relieve him.
(Illo is going).

Stop !
Hast thou heard aught of Butler ?

ILLO.

Him I met :
He will be here himself immediately.
Butler remains unshaken.

[Illo exit. Wallenstein is following him.

COUNTESS.

Let him not leave thee, sister ! go, detain him !
There 's some misfortune.

duchess (clinging to him).

Gracious Heaven ! what is it ?

WALLENSTEIN.

Be tranquil ' leave me, sister ! dearest wife !
We are in camp, and this is naught unusual ;
Here storm and sunshine follow one another
With rapid interchanges. These fierce spirits
Champ the curb angrily, and never yet
Did quiet bless the temples of the leader.
If I am to stay, go you. The plaints of women
111 suit the scenes where men must act.

[He is going : Tertsky returns.

TERTSKY.

Remain here. From this window must we see it.

WALLENSTEIN (to the COUNTESS).

Sister, retire !

COUNTESS.

No — never.

WALLENSTEIN.

'T is my will.
tertsky (leads the Countess aside, and drawing her

attention to the Duchess).
Theresa !

DUCHESS.

Sister, come ! since he commands it.

SCENE VII.

It should have been kept secret from the army,
Till fortune had decided for us at Prague.

TERTSKY.

0 that thou hadst believed me ! Yester-evening
Did we conjure thee not to let that skulker,
That fox, Octavio, pass the gates of Pilsen.

Thou gavest him thy own horses to flee from thee.

WALLENSTEIN.

The old tune still ! Now, once for all, no more
Of this suspicion — it is doting folly.

TERTSKY.

Thou didst confide in Isolani too ;

And lo ! he was the first that did desert thee.

WALLENSTEIN.

It was but yesterday I rescued him

From abject wretchedness. Let that go by ;

1 never reckon'd yet on gratitude.

And wherein doth he wrong in going from me ?
He follows still the god whom all his life
He has worshipp'd at the gaming-table. With
My fortune, and my seeming destiny,
He made the bond, and broke it not with me.
1 am but the ship in which his hopes were stow'd,
And with the which well-pleased and confident
He traversed the open sea ; now he beholds it
In eminent jeopardy among the coast-rocks,
And hurries to preserve his wares. As light
As the free bird from the hospitable twig
Where it had nested, he flies off from me :
No human tie is snapp'd betwixt us two.
Yea, he deserves to find himself deceived
Who seeks a heart in the unthinking man.
Like shadows on a stream, the forms of life
Impress their characters on the smooth forehead,
Naught sinks into the bosom's silent depth :
Quick sensibility of pain and pleasure
Moves the light fluids lightly ; but no soul
Warmeth the inner frame.

TERTSKY.

Yet, would I rather
Trust the smooth brow than that deep-furrow'd one

Wallenstein, Tertsky.

wallenstein (stepping to the window).
What now, then?

TERTSKY.

There are strange movements among all the troops

And no one knows the cause. Mysteriously,

With gloomy silence, the several corps

Marshal themselves, each under its own banners.

Tiefenbach's corps make threat'ning movements ; only

The Pappenheimers still remain aloof

In their own quarters, and let no one enter.

WALLENSTEIN.

Does Piccolomini appear among them ?

TERTSKY.

We are seeking him : he is nowhere to be met with,

WALLENSTEIN.

What did the Aid-de-Camp deliver to you ?

TERTSKY.

My regiments had dispatch'd him ; yet once more

They swear fidelity to thee, and wait

The shout for onset, all prepared, and eager.

WALLENSTEIN.

But. whence arose this larum in the camp ?

SCENE Vffl.

Wallenstein, Tertsky, Illo.

illo (who enters agitated with rage).
Treason and mutiny!

TERTSKY.

And what further now ?

ILLO.

Tiefenbach's soldiers, when I gave the orders
To go off guard — Mutinous villains !

TERTSKY.

Well!

WALLENSTEIN. '

What followed ?

ILLO.

They refused obedience to them.

TERTSKY.

Fire on them instantly ! Give out the order.

WALLENSTEIN.

Gently ! what cause did they assign ?

ILLO.

No other,
They said, had right to issue orders but
Lieutenant-General Piccolomini.

184

THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN.

175

wallenstein (in a convulsion of agony).
What ? How is that ?

ILLO.

He takes that office on him by commission,
Under sign-manual of the Emperor.

TERTSKY.

From the Emperor — hear'st thou, Duke ?

ILLO.

At his incitement
The Generals made that stealthy flight —

TERTSKY.

Duke ! hear'st thou ?

ILLO.

Caraffa too, and Montecuculi,

Are missing, with six other Generals,

All whom he had induced to follow him.

This plot he has long had in writing by him

From the Emperor ; but 'twas finally concluded

With all the detail of the operation

Some days ago with the Envoy Questenberg.

[Wallenstein sinks down into a chair, and covers
his face.

TERTSKY.

O hadst thou but believed me !

SCENE IX.
To (hem enter the Countess.

COUNTESS.

. This suspense,
This horrid fear — 1 can no longer bear it.
For heaven's sake, tell me, what has taken place 1

ILLO.

The regiments are all falling off from us.

TERTSKY.

Octavio Piccolomini is a traitor.

COUNTESS.

O my foreboding ! [Rushes out of the room.

TERTSKY.

Hadst thou but believed me !
Now seest thou how the stars have lied to thee.

WALLENSTEIN.

The stars lie not; but we have here a work

Wrought counter to the stars and destiny.

The science is still honest : this false heart

Forces a lie on the truth-telling heaven.

On a divine law divination rests ;

Where Nature deviates from that law, and stumbles

Out of her limits, there all science errs.

True, I did not suspect ! Were it superstition

Never by such suspicion t' have affronted

The human form, O may that time ne'er come

In which I shame me of the infirmity.

The wildest savage drinks not with the victim,

Into whose breast he means to plunge the sword.

This, this, Octavio, was no hero's deed :

'T was not thy prudence that did conquer mine ;

A bad heart triumph'd o'er an honest one.

No shield received the assassin stroke ; thou plungest

Thy weapon on an unprotected breast —

Against such weapons I am but a child.

SCENE X.

To these enter Butler.

tertsky ( meeting him).

O look there ! Butler ! Here we've still a friend '

wallenstein (meets him with outspread arms, ana

embraces him with warmth).
Come to my heart, old comrade ! Not the sun
Looks out upon us more revivingly
In the earliest month of spring,
Than a friend's countenance in such an hour.

BUTLER.

My General : I come —

wallenstein (leaning on Butler's shoulders).
Know'st thou already ?
That old man has betray'd me to the Emperor.
What say'st thou 1 Thirty years have we together
Lived out, and held out, sharing joy and hardship.
We have slept in one camp-bed, drunk from one glass.
One morsel shared ! I lean'd myself on him,
As now I lean me on thy faithful shoulder.
And now in the very moment, when, all love,
All confidence, my bosom beat to his,
He sees and takes the advantage, stabs the knife
Slowly into my heart.

[He hides his face on Butler's breast

BUTLER.

Forget the false one.
What is your present purpose ?

wallenstein.

Well remember'd !
Courage, my soul ! I am still rich in friends,
Still loved by Destiny ; for in the moment,
That it unmasks the plotting hypocrite,
It sends and proves to me one faithful heart.
Of the hypocrite no more ! Think not, his loss
Was that which struck the pang : O no ! his treason.
Is that which strikes this pang ! No more of him !
Dear to my heart, and honor'd were they both,
And the young man — yes — he did truly love me,
He — he-— has not deceived me. But enough,
Enough of this — Swift counsel now beseems us,
The courier, whom Count Kinsky sent from Prague.
I expect him every moment : and whatever
He may bring with him, we must take good care
To keep it from the mutineers. Quick, then !
Dispatch some messenger you can rely on
To meet him, and conduct him to me.

[Illo is going

butler (detaining him).
My General, whom expect you then ?

wallenstein

The courier
Who brings me word of the event at Prague.

butler (hesitating).
Hem!

WALLENSTEIN.

And what now ?

BUTLER.

You do not know it ?

WALLENSTEIN.
BUTLER.

From what that larum in the camp arose ?

Well ?

WALLENSTEIN.

From what ?

BUTLER.

That courier

wallenstein (with eager expectation).
185

Well »

176

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

BUTLER.

Is already here.
tertsky and illo (at the same time).
Already here ?

WALLENSTEIN.

My courier ?

BUTLER.

For some hours.

WALLENSTEIN.

And I not know it ?

BUTLER

The sentinels detain him
In custody.

illo (stamping with his foot).
Damnation !

BUTLER.

And his letter
Was broken open, and is circulated
Through the whole camp.

WALLENSTEIN.

You know what it contains ?

Question me not !

TERTSKY.

Illo ! alas for us.

WALLENSTEIN.

Hide nothing from me — I can hear the worst.
Prague then is lost. It is. Confess it freely.

BUTLER.

Yes ! Prague is lost. And all the several regiments

At Budweiss, Tabor, Brannau, Konigingratz,

At Bran and Znaym, have forsaken you,

And ta'en the oaths of fealty anew

To the Emperor. Yourself, with Kinsky, Tertsky,

And Illo have been sentenced.

[Tertsky and Illo express alarm and fury.
Wallenstein remains firm and collected.

WALLENSTEIN.

'T is decided !
'T is well ! I have received a sudden cure
From all the pangs of doubt : with steady stream
Once more my life-blood flows ! My soul 's secure !
In the night only Friedland's stars can beam.
Lingering irresolute, with fitful fears
I drew the sword — 'twas with an inward strife,
While yet the choice was mine. The murderous knife
Is lifted for my heart ! Doubt disappears !
I fight now for my head and for my life.

[Exit Wallenstein; the others follow him.

SCENE XI.

countess tertsky {enters from a side-room).

I can endure no longer. No !

[Looks around her.
Where are they ?
No one is here. They leave me all alone,
Alone in this sore anguish of suspense.
And I must wear the outward show of calmness
Before my sister, and shut in within me
The pangs and agonies of my crowded bosom.
tt is not to be borne. — If all should fail ,•
If— if he must go over to the Swedes,
An empty-handed fugitive, and not
As an ally, a covenanted equal,

A proud commander with his army following ;
If we must wander a\ 'Vom land to land,
Like the Count Palatine, of fallen greatness
An ignominious monument — But no !
That day I will not see ! And could himself
Endure to sink so low, I would not bear
To see him so low sunken.

SCENE xn.
Countess, Duchess, Thekla.
thekla (endeavoring to hold bach the Duchess;.
Dear mother, do stay here !

DUCHESS.

No ! Here is yet
Some frightful mystery that is hidden from me.
Why does my sister shun me ? Don't I see her
Full of suspense and anguish roam about
From room to room? — Art thou not full of terror?
And what import these silent nods and gestures
Which stealthwise thou exchangest with her ?

Nothing, dear mother !

Notnmg

duchess (to the Countess).

Sister, I will know.

COUNTESS.

What boots it now to hide it from her ? Sooner

Or later she must learn to hear, and bear it.

'T is not the time now to indulge infirmity ;

Courage beseems us now, a heart collect,

And exercise and previous discipline

Of fortitude. One word, and over with it '

Sister, you are deluded. You believe,

The Duke has been deposed — The Duke is not

Deposed — he is ■

thekla (going to the Countess)

What ? do you wish to kill her ?

COUNTESS.

The Duke is

thekla (throwing her arms around her mother).
0 stand firm! stand firm, my molher

COUNTESS.

Revolted is the Duke ; he is preparing
To join the enemy ; the army leave htrfS,
And all has fail'd.

ACT n.

SCENE I.

Scene — A spacious room in the Duke of^FjuES-l* -*d's
Palace.

(wallenstein in armor).
Thou hast gain'd thy point, Octavio ! Once mors em I
Almost as friendless as at Regensburg.
There I had nothing left me, but myself—
But what one man can do, you have now experiar-co
The twigs have you hew'd off, and here I stand
A leafless trunk. But in the sap within
Lives the creating power, and a new world
May sprout forth from it. Once already have I
Proved myself worth an army to you — I alone !
Before the Swedish strength your tronps had meltvd,
Beside the Lech sunk Tilly, your last hope :

186

THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN.

177

Into Bavaria, like a winter torrent,

Did that Gustavus pour, and at Vienna

In his own palace did the Emperor tremble.

Suldiers were scarce, for still the multitude

Follow the luck : all eyes were turn'd on me,

Their helper in distress : the Emperor's pride

Bow'd itself down before the man he had injured.

'Twas I must rise, and with creative word

Assemble forces in the desolate camps.

I did it. Like a god of war, my name

Went through the world. The drum was beat — and, lo !

The plow, the work-shop is forsaken, all

Swarm to the old familiar long-loved banners ;

And as the wood-choir rich in melody

Assemble quick around the bird of wonder,

When first his throat swells with his magic song,

So did the warlike youth of Germany

Crowd in around the image of my eagle.

I feel myself the being that I was.

It is the soul that builds itself a body,

And Friedland's camp will not remain unfill'd.

Lead then your thousands out to meet me — true !

They are accustom'd under me to conquer,

But not against me. If the head and limbs

Separate from each other, 'twill be soon

Made manifest, in which the soul abode.

(Illo and Tertsky enter).
Courage, friends ! Courage ! We are still unvanquish'd ;
I feel my footing firm ; five regiments, Tertsky,
Are still our own, and Butler's gallant troops ;
And a host of sixteen thousand Swedes to-morrow.
I was not stronger, when nine years ago
I march'd forth, with glad heart and high of hope,
To conquer Germany for the Emperor.

SCENE II.

Wallenstein, Illo, Tertsky. (To them enter Neu-
mann, who leads Tertsky aside, and talks with
him).

tertsky.

Wha do they want ?

WALLENSTEIN.

What now ?

TERTSKY.

Ten Cuirassiers
From Pappenheim request leave to address you
In thtf name of the regiment.

wallenstein [hastily to Neumann).
Let them enter.

[Exit Neumann.
This
May end in something. Mark you. They are still
Doubtful, and may be won.

SCENE III
Wallenstein, Tertsky, Illo, Ten Cuirassiers
(led by an Anspessade* march up and arrange
themselves, after the word of command, in one
jront before the Duke, and make their obeisance.
He takes his hat off, and immediately covers him-
self again)

anspessade.
Halt! Front! Present*

* Anspessade, in German, Gefreiter, a soldier inferior to a
corporal, but above the sentinels. The German name implies
that he is exempt from mounting guard.

13 *

wallenstein (after he has run through them with his
eye, to the Anspessade).
I know thee well. Thou art out of Briiggin in Flan-
ders : thy name is Mercy.

anspessade.

Henry Mercy.
wallenstein.
Thou wert cut off on the march, surrounded by
the Hessians, and didst fight thy way with a hun
dred and eighty men through their thousand.
anspessade.
'Twas even so, General !

wallenstein.
What reward hadst thou for this gallant exploit ?

ANSPESSADE.

That which I asked for : the honor to serve in this
corps.

wallenstein (turning to a second).

Thou wert among the volunteers that seized and
made booty of the Swedish battery at Altenburg.

SECOND CUIRASSIER.

Yes, General !

WALLENSTEIN.

I forget no one with whom I have exchanged wrords.
(A pause). Who sends you ?

ANSPESSADE.

Your noble regiment, the Cuirassiers of Piccolominl

WALLENSTEIN.

Why does not your colonel deliver in your request,
according to the custom of service ?

ANSPESSADE.

Because we would first know whom we serve.

WALLENSTEIN.

Begin your address.

anspessade (giving the word of command).
Shoulder your arms !

wallenstein (turning to a third).
Thy name is Risbeck ,• Cologne is thy birth-place,

THIRD CUIRASSIER.

Risbeck of Cologne.

WALLENSTEIN.

It was thou that broughtest in the Swedish coloktl
Diebald, prisoner, in the camp at Nuremberg.

THIRD CUIRASSIER.

It was not I, General !

WALLENSTEIN.

Perfectly right ! It was thy elder brother : thou hadst
a younger brother too : where did he stay ?

THIRD CUIRASSIER.

He is stationed at Olmutz with the Imperial arm) .

WALLENSTEIN (to the ANSPESSADE).

Now then — begin.

ANSPESSADE.

There came to hand a letter from the Emperor,

Commanding us

wallenstein (interrupting him).
Who chose you ?

anspessade.

Every company
Drew its own man by lot.

wallenstein.

Now ! to the business
anspessade.
There came to hand a letter from the Emperor,
Commanding us collectively, from thee

1Q7

178

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

All duties of obedience to withdraw,
Because thou wert an enemy and traitor.

WALLENSTEIN.

And what did you determine ?

ANSPESSADE.

All our comrades
At Braunnau, Budweiss, Prague and Olmiitz, have
Obey'd already ; and the regiments here,
Tiefenbach and Toscano, instantly
Did follow their example. But — but we
Do not believe that thou art an enemy
And traitor to thy country, hold it merely
lor he and trick, and a trump'd-up Spanish story ?

[With warmth
Thyself shalt tell us what thy purpose is,
For we have found thee still sincere and true :
No mouth shall interpose itself betwixt
The gallant General and the gallant troops.

WALLENSTEIN.

Therein I recognize my Pappenheimers. *

ANSPESSADE.

And this proposal makes thy regiment to thee :

Is it thy purpose merely to preserve

In thy own hands this military sceptre,

Which so becomes thee, which the Emperor

Made over to thee by a covenant ?

Is it thy purpose merely to remain

Supreme commander of the Austrian armies ? —

We will stand by thee, General ! and guaranty

Thy honest rights against all opposition.

And should it chance, that all the other regiments

Turn from thee, by ourselves will we stand forth

Thy faithful soldiers, and, as is our duty,

Far rather let ourselves be cut to pieces,

Than suffer thee to fall. But if it be

As the Emperor's letter says, if it be true,

That thou in traitorous wise will lead us over

To the enemy, which God in heaven forbid !

Then we too will forsake thee, and obey

That letter

, WALLENSTEIN.

Hear me, children !

ANSPESSADE.

Yes, or no !

There needs no other answer.

WALLENSTEIN.

Yield attention.
You 're men of sense, examine for yourselves ; .
Ye think, and do not follow with the herd :
And therefore have I always shown you honor
Above all others, suffer'd you to reason ;
Have treated you as free men, and my orders
Were but the echoes of your prior suffrage. —

ANSPESSADE.

Most fair and noble has thy conduct been

To us, my General ! With thy confidence

Thou hast honor'd us, and shown us grace and favor

Beyond all other regiments ; and thou see'st

We follow not the common herd. We will

Stand by thee faithfully. Speak but one word —

Thy w^ord shall satisfy us, that it is not

A treason which thou meditatest — that

Thou meanest not to lead the army over

To the enemy ; nor e'er betray thy country.

WALLENSTEIN.

Me, me are they betraying. The Emperor

Hath sacrificed me to my enemies,

And I must fall, unless my gallant troops

Will rescue me. See ! I confide in you.

And be your hearts my strong-hold ! At this breast

The aim is taken, at this hoary head.

This is your Spanish gratitude, this is our

Requital" for that murderous fight at Lutzen !

For this we threw the naked breast against

The halbert, made for this the frozen earth'

Our bed, and the hard stone our pillow ! never stream

Too rapid for us, nor wood too impervious .

With cheerful spirit we pursued that Mansfield

Through all the turns and windings of his flight

Yea, our whole life was but one restless march :

And homeless as the stirring wind, we travell'd

O'er the war-wasted earth. And now, even now

That we have well-nigh finish'd the hard toil,

The unthankful, the curse-laden toil of weapons,

With faithful indefatigable arm

Have roll'd the heavy war-load up the hill,

Behold ! this boy of the Emperor's bears away

The honors of the peace, an easy prize !

He '11 weave, forsooth, into his flaxen locks

The olive-branch, the hard-earn'd ornament

Of this gray head, grown gray beneath the helmet

ANSPESSADE.

That shall he not, while we can hinder it !

No one, but thou, who hast conducted it

With fame, shall end this war, this frightful war.

Thou ledd'st us out into the bloody field

Of death ; thou and no other shall conduct us home

Rejoicing to the lovely plains of peace —

Shalt share with us the fruits of the long toil— -

WALLENSTEIN.

What ? Think you then at length in late old age
To enjoy the fruits of toil ? Believe it not.
Never, no never, will you see the end
Of the contest ! you and me, and all of us,
This war will swallow up ! War, war, not peace,
Is Austria's wish ; and therefore, because I
Endeavor'd after peace, therefore I fall.
For what cares Austria, how long the war
Wears out the armies and lays waste the world ?
She will but wax and grow amid the ruin,
And still win new domains.

[The Cuirassiers express agitation by their gestures
Ye 're moved — I see
A noble rage flash from your eyes, ye warriors '
Oh that my spirit might possess you now
Daring as once it led you to the battle !
Ye would stand by me with your veteran arms
Protect me in my rights ; and this is noble !
But think not that you can accomplish it,
Your scanty number ! to no purpose will you
Have sacrificed you for your General. *

[Confidentially
No ! let us tread securely, seek for friends !
The Swedes have proffer'd us assistance, let us
Wear for a while the appearance of good-will,
And use them for your profit, till wTe both
Carry the fate of Europe in our hands,
And from our camp to the glad jubilant w7orld
Lead Peace forth with the garland on her head !

ANSPESSADE.

'Tis then but mere appearances which thou
Dost put on with the Swede ? Thou 'It not betray

188

THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN.

179

The Emperor ? Wilt not turn us into Swedes ?
This is the only thing which we desire
To learn from thee.

WALLENSTEIN.

What care I for the Swedes ?
I hate them as I hate the pit of hell,
And under Providence I trust right soon
To chase them to their homes across the Baltic.
My cares are only for the whole : I have
A heart — it bleeds within me for the miseries
And piteous groaning of my fellow Germans.
Ye are but common men, but yet ye think
With minds not common ; ye appear to me
Worthy before all others, that I whisper ye
A little word or two in confidence !
See now ! already for full fifteen years
The war-torch has continued burning, yet
No rest, no pause of conflict. Swede and German,
Papist and Lutheran ! neither will give way
To the other, every hand's against the other.
Each one is party, and no one a judge.
Where shall this end ? Where 's he that will unravel
This tangle, ever tangling more and more.
It must be cut asunder.
I feel that I am the man of destiny,
And trust, with your assistance, to accomplish it.

SCENE IV.

To these enter Butler,
butler {passionately).
General ! this is not right !

WALLENSTEIN.

What is not right ?

BUTLER.

^t must needs injure us with all honest men.

WALLENSTEIN.

But what ?

BUTLER.

It is an open proclamation
Of insurrection.

WALLENSTEIN.

Well, well — but what is it ?

BUTLER,

Count Tertsky's regiments tear the Imperial Eagle
From off the banners, and instead of it,
Have rear'd aloft thy arms.

anspessade {abruptly to the Cuirassiers).

Right about ! March !

WALLENSTEIN.

Cursed be this counsel, and accursed who gave it!

[To the Cuirassiers, who are retiring.
Halt, children, halt ! There 's some mistake in this ;
Hark ! — I will punish it severely. Stop !
They do not hear. {To Illo). Go after them assure

them,
And bring them back to me, cost what it may.

[Illo hurries out.
This hurls us headlong. Butler! Butler!
You are my evil genius .- wherefore must you
Announce it in theii presence ? It was all
In a fair way. They were half won, those madmen
With their improvident over-readiness —
A cruel game is Fortune playing with me.
The zeal of friends it is that razes me,
And not the hate of enemies

SCENE V.

To these enter the Duchess, who rushes into the Cham
her. Thekla and the Countess follow her.

DUCHESS.

O Albrecht !
What hast thou done ?

WALLENSTEIN.

And now comes this beside.

COUNTESS.

Forgive me, brother ! It was not in my power.
They know all.

DUCHESS.

What hast thou done ?

COUNTESS {to TERTSKY).

Is there no hope ? Is all lost utterly ?

TERTSKY.

All lost. No hope. Prague in the Emperor's hands
The soldiery have ta'en their oaths anew.

COUNTESS.

That lurking hypocrite, Octavio !
Count Max. is off too ?

TERTSKY.

Where can he be ? He 's
Gone over to the Emperor with his father.

[Thekla rushes out into the arms of her mother,
hiding her face in her bosom.

duchess (infolding her in hei crms).
Unhappy child ! and more unhappy mUher !

WALLENSTEIN {aside to Tertsky).
Quick ! Let a carriage stand in readiness
In the court behind the palace. Scherfenberg
Be their attendant ; he is faithful to us ;
To Egra he '11 conduct them, and we follow.

[To Illo, who returns.
Thou hast noL brought them back ?

ILLO.

Hear'st thou the uproar?
The whole corps of the Pappenheimers is
Drawn out : the younger Piccolomini,
Their colonel, they require : for they affirm,
That he is in the palace here, a prisoner ;
And if thou dost not instantly deliver him,
They will find means to free him with the sword.

[All stand amazed.

TERTSKY.

What shall we make of this ?

WALLENSTEIN.

Said I not so ?

0 my prophetic heart ! he is still here.

He has not betray'd me — he could not betray me.

1 never doubted of it.

COUNTESS.

If he be
Still here, then all goes well ; for I know what

[Embracing Thekla,
Will keep him here for ever.

TERTSKY.

It can't be.
His father has betray'd us, is gone over
To the Emperor — the son could not have ventured
To stay behind.

thekla {her eye fixed on the door).
There he is !
25 189

ItfO

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

SCENE VI.
To these enter Max. Piccolomini.

max.
Yes ! here he is ! I can endure no longer
To creep on tiptoe round this house, and lurk
In ambush for a favorable moment:
This loitering, this suspense exceeds my powers.

[Advancing to Thekla, who has thrown herself

into her mother's arms.
Turn not thine eyes away. O look upon me !
Confess it freely before all. Fear no one.
Let who will hear that we both love each other.
Wherefore continue to conceal it ? Secrecy
Is for the happy — misery, hopeless misery,
Needeth no evil ! Beneath a thousand suns
It dares act openly.

• [He observes the Countess looking on Tiiekla

witJi expressions of triumph.
No, Lady! No!
Expect not, hope it not I am not come
To stay : to bid farewell, farewell for ever,
For this I come ! 'T is over ! I must leave thee !
Thekla, I must — must leave thee ! Yet thy hatred
Le