Poems Of Coleridge Part 17

As though the spirits of all lovely flowers, Inweaving each its wreath and dewy crown, Or ere they sank to earth in vernal showers, Had built a bridge to tempt the angels down.

Even so, Eliza! on that face of thine, On that benignant face, whose look alone (The soul's translucence thro' her crystal shrine!) Has power to soothe all anguish but thine own,

A beauty hovers still, and ne'er takes wing, But with a silent charm compels the stern And tort'ring Genius of the bitter spring, To shrink aback, and cower upon his urn.

Who then needs wonder, if (no outlet found In pa.s.sion, spleen, or strife) the Fount of Pain O'erflowing beats against its lovely mound, And in wild flashes shoots from heart to brain?

Sleep, and the Dwarf with that unsteady gleam On his raised lip, that aped a critic smile, Had pa.s.sed: yet I, my sad thoughts to beguile, Lay weaving on the tissue of my dream;

Till audibly at length I cried, as though Thou hadst indeed been present to my eyes, O sweet, sweet sufferer; if the case be so, I pray thee, be _less_ good, _less_ sweet, _less_ wise!

In every look a barbed arrow send, On those soft lips let scorn and anger live!

Do _any_ thing, rather than thus, sweet friend!

h.o.a.rd for thyself the pain, thou wilt not give!

1826.

A DAY-DREAM

My eyes make pictures, when they are shut: I see a fountain, large and fair, A willow and a ruined hut, And thee, and me and Mary there.

O Mary! make thy gentle lap our pillow!

Bend o'er us, like a bower, my beautiful green willow!

A wild-rose roofs the ruined shed, And that and summer well agree: And lo! where Mary leans her head, Two dear names carved upon the tree!

And Mary's tears, they are not tears of sorrow: Our sister and our friend will both be here tomorrow.

'Twas day! but now few, large, and bright, The stars are round the crescent moon!

And now it is a dark warm night, The balmiest of the month of June!

A glow-worm fall'n, and on the marge remounting s.h.i.+nes, and its shadow s.h.i.+nes, fit stars for our sweet fountain.

O ever--ever be thou blest!

For dearly, Asra! love I thee!

This brooding warmth across my breast, This depth of tranquil bliss--ah, me!

Fount, tree and shed are gone, I know not whither, But in one quiet room we three are still together.

The shadows dance upon the wall, By the still dancing fire-flames made; And now they slumber moveless all!

And now they melt to one deep shade!

But not from me shall this mild darkness steal thee; I dream thee with mine eyes, and at my heart I feel thee!

Thine eyelash on my cheek doth play-- 'Tis Mary's hand upon my brow!

But let me check this tender lay Which none may hear but she and thou!

Like the still hive at quiet midnight humming, Murmur it to yourselves, ye two beloved women!

?1807.

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 scanned 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 thrilled and melted, and most warm Impressed a father's kiss: and all beguiled Of dark remembrance and presageful fear, I seemed to see an angel-form appear-- 'Twas even thine, beloved woman mild!

So for the mother's sake the child was dear, And dearer was the mother for the child.

1796.

LINES TO W. LINLEY, 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, Linley! 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 steep 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-guide, Would make me pa.s.s the cup of anguish by, Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died!

1797.

DOMESTIC PEACE

[FROM THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE, ACT I.]

Tell me, on what holy ground May Domestic Peace be found?

Halcyon daughter of the skies, Far on fearful wings she flies, From the pomp of Sceptered State, From the Rebel's noisy hate.

In a cottaged vale She dwells, Listening to the Sabbath bells!

Still around her steps are seen Spotless Honour's meeker mien, Love, the sire of pleasing fears, Sorrow smiling through her tears, And conscious of the past employ Memory, bosom-spring of joy.

1794.

SONG

SUNG BY GLYCINE IN _ZAPOLYA_, ACT II. SCENE 2.