Poems Of Coleridge Part 20

CONSTANCY TO AN IDEAL OBJECT

Since all that beat about in Nature's range, Or veer or vanish; why should'st thou remain The only constant in a world of change, O yearning Thought! that liv'st but in the brain?

Call to the Hours, that in the distance play, The faery people of the future day-- Fond Thought! not one of all that s.h.i.+ning swarm Will breathe on _thee_ with life-enkindling breath, Till when, like strangers shelt'ring from a storm, Hope and Despair meet in the porch of Death!

Yet still thou haunt'st me; and though well I see, She is not thou, and only thou art she, Still, still as though some dear _embodied_ Good, Some _living_ Love before my eyes there stood With answering look a ready ear to lend, I mourn to thee and say--"Ah! loveliest friend!

That this the meed of all my toils might be, To have a home, an English home, and thee!"

Vain repet.i.tion! Home and Thou are one.

The peacefull'st cot, the moon shall s.h.i.+ne upon, Lulled by the thrush and wakened by the lark, Without thee were but a becalmed bark, Whose helmsman on an ocean waste and wide Sits mute and pale his mouldering helm beside.

And art thou nothing? Such thou art, as when The woodman winding westward up the glen At wintry dawn, where o'er the sheep-track's maze The viewless snow-mist weaves a glist'ning haze, Sees full before him, gliding without tread, An image with a glory round its head; The enamoured rustic wors.h.i.+ps its fair hues, Nor knows he _makes_ the shadow, he pursues!

?1805.

PHANTOM OR FACT

A DIALOGUE IN VERSE

AUTHOR

A Lovely form there sate beside my bed, And such a feeding calm its presence shed, A tender love so pure from earthly leaven, That I unnethe the fancy might control, 'Twas my own spirit newly come from heaven, Wooing its gentle way into my soul!

But ah! the change--It had not stirr'd, and yet-- Alas! that change how fain would I forget!

That shrinking back, like one that had mistook!

That weary, wandering, disavowing look!

'Twas all another, feature, look, and frame, And still, methought, I knew, it was the same!

FRIEND

This riddling tale, to what does it belong?

Is't history? vision? or an idle song?

Or rather say at once, within what s.p.a.ce Of time this wild disastrous change took place?

AUTHOR

Call it a _moment's_ work (and such it seems) This tale's a fragment from the life of dreams; But say, that years matur'd the silent strife, And 'tis a record from the dream of life.

?183O.

LINES

SUGGESTED BY THE LAST WORDS OF BERENGARIUS OB. ANNO DOM. 1O88

No more 'twixt conscience staggering and the Pope Soon shall I now before my G.o.d appear, By him to be acquitted, as I hope; By him to be condemned, as I fear.--

REFLECTION ON THE ABOVE

Lynx amid moles! had I stood by thy bed, Be of good cheer, meek soul! I would have said: I see a hope spring from that humble fear.

All are not strong alike through storms to steer Right onward. What though dread of threatened death And dungeon torture made thy hand and breath Inconstant to the truth within thy heart?

That truth, from which, through fear, thou twice didst start, Fear haply told thee, was a learned strife, Or not so vital as to claim thy life: And myriads had reached Heaven, who never knew Where lay the difference 'twixt the false and true!

Ye, who secure 'mid trophies not your own, Judge him who won them when he stood alone, And proudly talk of _recreant_ Berengare-- O first the age, and then the man compare!

That age how dark! congenial minds how rare!

No host of friends with kindred zeal did burn!

No throbbing hearts awaited his return!

Prostrate alike when prince and peasant fell, He only disenchanted from the spell, Like the weak worm that gems the starless night, Moved in the scanty circlet of his light: And was it strange if he withdrew the ray That did but guide the night-birds to their prey?

The ascending day-star with a bolder eye Hath lit each dew-drop on our trimmer lawn!

Yet not for this, if wise, will we decry The spots and struggles of the timid Dawn; Lest so we tempt the approaching Noon to scorn The mists and painted vapours of our Morn.

?1826.

FORBEARANCE

Beareth all things.--2 COR. xiii.7.

Gently I took that which ungently came, And without scorn forgave:--Do thou the same.

A wrong done to thee think a cat's-eye spark Thou wouldst not see, were not thine own heart dark Thine own keen sense of wrong that thirsts for sin, Fear that--the spark self-kindled from within, Which blown upon will blind thee with its glare, Or smother'd stifle thee with noisome air.

Clap on the extinguisher, pull up the blinds, And soon the ventilated spirit finds Its natural daylight. If a foe have kenn'd, Or worse than foe, an alienated friend, A rib of dry rot in thy s.h.i.+p's stout side, Think it G.o.d's message, and in humble pride With heart of oak replace it;--thine the gains-- Give him the rotten timber for his pains!

1832.

_SANCTI DOMINICI PALLIUM_

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN POET AND FRIEND

FOUND WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF AT THE BEGINNING OF BUTLER'S "BOOK OF THE CHURCH" (1825)

POET

I note the moods and feelings men betray, And heed them more than aught they do or say; The lingering ghosts of many a secret deed Still-born or haply strangled in its birth; These best reveal the smooth man's inward creed!

These mark the spot where lies the treasure Worth!

Butler made up of impudence and trick, With cloven tongue prepared to hiss and lick, Rome's brazen serpent--boldly dares discuss The roasting of thy heart, O brave John Huss!