Poems Of Coleridge Part 9

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.

1794.

THE BALLAD OF THE DARK LADIE A FRAGMENT

Beneath yon birch with silver bark, And boughs so pendulous and fair, The brook falls scatter'd down the rock: And all is mossy there!

And there upon the moss she sits, The Dark Ladie in silent pain; The heavy tear is in her eye, And drops and swells again.

Three times she sends her little page Up the castled mountain's breast, If he might find the Knight that wears The Griffin for his crest.

The sun was sloping down the sky, And she had linger'd there all day, Counting moments, dreaming fears-- Oh wherefore can he stay?

She hears a rustling o'er the brook, She sees far off a swinging bough!

"'Tis He! 'Tis my betrothed Knight!

Lord Falkland, it is Thou!"

She springs, she clasps him round the neck, She sobs a thousand hopes and fears, Her kisses glowing on his cheeks She quenches with her tears.

"My friends with rude ungentle words They scoff and bid me fly to thee!

O give me shelter in thy breast!

O s.h.i.+eld and shelter me!

"My Henry, I have given thee much, I gave what I can ne'er recall, I gave my heart, I gave my peace, O Heaven! I gave thee all."

The Knight made answer to the Maid, While to his heart he held her hand, "Nine castles hath my n.o.ble sire, None statelier in the land.

"The fairest one shall be my love's, The fairest castle of the nine!

Wait only till the stars peep out, The fairest shall be thine:

"Wait only till the hand of eve Hath wholly closed yon western bars, And through the dark we two will steal Beneath the twinkling stars!"--

"The dark? the dark? No! not the dark?

The twinkling stars? How, Henry? How?

O G.o.d! 'twas in the eye of noon He pledged his sacred vow!

"And in the eye of noon my love Shall lead me from my mother's door, Sweet boys and girls all clothed in white Strewing flowers before:

"But first the nodding minstrels go With music meet for lordly bowers, The children next in snow-white vests, Strewing buds and flowers!

"And then my love and I shall pace, My jet black hair in pearly braids, Between our comely bachelors And blus.h.i.+ng bridal maids."

1798.

LOVE

All thoughts, all pa.s.sions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruined tower.

The moons.h.i.+ne, stealing o'er the scene Had blended with the lights of eve; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve!

She leant against the armed man, The statue of the armed knight; She stood and listened to my lay, Amid the lingering light.

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.

I played a soft and doleful air, I sang an old and moving story-- An old rude song, that suited well That ruin wild and h.o.a.ry.

She listened with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes and modest grace; For well she knew, I could not choose But gaze upon her face.

I told her of the Knight that wore Upon his s.h.i.+eld a burning brand; And that for ten long years he wooed The Lady of the Land.

I told her how he pined: and ah!

The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another's love, Interpreted my own.

She listened 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 that bold and lovely Knight, And that he crossed the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night;

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 looked him in the face An angel beautiful and bright; And that he knew it was a Fiend, This miserable Knight!

And that unknowing what he did, He leaped amid a murderous band, And saved from outrage worse than death The Lady of the Land!

And how she wept, and clasped his knees; And how she tended him in vain-- And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain;--

And that 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 reached That tenderest strain of all the ditty, My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturbed her soul with pity!

All impulses of soul and sense Had thrilled my guileless 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 cherished long!