The Literary Remains of Samuel Taylor Coleridge Volume I Part 11

INSCRIPTION BY THE REV. W. L. BOWLES

IN NETHER STOWEY CHURCH.

Laetus abi! mundi strepitu curisque remotus; Laetus abi! caeli qua vocat alma quies.

Ipsa Fides loquitur, lacrymamque incusat inanem, Quae cadit in vestros, care pater, cineres.

Heu! tantum liceat meritos hos solvere ritus, Et longum tremula dicere voce, Vale!

TRANSLATION.

Depart in joy from this world's noise and strife To the deep quiet of celestial life!

Depart!--Affection's self reproves the tear Which falls, O honour'd Parent! on thy bier;-- Yet Nature will be heard, the heart will swell, And the voice tremble with a last Farewell!

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 professedly a tale of ancient times, I trust that the affectionate lovers of venerable antiquity, as Camden says, 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, when novelties explode around us in all directions, he should presume to offer to the public a silly tale of old-fas.h.i.+oned love: and five years ago, I own I should have allowed and felt the 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 hubbub of revolutions, as to those who have remained a long time by the falls of Niagara, the lowest whispering becomes distinctly audible.

1799.

O leave the lily on its stem; O leave the rose upon the spray; O leave the elder-bloom, fair maids!

And listen to my lay.

A cypress and a myrtle-bough This morn around my harp you twin'd, Because it fas.h.i.+on'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!

O come and hear the cruel wrongs Befell the Dark Ladie! [1]

And now once more a tale of woe, A woful tale of love I sing; For thee, my Genevieve! it sighs, And trembles on the string.

When last I sang the cruel scorn That craz'd this bold and lovely 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.

[Footnote 1: Here followed the stanzas, afterwards published separately under the t.i.tle "Love." (Poet. Works, vol. i. p. 145. Pickering, 1834.) and after them came the other three stanzas printed above; the whole forming the introduction to the intended Dark Ladie, of which all that exists is to be found ibid. p. 150. Ed.]

EPILOGUE TO THE RASH CONJUROR.

AN UNCOMPOSED POEM.

We ask and urge--(here ends the story!) All Christian Papishes to pray That this unhappy Conjuror may, Instead of h.e.l.l, be but in Purgatory,-- For then there's hope;--Long live the Pope!

1805.

PSYCHE

The b.u.t.terfly the ancient Grecians made The soul's fair emblem, and its only name-- But of the soul, escap'd the slavish trade Of mortal life!--For in this earthly frame Ours is the reptile's lot, much toil, much blame, Manifold motions making little speed, And to deform and kill the things whereon we feed.

1808.

COMPLAINT

How seldom, Friend! a good great man inherits Honour or wealth, with all his worth and pains!

It sounds like stories from the land of spirits, If any man obtain that which he merits, Or any merit that which he obtains.

REPROOF.

For shame, dear Friend! renounce this canting strain!

What would'st thou have a good great man obtain?

Place--t.i.tles--salary--a gilded chain-- Or throne of corses which his sword hath slain?-- Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends!

Hath he not always treasures, always friends, The good great man?--three treasures, love and light, And calm thoughts, regular as infants' breath;-- And three firm friends, more sure than day and night-- Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death.

1809.

AN ODE TO THE RAIN

Composed Before Day-Light on the Morning Appointed for the Departure of a Very Worthy, But Not Very Pleasant Visitor, Whom It Was Feared The Rain Might Detain.