Poems of Coleridge

THE THREE GRAVES

A FRAGMENT OF A SEXTON'S TALE PART I

  The grapes upon the Vicar's wall    Were ripe as ripe could be;  And yellow leaves in sun and wind    Were falling from the tree.  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 boughed,    For half a mile or more.  And from their house-door by that track    The bride and bridegroom went;  Sweet Mary, though she was not gay,    Seemed cheerful and content.  But when they to the church-yard came,    I've heard poor Mary say,  As soon as she stepped 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 prayed, she thought she saw    Her mother on her knees.  And o'er the church-path they returned—    I saw poor Mary's back,  Just as she stepped 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 wished she could forget.  The shade o'er-flushed her limbs with heat—    Then came a chill like death:  And when the merry bells rang out,    They seemed 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 months passed: 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:  O Edward! you are all to me,  I 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 I am not well in health,    And 'tis a gloomy season."  'Twas a drizzly time—no ice, no snow!    And on the few fine days  She stirred not out, lest she might meet    Her mother in the ways.  But Ellen, spite of miry ways    And weather dark and dreary,  Trudged every day to Edward's house,    And made them all more cheery.  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 missed 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 wished that service was clean out    Of our good Liturgy.  The mother walked 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 over head,    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—  O 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 prayed, steady and slow,    She rose up from her knee!  And left the church, nor e'er again    The church-door entered she.  I saw poor Ellen kneeling still,    So pale! I guessed 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 asked her why:  Giddy she seemed, and sure, there was    A trouble in her eye.  But ere she from the church-door stepped    She smiled and told us why:  "It was a wicked woman's curse,"    Quoth she, "and what care I?"  She smiled, and smiled, and passed 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 hid it all:    She told it not to Mary.  But Mary heard the tale: her arms   Round Ellen's neck she threw;  "O Ellen, Ellen, she cursed me,   And now she hath cursed you!"  I saw young Edward by himself   Stalk fast adown the lee,  He snatched a stick from every fence,   A twig from every tree.  He snapped 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 gnashed his teeth.  Now Ellen was a darling love   In all his joys and cares:  And Ellen's name and Mary's name  Fast-linked 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 bowed;  Then frenzy melted into grief,   And Edward wept aloud.  Dear Ellen did not weep at all,   But closelier did she cling,  And turned her face and looked as if   She saw some frightful thing.

PART II

  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:  O 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!  "Aye, Sexton!'tis a touching tale."    You, Sir! are but a lad;  This month I'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 passed 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 seemed the same: all seemed so, Sir!    But all was not the same!  Had 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 spanned;  And once when Mary was down-cast,    She took her by the hand,  And gazed upon her, and at first    She gently pressed 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,    "O! Heaven! that I were dead."  Mary looked up into his face,    And nothing to him said;  She tried to smile, and on his arm    Mournfully leaned 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 spring    Was late uncommonly.  And then the hot days, all at once,    They came, we knew not how:  You looked about for shade, when scarce    A leaf was on a bough.  It happened 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 clustered near the chattering brook,    Lone hollies marked the spot.  Those hollies of themselves a shape    As of an arbour took,  A close, round arbour; and it stands    Not three strides from a brook.  Within this arbour, which was still    With scarlet berries hung,  Were these three friends, one Sunday morn,    Just as the first bell rung.  'Tis sweet to hear a brook, 'tis sweet   To hear the 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 passed a restless night,   And was not well in health;  The women sat down by his side,   And talked 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 ee;  "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 colour 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 exclaimed)    "I have torn out her heart."  Then Ellen shrieked, and forthwith burst    Into ungentle laughter;  And Mary shivered, where she sat,    And never she smiled after.

1797-1809.

Carmen reliquum in futurum tempus relegatum. To-morrow! and To-morrow! and To-morrow!–[Note of S.T.C.—l8l5.]

DEJECTION: AN ODE

  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 Spence.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 drafty that moans and rakes     Upon the strings of this Æolian 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 rimmed 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, whilst they awed,     And sent my soul abroad,  Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give,  Might startle this dull pain, and make it move            and live!II  A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,     A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief,     Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,            In word, or sigh, or tear—  O 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 bedimmed, but always seen  Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it grew  In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue;  I 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 endeavour,    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 within.IV  O Lady! we receive but what we give,  And in our life alone does Nature live:  Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud!    And would we aught behold, of higher worth,  Than that inanimate cold world allowed  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—  And 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  O 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 colours 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, seemed 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!  I turn from you, and listen to the wind,    Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream  Of agony by torture lengthened out  That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that rav'st 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,  Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song,  The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among.    Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds!  Thou mighty Poet, even to frenzy bold!      What tell'st thou now about?      'Tis 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—    It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud!      A tale of less affright,      And tempered 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  Tis 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 watched 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 of my choice,  Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice.

1802.

ODE TO TRANQUILLITY

  Tranquility! 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 steadfast 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 accustomed 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!

1801.

FRANCE: AN ODE

I  Ye Clouds! that far above me float and pause,    Whose pathless march no mortal may controul!    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 soared!  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 adored    The spirit of divinest Liberty.II  When France in wrath her giant-limbs upreared,    And with that oath, which smote air, earth, and sea,    Stamped her strong foot and said she would be free,  Bear witness for me, how I hoped and feared!  With what a joy my lofty gratulation    Unawed I sang, amid a slavish band:  And when to whelm the disenchanted nation,    Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand,      The Monarchs marched in evil day,      And Britain join'd 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, unaltered, sang defeat    To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance,  And shame too long delay'd and vain retreat!  For ne'er, O Liberty! with partial aim  I dimmed thy light or damped thy holy flame;    But blessed the paeans of delivered 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 ye hid his light!"    And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled,  The dissonance ceased, and all seemed calm and bright;    When France her front deep-scarr'd and gory    Concealed with clustering wreaths of glory;    When, insupportably advancing,  Her arm made mockery of the warrior's ramp;    While timid looks of fury glancing,  Domestic treason, crushed beneath her fatal stamp,  Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore;    Then I reproached 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 Earth 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-stained streams!    Heroes, that for your peaceful country perished,  And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain-snows    With bleeding wounds; forgive me, that I cherished    One thought that ever blessed 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 mockest 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?V    The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain,  Slaves by their own compulsion! In mad game    They burst their manacles and wear the name      Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain!    O Liberty! with profitless endeavour  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,    (Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee)      Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions,    And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves,      Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions,  The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of      the waves!  And there I felt thee!—on that sea-cliff's verge,  Whose pines, scarce travelled 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 1798.

FEARS IN SOLITUDE

WRITTEN IN APRIL 1798, DURING THE ALARM OF AN INVASION  A Green and silent spot, amid the hills,  A small and silent dell! O'er stiller place  No singing 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, who, 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 withered 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;  That 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 in 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—  Invasion, 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 west  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, my 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  Engulf'd in Courts, Committees, Institutions,  Associations and Societies,  A vain, speech-mouthing, speech-reporting Guild,  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 honourable 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 preached,  Are muttered 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 truth.  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 joy,  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 seas)  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 on contingency,  However dim and vague, too vague and dim  To yield a justifying cause; and forth,  (Stuffed out with big preamble, holy names,  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,  Passed off to Heaven, translated and not killed;  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  Laughed 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 fierce 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,  On which our vice and wretchedness were tagged  Like fancy-points and fringes, with the robe  Pulled 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 deemed.—  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.  O 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 honourable things,  Whatever makes this mortal spirit feel  The joy and greatness of its future being?  There lives nor form nor feeling in my soul  Unborrowed from my country! O divine  And beauteous island! thou hast been my sole  And most magnificent temple, in the which  I 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 roared and died away  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! recalled  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 surrounded 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  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 quickened 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 STOWEY, April 2Oth, 1798.