Be but organic harps diversely framed,
That tremble into thought, as o'er them sweeps Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze,
At once the Soul of each, and God of All?
But thy more serious eye a mild reproof Darts, O beloved woman! nor such thoughts Dim and unhallowed dost thou not reject, And biddest me walk humbly with my God. Meek daughter in the family of Christ! Well hast thou said and holily dispraised These shapings of the unregenerate mind; Bubbles that glitter as they rise and break On vain Philosophy's aye-babbling spring. For never guiltless may I speak of Him, The Incomprehensible ! save when with awe I praise him, and with Faith that inly feels; Who with his saving mercies healed me, A sinful and most miserable man,
Wildered and dark, and gave me to possess
Peace, and this cot, and thee, heart-honoured
TO THE REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE
OF OTTERY ST. MARY, DEVON. WITH SOME POEMS.
Notus in fratres animi paterni.
A BLESSED lot hath he, who having passed His youth and early manhood in the stir And turmoil of the world, retreats at length, With cares that move, not agitate the heart, To the same dwelling where his father dwelt; And haply views his tottering little ones
Embrace those aged knees and climb that lap, On which first kneeling his own infancy Lisped its brief prayer. Such, O my earliest Friend!
Thy lot, and such thy brothers too enjoy. At distance did ye climb life's upland road, Yet cheered and cheering: now fraternal love Hath drawn you to one centre. Be your days Holy, and blest and blessing may ye live.
To me the Eternal Wisdom hath dispensed A different fortune and more different mindMe from the spot where first I sprang to light
Too soon transplanted, ere my soul had fixed Its first domestic loves; and hence through life Chasing chance-started friendships. A brief while Some have preserved me from life's pelting ills; But, like a tree with leaves of feeble stem, If the clouds lasted, and a sudden breeze Ruffled the boughs, they on my head at once Dropped the collected shower; and some most false,
False and fair foliaged as the Manchineel, Have tempted me to slumber in their shade E'en 'mid the storm; then breathing subtlest
Mixed their own venom with the rain from Heaven, That I woke poisoned! But, all praise to Him Who gives us all things, more have yielded me Permanent shelter; and beside one friend, Beneath the impervious covert of one oak, I've raised a lowly shed, and know the names Of husband and of father; not unhearing Of that divine and nightly-whispering voice, Which from my childhood to maturer years Spake to me of predestinated wreaths, Bright with no fading colours!
My soul is sad, that I have roamed through life Still most a stranger, most with naked heart At mine own home and birthplace: chiefly then, When I remember thee, my earliest friend!
Thee, who didst watch my boyhood and my youth; Didst trace my wanderings with a father's eye; And boding evil yet still hoping good,
Rebuked each fault, and over all my woes Sorrowed in silence! He who counts alone The beatings of the solitary heart,
That Being knows, how I have loved thee ever, Loved as a brother, as a son revered thee! Oh! 'tis to me an ever new delight,
To talk of thee and thine or when the blast Of the shrill winter, rattling our rude sash, Endears the cleanly hearth and social bowl; Or when as now, on some delicious eve, We in our sweet sequestered orchard-plot Sit on the tree crooked earth-ward; whose old boughs,
That hang above us in an arborous roof, Stirred by the faint gale of departing May,
Send their loose blossoms slanting o'er our heads!
Nor dost not thou sometimes recall those hours, When with the joy of hope thou gav'st thine ear To my wild firstling-lays. Since then my song Hath sounded deeper notes, such as beseem Or that sad wisdom folly leaves behind, Or such as, tuned to these tumultuous times, Cope with the tempest's swell!
Which I have framed in many a various mood,
Accept, my brother! and, (for some perchance Will strike discordant on thy milder mind,) If aught of error or intemperate truth Should meet thine ear, think thou that riper age Will calm it down, and let thy love forgive it!
WHO HAD DECLARED HIS INTENTION OF WRITING NO MORE POETRY.
DEAR Charles! whilst yet thou wert a babe, I
That Genius plunged thee in that wizard fount Hight Castalie and (sureties of thy faith) That Pity and Simplicity stood by,
And promised for thee, that thou shouldst re
The world's low cares and lying vanities, Steadfast and rooted in the heavenly Muse, And washed and sanctified to Poesy. Yes-thou wert plunged, but with forgetful hand Held, as by Thetis erst her warrior son: And with those recreant unbaptized heels Thou'rt flying from thy bounden minist❜ries- So sore it seems and burthensome a task
To weave unwithering flowers! But take thou heed:
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