By Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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)
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 draft, 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, e'en 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,
Nor 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.
