Poems Of Coleridge Part 22

He too has flitted from his secret nest, Hope's last and dearest child without a name!-- Has flitted from me, like the warmthless flame, That makes false promise of a place of rest To the tired Pilgrim's still believing mind;-- Or like some Elfin Knight in kingly court, Who having won all guerdons in his sport, Glides out of view, and whither none can find!

II

Yes! he hath flitted from me--with what aim, Or why, I know not! 'Twas a home of bliss, And he was innocent, as the pretty shame Of babe, that tempts and shuns the menaced kiss, From its twy-cl.u.s.ter'd hiding place of snow!

Pure as the babe, I ween, and all aglow As the dear hopes, that swell the mother's breast-- Her eyes down gazing o'er her clasped charge;-- Yet gay as that twice happy father's kiss, That well might glance aside, yet never miss, Where the sweet mark emboss'd so sweet a targe-- Twice wretched he who hath been doubly blest!

III

Like a loose blossom on a gusty night He flitted from me--and has left behind (As if to them his faith he ne'er did plight) Of either s.e.x and answerable mind Two playmates, twin-births of his foster-dame:-- The one a steady lad (Esteem he hight) And Kindness is the gentler sister's name.

Dim likeness now, though fair she be and good, Of that bright boy who hath us all forsook;-- But in his full-eyed aspect when she stood, And while her face reflected every look, And in reflection kindled--she became So like him, that almost she seem'd the same!

IV

Ah! he is gone, and yet will not depart!-- Is with me still, yet I from him exiled!

For still there lives within my secret heart The magic image of the magic Child, Which there he made up-grow by his strong art, As in that crystal orb--wise Merlin's feat,-- The wondrous "World of Gla.s.s," wherein inisled All long'd for things their beings did repeat;-- And there he left it, like a Sylph beguiled, To live and yearn and languish incomplete!

V

Can wit of man a heavier grief reveal?

Can sharper pang from hate or scorn arise?-- Yes! one more sharp there is that deeper lies, Which fond Esteem but mocks when he would heal.

Yet neither scorn nor hate did it devise, But sad compa.s.sion and atoning zeal!

One pang more blighting-keen than hope betray'd!

And this it is my woeful hap to feel, When, at her Brother's hest, the twin-born Maid With face averted and unsteady eyes, Her truant playmate's faded robe puts on; And inly shrinking from her own disguise Enacts the faery Boy that's lost and gone.

O worse than all! O pang all pangs above Is Kindness counterfeiting absent Love!

?1811

THE VISIONARY HOPE

Sad lot, to have no Hope! Though lowly kneeling He fain would frame a prayer within his breast, Would fain entreat for some sweet breath of healing, That his sick body might have ease and rest; He strove in vain! the dull sighs from his chest Against his will the stifling load revealing, Though Nature forced; though like some captive guest, Some royal prisoner at his conqueror's feast, An alien's restless mood but half concealing, The sternness on his gentle brow confessed, Sickness within and miserable feeling: Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams, And dreaded sleep, each night repelled in vain, Each night was scattered by its own loud screams: Yet never could his heart command, though fain, One deep full wish to be no more in pain.

That Hope, which was his inward bliss and boast, Which waned and died, yet ever near him stood, Though changed in nature, wander where he would-- For Love's Despair is but Hope's pining Ghost!

For this one hope he makes his hourly moan, He wishes and _can_ wish for this alone!

Pierced, as with light from Heaven, before its gleams (So the love-stricken visionary deems) Disease would vanish, like a summer shower, Whose dews fling suns.h.i.+ne from the noon-tide bower!

Or let it stay! yet this one Hope should give Such strength that he would bless his pains and live.

?1807 ?181O.

THE PAINS OF SLEEP

Ere on my bed my limbs I lay, It hath not been my use to pray With moving lips or bended knees; But silently, by slow degrees, My spirit I to Love compose, In humble trust mine eye-lids close, With reverential resignation, No wish conceived, no thought exprest, Only a _sense_ of supplication; A sense o'er all my soul imprest That I am weak, yet not unblest, Since in me, round me, everywhere Eternal Strength and Wisdom are.

But yester-night I pray'd aloud In anguish and in agony, Up-starting from the fiendish crowd Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me: A lurid light, a trampling throng, Sense of intolerable wrong, And whom I scorned, those only strong!

Thirst of revenge, the powerless will Still baffled, and yet burning still!

Desire with loathing strangely mixed On wild or hateful objects fixed.

Fantastic pa.s.sions! maddening brawl!

And shame and terror over all!

Deeds to be hid which were not hid, Which all confused I could not know Whether I suffered, or I did: For all seem'd guilt, remorse or woe, My own or others still the same Life-stifling fear, soul-stifling shame!

So two nights pa.s.sed: the night's dismay Saddened and stunned the coming day.

Sleep, the wide blessing, seemed to me Distemper's worst calamity.

The third night, when my own loud scream Had waked me from the fiendish dream, O'ercome with sufferings strange and wild, I wept as I had been a child; And having thus by tears subdued My anguish to a milder mood, Such punishments, I said, were due To natures deepliest stained with sin: For aye entempesting anew The unfathomable h.e.l.l within The horror of their deeds to view, To know and loathe, yet wish and do!

Such griefs with such men well agree, But wherefore, wherefore fall on me?

To be beloved is all I need, And whom I love, I love indeed.

1803.

LOVE'S BURIAL-PLACE

_Lady_. If Love be dead-- _Poet_. And I aver it!

_Lady_. Tell me, Bard! where Love lies buried _Poet_. Love lies buried where 'twas born: Oh, gentle dame! think it no scorn If, in my fancy, I presume To call thy bosom poor Love's Tomb.

And on that tomb to read the line:-- "Here lies a Love that once seem'd mine.

But took a chill, as I divine, And died at length of a decline."

1833.

LOVE, A SWORD

Though veiled in spires of myrtle-wreath, Love is a sword which cuts its sheath, And through the clefts itself has made, We spy the flashes of the blade!

But through the clefts itself has made, We likewise see Love's flas.h.i.+ng blade By rust consumed, or snapt in twain: And only hilt and stump remain.

?1825.

THE KISS

One kiss, dear Maid! I said and sighed-- Your scorn the little boon denied.

Ah why refuse the blameless bliss?

Can danger lurk within a kiss?

Yon viewless wanderer of the vale, The Spirit of the Western Gale, At Morning's break, at Evening's close Inhales the sweetness of the Rose, And hovers o'er the uninjured bloom Sighing back the soft perfume.

Vigour to the Zephyr's wing Her nectar-breathing kisses fling; And He the glitter of the Dew Scatters on the Rose's hue.

Bashful lo! she bends her head, And darts a blush of deeper Red!