The Literary Remains of Samuel Taylor Coleridge Volume I Part 12

I know it is dark; and though I have lain Awake, as I guess, an hour or twain, I have not once open'd the lids of my eyes, But I lie in the dark, as a blind man lies.

O Rain! that I lie listening to, You're but a doleful sound at best: I owe you little thanks, 'tis true, For breaking thus my needful rest!

Yet if, as soon as it is light, O Rain! you will but take your flight, I'll neither rail, nor malice keep, Though sick and sore for want of sleep.

But only now, for this one day, Do go, dear Rain! do go away!

O Rain! with your dull two-fold sound, The clash hard by, and the murmur all round!

You know, if you know aught, that we, Both night and day, but ill agree: For days, and months, and almost years, Have limped on through this vale of tears, Since body of mine, and rainy weather, Have lived on easy terms together.

Yet if, as soon as it is light, O Rain! you will but take your flight, Though you should come again to-morrow, And bring with you both pain and sorrow; Though stomach should sicken, and knees should swell-- I'll nothing speak of you but well.

But only now for this one day, Do go, dear Rain! do go away!

Dear Rain! I ne'er refused to say You're a good creature in your way.

Nay, I could write a book myself, Would fit a parson's lower shelf, Showing, how very good you are.-- What then? sometimes it must be fair!

And if sometimes, why not to-day?

Do go, dear Rain! do go away!

Dear Rain! if I've been cold and shy, Take no offence! I'll tell you why.

A dear old Friend e'en now is here, And with him came my sister dear; After long absence now first met, Long months by pain and grief beset-- With three dear friends! in truth, we groan Impatiently to be alone.

We three, you mark! and not one more!

The strong wish makes my spirit sore.

We have so much to talk about, So many sad things to let out; So many tears in our eye-corners, Sitting like little Jacky Horners-- In short, as soon as it is day, Do go, dear Rain! do go away.

And this I'll swear to you, dear Rain!

Whenever you shall come again, Be you as dull as e'er you could; (And by the bye 'tis understood, You're not so pleasant, as you're good;) Yet, knowing well your worth and place, I'll welcome you with cheerful face; And though you stay'd a week or more, Were ten times duller than before; Yet with kind heart, and right good will, I'll sit and listen to you still; Nor should you go away, dear Rain!

Uninvited to remain.

But only now, for this one day, Do go, dear Rain! do go away.

1809.

TRANSLATION

Of a Pa.s.sage in Ottfried's Metrical Paraphrase of the Gospels.

"This Paraphrase, written about the time of Charlemagne, is by no means deficient in occasional pa.s.sages of considerable poetic merit. There is a flow, and a tender enthusiasm in the following lines (at the conclusion of Chapter V.), which even in the translation will not, I flatter myself, fail to interest the reader. Ottfried is describing the circ.u.mstances immediately following the birth of our Lord."--'Biog.

Lit.' vol. i. p. 203.

She gave with joy her virgin breast; She hid it not, she bared the breast, Which suckled that divinest babe!

Blessed, blessed were the b.r.e.a.s.t.s Which the Saviour infant kiss'd; And blessed, blessed was the mother Who wrapp'd his limbs in swaddling clothes, Singing placed him on her lap, Hung o'er him with her looks of love, And soothed him with a lulling motion.

Blessed! for she shelter'd him From the damp and chilling air;-- Blessed, blessed! for she lay With such a babe in one blest bed, Close as babes and mothers lie!

Blessed, blessed evermore, With her virgin lips she kiss'd, With her arms, and to her breast, She embraced the babe divine, Her babe divine the virgin mother!

There lives not on this ring of earth A mortal that can sing her praise.

Mighty mother, virgin pure, In the darkness and the night For us she bore the heavenly Lord.

1810

"Most interesting is it to consider the effect, when the feelings are wrought above the natural pitch by the belief of something mysterious, while all the images are purely natural: then it is that religion and poetry strike deepest."--'Biog. Lit.' vol. i. p. 204.

ISRAEL'S LAMENT

ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE OF WALES. FROM THE HEBREW OF HYMAN HURWITZ.

Mourn, Israel! Sons of Israel, mourn!

Give utterance to the inward throe, As wails of her first love forlorn The virgin clad in robes of woe!

Mourn the young mother s.n.a.t.c.h'd away From light and life's ascending sun!

Mourn for the babe, death's voiceless prey, Earn'd by long pangs, and lost ere won!

Mourn the bright rose that bloom'd and went, Ere half disclosed its vernal hue!

Mourn the green bud, so rudely rent, It brake the stem on which it grew!

Mourn for the universal woe, With solemn dirge and falt'ring tongue; For England's Lady is laid low, So dear, so lovely, and so young!

The blossoms on her tree of life Shone with the dews of recent bliss;-- Translated in that deadly strife She plucks its fruit in Paradise.

Mourn for the prince, who rose at morn To seek and bless the firstling bud Of his own rose, and found the thorn, Its point bedew'd with tears of blood.

Mourn for Britannia's hopes decay'd;-- Her daughters wail their dear defence, Their fair example, prostrate laid, Chaste love, and fervid innocence!

O Thou! who mark'st the monarch's path, To sad Jeshurun's sons attend!

Amid the lightnings of thy wrath The showers of consolation send!

Jehovah frowns!--The Islands bow, And prince and people kiss the rod!

Their dread chastising judge wert Thou-- Be Thou their comforter, O G.o.d!

1817.

SENTIMENTAL.

The rose that blushes like the morn Bedecks the valleys low; And so dost thou, sweet infant corn, My Angelina's toe.

But on the rose there grows a thorn That breeds disastrous woe; And so dost thou, remorseless corn, On Angelina's toe.

1825.