By woman's gentle fortitude,
Each grief through meekness settling into rest!
Or I would hail thee when some high-wrought page
Of a closed volume lingering in thy hand
Has raised thy spirit to a peaceful stand
Among the glories of a happier age.
Her brow hath open'd on me see it there
Brightening the umbrage of her hair!
So gleams the crescent moon, that loves
To be descried through shady groves.
Tenderest bloom is on her cheek:
Wish not for a richer streak,
Nor dread the depth of meditative eye!
But let thy love, upon that azure field
Of thoughtfulness and beauty, yield
Its homage, offer'd up in purity!
What wouldst thou more? In sunny glade,
Or under leaves of thickest shade,
Was such a stillness e'er diffused
Since earth grew calm while angels mused?
Softly she treads, as if her foot were loath
To crush the mountain dew-drops, soon to melt
On the flower's breast,-as if she felt
That flowers themselves, whate'er their hue,
With all their fragrance, all their glistening,
Call to the heart for inward listening;
And though for bridal wreaths and tokens true
Welcomed wisely, though a growth
Which the careless shepherd sleeps on,
As fitly spring from turf the mourner weeps on,
And without wrong are cropp'd the marble tomb to strew.
The Charm is over! the mute Phantoms gone,
Nor will return! But droop not, favour'd Youth!
The apparition that before thee shone
Obey'd a summons covetous of truth.
From these wild rocks thy footsteps I will guide
To bowers in which thy fortune may be tried,
And one of the Bright Three become thy happy Bride.
NATURAL PIETY.
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began,
So is it now I am a man,
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man:
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
It is a beauteous evening, calm and free !
The holy time is quiet as a Nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea:
Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder-everlastingly.
Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,
If thou appear untouch'd by solemn thought,
Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year,
And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.
This world is too much with us: late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see of Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away,—a sordid boon!
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon,-
The winds, that will be howling at all hours,
And are upgather'd now like sleeping flowers,—
For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan, suckled in a creed outworn:
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea,
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
O'er the wide earth, on mountain and on plain,
Dwells in the affections and the soul of man
A Godhead, like the universal Pan,
But more exalted, with a brighter train :
And shall his bounty be dispensed in vain,
Shower'd equally on city and on field,
And neither hope nor steadfast promise yield
In these usurping times of fear and pain?
Such doom awaits us. Nay! forbid it, Heaven!
We know the arduous strife, the eternal laws
To which the triumph of all good is given,-
High sacrifice and labour without pause
Even to the death: else wherefore should the eye
Of man converse with immortality?
There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear
Than his who breathes, by roof and flower and wall Pent in, a tyrant's solitary Thrall.
'Tis his who walks about in the open air
One of a Nation who henceforth must wear
Their fetters in their souls: for who could be,
Who, even the best, in such condition free
From self-reproach, reproach that he must share
With human nature? Never be it ours
To see the sun how brightly it will shine,
And know that noble feelings, manly powers,
Instead of gathering strength, must droop and pine;
And earth, with all her pleasant fruits and flowers,
Fade and participate in man's decline!
Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne
Which mists and vapours from mine eyes did shroud,
Nor view of who might sit thereon allow'd;
But all the steps and ground about were strown
With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone
Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud—
"Thou art our king, O Death! to thee we groan."
Those steps I clomb, the mists before me gave
Smooth way; and I beheld the face of One
Sleeping alone within a mossy cave,
With her face up to heaven, that seem'd to have
Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone:
A lovely Beauty in a summer grave!
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
1772-1834.
All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.
Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour
When midway on the mount I lay
Beside the ruin'd tower.
The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene,
Had blended with the lights of eve,
And she was there, my hope, my joy,
My own dear Genevieve.
She lean'd against the armed man,
The statue of the armed knight;
She stood and listen'd to my lay
Amid the lingering light.
Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope, my joy, my Genevieve :
She loves me best whene'er I sing
The songs that make her grieve.
I play'd a soft and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story,
An old rude song that suited well
The ruin wild and hoary:
She listen'd, with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes, and modest grace,
For well she knew I could not choose
But gaze upon her face.
I told her of the knight that bore
Upon his shield a burning brand;
And how for ten long years he woo'd
The Lady of the Land :
I told her how he pined; and ah!
The deep, the low, the pleading tone
With which I sang another's love
Interpreted my own.
She listen'd, with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes, and modest grace;
And she forgave me that I gazed
Too fondly on her face.
But when I told the cruel scorn
That crazed this bold and lovely knight,
|