The Complete Poetical Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge Volume I Part 90

The Complete Poetical Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge Volume I Part 90

[87] burst] break 1802. and] to B. L., _i. 194_. name] name B. L.

[91] strain] pomp B. L.

[92] in] on 1802.

[95] Priestcraft's] priesthood's 4{o}, P. R.: superst.i.tion's B. L.

[97] subtle] cherub B. L.

[98]

To live amid the winds and move upon the waves

1798, 4{o}, P. R.

To live among the winds and brood upon the waves

1802.

[99] there] there 1798: then 4{o}, P. R. that] yon 1802.

[100] scarce] just 1802.

[102] Yes, as I stood and gazed my forehead bare 1802.

[104] with] by 1802.

THE OLD MAN OF THE ALPS[248:1]

Stranger! whose eyes a look of pity shew, Say, will you listen to a tale of woe?

A tale in no unwonted horrors drest; But sweet is pity to an aged breast.

This voice did falter with old age before; 5 Sad recollections make it falter more.

Beside the torrent and beneath a wood, High in these Alps my summer cottage stood; One daughter still remain'd to cheer my way, The evening-star of life's declining day: 10 Duly she hied to fill her milking-pail, Ere shout of herdsmen rang from cliff or vale; When she return'd, before the summer shiel, On the fresh gra.s.s she spread the dairy meal; Just as the snowy peaks began to lose 15 In glittering silver lights their rosy hues.

Singing in woods or bounding o'er the lawn, No blither creature hail'd the early dawn; And if I spoke of hearts by pain oppress'd.

When every friend is gone to them that rest; 20 Or of old men that leave, when they expire, Daughters, that should have perish'd with their sire-- Leave them to toil all day through paths unknown, And house at night behind some sheltering stone; Impatient of the thought, with lively cheer 25 She broke half-closed the tasteless tale severe.

_She_ play'd with fancies of a gayer hue, Enamour'd of the scenes her _wishes_ drew; And oft she prattled with an eager tongue Of promised joys that would not loiter long, 30 Till with her tearless eyes so bright and fair, She seem'd to see them realis'd in air!

In fancy oft, within some sunny dell, Where never wolf should howl or tempest yell, She built a little home of joy and rest, 35 And fill'd it with the friends whom she lov'd best: She named the inmates of her fancied cot, And gave to each his own peculiar lot; Which with our little herd abroad should roam, And which should tend the dairy's toil at home, 40 And now the hour approach'd which should restore Her lover from the wars, to part no more.

Her whole frame fluttered with uneasy joy; I long'd myself to clasp the valiant boy; And though I strove to calm _her_ eager mood, 45 It was my own sole thought in solitude.

I told it to the Saints amid my hymns-- For O! you know not, on an old man's limbs How thrillingly the pleasant sun-beams play, That shine upon his daughter's wedding-day. 50 I hoped, that those fierce tempests, soon to rave Unheard, unfelt, around _my_ mountain grave, Not undelightfully would break _her_ rest, While she lay pillow'd on her lover's breast; Or join'd his pious prayer for pilgrims driven 55 Out to the mercy of the winds of heaven.

Yes! now the hour approach'd that should restore Her lover from the wars to part no more.

Her thoughts were wild, her soul was in her eye, She wept and laugh'd as if she knew not why; 60 And she had made a song about the wars, And sang it to the sun and to the stars!

But while she look'd and listen'd, stood and ran, And saw him plain in every distant man, By treachery stabbed, on NANSY'S murderous day, 65 A senseless corse th' expected husband lay.

A wounded man, who met us in the wood, Heavily ask'd her where _my_ cottage stood, And told us all: she cast her eyes around As if his words had been but empty sound. 70 Then look'd to Heav'n, like one that would deny That such a thing _could be_ beneath the sky.

_Again_ he ask'd her if she knew my name, And instantly an anguish wrench'd her frame, And left her mind imperfect. No delight 75 Thenceforth she found in any cheerful sight, Not ev'n in those time-haunted wells and groves, Scenes of past joy, and birth-place of her loves.

If to her spirit any sound was dear, 'Twas the deep moan that spoke the tempest near; 80 Or sighs which chasms of icy vales outbreathe, Sent from the dark, imprison'd floods beneath.

She wander'd up the crag and down the slope, But not, as in her happy days of hope, To seek the churning-plant of sovereign power, 85 That grew in clefts and bore a scarlet flower!

She roam'd, without a purpose, all alone, Thro' high grey vales unknowing and unknown.

Kind-hearted stranger! patiently you hear A tedious tale: I thank you for that tear. 90 May never other tears o'ercloud your eye, Than those which gentle Pity can supply!

Did you not mark a towering convent hang, Where the huge rocks with sounds of torrents rang?

Ev'n yet, methinks, its spiry turrets swim 95 Amid yon purple gloom ascending dim!

For thither oft would my poor child repair, To ease her soul by penitence and prayer.

I knew that peace at good men's prayers returns Home to the contrite heart of him that mourns, 100 And check'd her not; and often there she found A timely pallet when the evening frown'd.

And there I trusted that my child would light On shelter and on food, one dreadful night, When there was uproar in the element, 105 And she was absent. To my rest I went: I thought her safe, yet often did I wake And felt my very heart within me ache.

No daughter near me, at this very door, Next morn I listen'd to the dying roar. 110 Above, below, the prowling vulture wail'd, And down the cliffs the heavy vapour sail'd.

Up by the wide-spread waves in fury torn, Homestalls and pines along the vale were borne.

The Dalesmen in thick crowds appear'd below 115 Clearing the road, o'erwhelm'd with hills of snow.

At times to the proud gust's ascending swell, A pack of blood-hounds flung their doleful yell: For after nights of storm, that dismal train The pious convent sends, with hope humane, 120 To find some out-stretch'd man--perchance to save, Or give, at least, that last good gift, a grave!

But now a gathering crowd did I survey, That slowly up the pasture bent their way; Nor could I doubt but that their care had found 125 Some pilgrim in th' unchannel'd torrent drown'd.

And down the lawn I hasten'd to implore That they would bring the body to my door; But soon exclaim'd a boy, who ran before, 'Thrown by the last night's waters from their bed, 130 Your daughter has been found, and she is dead!'

The old man paused--May he who, sternly just, Lays at his will his creatures in the dust; Some ere the earliest buds of hope be blown, And some, when every bloom of joy is flown; 135 May he the parent to his child restore In that unchanging realm, where Love reigns evermore!

_March_ 8, 1798.

NICIAS ERYTHRAEUS.

FOOTNOTES:

[248:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, March 8, 1798: first collected _P. and D. W._, 1877-80: not included in _P. W._, 1893.

Coleridge affixed the signature Nicias Erythraeus to these lines and to _Lewti_, which was published in the _Morning Post_ five weeks later, April 13, 1798. For a biographical notice of Ja.n.u.s Nicius Erythraeus (Giovanni Vittorio d'Rossi, 1577-1647) by the late Richard Garnett, see _Literature_, October 22, 1898.

TO A YOUNG LADY[252:1]

[MISS LAVINIA POOLE]

ON HER RECOVERY FROM A FEVER

Why need I say, Louisa dear!

How glad I am to see you here, A lovely convalescent; Risen from the bed of pain and fear, And feverish heat incessant. 5

The sunny showers, the dappled sky, The little birds that warble high, Their vernal loves commencing, Will better welcome you than I With their sweet influencing. 10

Believe me, while in bed you lay, Your danger taught us all to pray: You made us grow devouter!

Each eye looked up and seemed to say, How can we do without her? 15

Besides, what vexed us worse, we knew, They have no need of such as you In the place where you were going: This World has angels all too few, And Heaven is overflowing! 20

_March_ 31, 1798.