TO NIGHT. SWIFTLY walk over the western wave, Out of the misty eastern cave, Wrap thy form in a mantle grey, Blind with thine hair the eyes of day, Kiss her until she be wearied out, Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land, When I arose and saw the dawn, When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And the weary day turned to his rest, Thy brother, Death, came and cried, Thy sweet child, Sleep, thy filmy-eyed, Death will come when thou art dead, Sleep will come when thou art fled; TO A SKY-LARK. HAIL to thee, blithe spirit! In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher, From the earth thou springest The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are bright'ning, Thou dost float and run; Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of heaven, In the broad day-light Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear, Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. What thou art we know not; What is most like thee? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see, As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: Like a high-born maiden With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew, Its aërial hue Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view: Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflowered, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves: Sound of vernal showers Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth Teach us, sprite or bird, surpass. What sweet thoughts are thine : I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus Hymeneal, Or triumphal chaunt, March'd with thine would be all But an empty vaunt A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be : Never came near thee: Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? We look before and after, And pine for what is not : With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE was born on the 20th of October, 1772, at Ottery St Mary, in Devonshire. His father was a learned clergyman; and the Poet was the youngest of eleven children. In 1782, he was admitted into Christ's Hospital, London, where, according to his own account, he "enjoyed the inestimable advantage of a very sensible, though at the same time, a very severe master" At a premature age, even before his fifteenth year, he had "bewildered himself in metaphysical and theological controversy;" yet he pursued his studies with so much zeal and perseverance, that in 1791 he became Grecian, or captain of the school, which entitled him to an exhibition at the University; he was entered at Jesus College, Cambridge. Three years afterwards, in an inauspicious hour, he left the friendly cloisters," without assigning any cause, and without taking his degree, and again came to London. There, without the means of support, he wandered for some days about the streets, and enlisted in the 15th Dragoons. While doing duty at Reading, he wrote on the wall of the stable a Latin sentence, which chanced to meet the eye of one of the officers. The inquiry that followed led to his discharge. In 1794, he published a small volume of Poems. Subsequently, the taint of French republicanism fell upon him; and he lectured at Bristol in praise of the Dæmon that had stolen, and was for a time welcomed in, the garb of liberty. In 1795, he married; and in 1798, he visited Germany. In 1800, he returned to England; and although he had formerly professed Unitarianism, and had preached to a congregation at Taunton, he became a firm adherent to the doctrines of Christianity; or, to use his own expression, found a "reconversion." Afterwards, he "wasted the prime and manhood of his intellect," as the Editor of a Newspaper. During the last nineteen years of his life he resided with his faithful and devoted friends, Mr. and Mrs. Gillman, at Highgate; lecturing occasionally, writing poetry and prose, and delighting and instructing all who had the good fortune to be admitted to his society. He died on the 25th of July, 1834. The friends who knew him best, and under the shelter of whose roof-tree the later and the happier years of his chequered life were passed, have recorded their opinion of his character on the tablet that marks his grave in the Church at Highgate; and all who enjoyed the privilege of his acquaintance will bear testimony to its truth. It tells of his profound learning and discursive genius; his private worth; his social and Christian virtues; and adds, that his disposition was unalterably sweet and angelic: that he was an ever-enduring, ever-loving friend; the gentlest and kindest teacherthe most engaging home companion. Hazlitt, who knew him in his youth, describes him as rather above the middle size, inclining to corpulency; as having a dreamy countenance, a forehead broad and high, with large projecting eye brows, and "eyes rolling like a sea with darkened lustre." The description applies with almost equal accuracy to the Poet in age. The wonderful eloquence of his conversation is a prominent theme with all who have written or spoken of him; it was full of matter: his bookish lore, and his wide and intimate acquaintance with men and things, were enlivened by a grace and sprightliness absolutely startling;-his manner was singularly attractive, and the tones of his voice were perfect music. Few have obtained greater celebrity in the world of letters; yet few have so wasted the energies of a naturally great mind; few, in short, have done so LITTLE of the purposed and promised мUCH. Some of the most perfect examples that our language can supply are to be found among his Poems, full of the simplest and purest nature, yet pregnant with the deepest and most subtle philosophy. His judgment and taste were sound and refined to a degree; and when he spoke of the "little he had published" as being of little importance," it was because his conception of excellence exceeded even his power to convey it. Those who read his wildest productions-Christabel, and the Ancient Mariner - will readily appreciate the fertile imagination and prodigious strength of the writer; and if they turn to the gentler efforts of his genius, they wil find so many illustrations of a passage which prefaces an edition of his Juvenile Verses: "Poetry has been to me its 'exceeding great reward;' it has soothed my affliction; it has multiplied and refined my enjoyments; it has endeared solitude; and it has given me the habit of wishing to discover the good and the beautiful in all that meets and surrounds me." * A complete and beautifully printed edition of the Poems of S. T. Coleridge, in 3 vols., was published by Pickering, revised and arranged by the Poet, shortly before his death. |