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MERCER ADAM, L'ifr Editor nf " The Canadian ilnikthbj" ,(•. TORONTO : CDPP, CLAUK & CO., FRONT STRKET WKST. 1 S 8 5 . ex. 194-0? Ktiterpt! according to Act of Parliament of Canada, by COPP, CLARK & CO., In tlu! year one thonsand eight hundred and uighty-flvu, ii Uk* OOice of the Miuinter of Agriculture. ADVERTISEMENT. The ohject of the Notes accoinpiinyin;^ the present selec- tion from Coleridge's |)ocm8 — a selcetioii that unhappily exclndes his Bnest and most characteristic work — is simply to explain and illustrate the text, and to aid the teacher in his efforts to awaken admiration for the poet's genius and to foster a love for English Literature. It is assumed that, in Mpite of the misdirectetl eiforts of certain departmental exam- iners, the teachers of this Province know a more excellent way of spending the " Literature-hour " than tormenting their inipils with analysis and parsing, and cramming them with derivations that throw no light upon the author's meaning. The biographical sketch, being intended for the pupil's use, drves not go into discussions of the impropriety of the term, "The Lake School," or of the influence of Coleridge and Wonlsworth on the literature of the present century ; these the teacher will find in hand-books and in such works as Mr. Traill's able Lifv of Coleridge. It is to be hoped, however, that no one will adopt that author's one-sided view of Cole- ridge's philosophy without reading Principal Shairp's essay on Coleridge,, in "Studies in Poetry and Philosophy," and Principal TuUoch's article in the Fortniyhtfy for January, 1885. Hki;li.v, 21st May, 188&. LIFE OF COLEKIDGK. Early Years. Samuki, Taylok C!oLERinf!K was horn at Ottery St. NTary, Devonshire, in 1772. Coleridge, Scott, Wordsworth, an«l Soiithcy were all nearly of the same ajje. In his ninth year the former lost his father, the Rev. John Coleridge, from whom, rather than from his practical hut uncultivated mother, he inherited his great intelioctual i)OM'er8. Soon after, tlie orphan hoy, already a poet, was sent to Christ's Hospital, the "Blue-coat School, then un«1er the management of the Rev. James Bowyer, a cruel, hut Coleridge says, a very al>le teacher. The dreary life he led there may have strengtli- eued his tendency to «lay-dreaming,* which, he tells us, was his only play. Imprudence in allowing his wet clothes to dry on him made a great part of his life a " long disease," which in time enfeehled his power of will and destroyed his poetic faculty. Meanwhile he made great progress in stutly, translating the hymns of Synesius into English verse hefore his Hfteentlj year. A passion for metaphysical speculation ah3orhe([ his whole mind for a time. His life-long friend, Charles Lamh, himself a "Blue-coat" boy, giv-es us this in- teresting description of the young poet: — " How have I seen the casual passer through the cloisters stand still, entranced with admiration (while he weighed the disproportion between the speech and the garb of the young Mirandula), to hear thee unfold, in thy deep and sweet into- nations, the mysteries of lamblichus or Plotinus (for even in those years thou waxedst not pale at such philosophic er- b;itch " beiui; the laughiiig-atock of h\n comrades for his uluniainesa, though eiuleare William tt'ordawoith (1800). Here it may l>o needful t<» refer to the ofton- remarked von- ncction l)etween great political movements and the develop- ment of poetic genius. The influence of the French Hcvolution (m the literature of our century is not less ri>ninrkalile than that of the stirring times of Klizaheth on Sh.ikHperi! and hi.s contemporaries, and of the Civil War on Milton. It adecttd not only the subjects of |)oetry, hut alao its style, and Cole- ridce and Wordsworth showetl the superiority of a natiin;! mode of expression over the stilted and artiKcial diction of Pope and his school, ('(deridge's finer taste ami his Hcnsc of humour preserved him from the extremes into whioli Wonls- worth is hetriiyed, and his thoughts are never debased hy meanness of language. The Ode to the Departing Y^ear, written in the last week of 1790, is certainly superior, both in thought and in diction, to any ode that had appeared since Milton's (hfe on tfn Nativity, not even The Proijre«s of Pnt-try and The linnl ex- cepted. But the events of 1797 showed that the cause of France was by no means that of liberty, and the poet's di.s- appointment and sorrow found expression in the Odt iu trance. But 1797 brought its compensation. In that yoar, Coh.'- ridge, then residing at Nether Stowey, met at Kacfdown ti.e poet Wordsworth, whose "Descriptive Sketches" he had ad- mired while at Cambridge. The two poets were charmed with each other, and their association did much t»i mature the genius of both. From their conversations on poetry origi- nated the Lyrical Ballads, which were intended to illustrate ' ■ the two cardinal points of poetry ; the power of exciting the sympathy of the reader by a faithful adherence to the truth of nature, and the power of giving the interest of novt Ity by the modifying colours of the imagination." It was agreed that Wordsworth was to contribute poems on subjects cho- 8en from every-day life, while in Coleridge's part, " the inci- dents and agents were to be, in part at least, supernatural, and the interest aimed at was to consist in the interesting of the affections by the dramatic truth of such emotions rs would naturally accompany such situations, supposing them real." He was "to transfer from our inward nature a hu- man interest and a semblance of truth sufficient to procure for these shadows of the imagination that willing suspension of disbelief which constitutes poetic faith." Coleridge's part of the joint volume, which appeared in 1798, virtually con- sisted of the Ancient Mariner alone. It was projected, as vni LIFK OF COLERIDGE. WonlBwortli tolls us, in 1797, in order to defray the expense (if n Hhort tour, and begun aa the two pot-ta and Miss Wordu- worth walke«1 along the Quantook Hilln. " Much the greatedt part of the story was Mr. Coleridge's invention, hut certain parts I suggested ; for example, some crime was to be com- iiiitted which nhouUl bring upon the old navigator the sitectral |K?rsec'»tion," Wordsworth goes on to tell that having lately been read- ing ill Shelvouke's Voyages about albatrosses, he suggested til'.; killing of the bird, and furnished a few lines, but uiut his Htyle jiroved so widely diflFereut from ('oleridge's that he left the matter to him, and that when the Mariner outgrew the original limits, the p<>ets thought of a volume, the " Lyrical Hnllads," whose publication marks an era in English literature. C/iri-tahel and tne Dark Ladie, in which the poet says " I should have more nearly realized my ideal," were begun in 17S»8, but never finished —the fate also of the Three Urarcit, which might have proved the best of Coleridge's narrative poems. Chri»tahel, unrivalled for its weird interest and its perfect niehtdy, inspired Scott in writing his Lay of the Lant Miiixtrel. This perfection of melody also distinguishes Kuhla Khan, written in 1797, from the recollection of a dream, and indeed, in some measure, whatever Coleridge wrote. In 1798 Coleridge, by the wise generosity of the sons of \Vedgwoo«l, the eminent {xitter, in settling an annuity of £ir>0 ujKm him, was enabled to spend nearly a year in (ier- niany, chiefly in (iottingen, where he gained an insight into German philosophy and theology, especially the systems of Schelling and of Kant. Coleridge as a Journalist and Critio. On his return, Coleridge entered in earnest upon journal- ism by " undertaking the literary and political department of the Mornimj Post, on condition that the paper should thence- forward be conducted on certain fixed and announced prin- ciples." This undertaking not only proved advant:igeous to the Post, but added dignity to British journalism. But here Coleridge's poetical career abruptly ends, his translation of Schiller's Wallenxtein and the second part of Chrixtahel being his last extensive works. In 1800 he removed to the Lake country, settling at Keswick. Beautiful as is the situation, the climate quickened the seeds of disease long since sown by his youthful carelessness, so that his health was completely broken down. The Ode to Dejection (1802) shows us what ravages disease had made on his spirits and strength, and also what brought his poetic activity to an end just when his geuius seemed about to attain its full power. He tella us that "each visita- l^on " of disease suspended his "shaping spirit of imagination," UPE OF COLERIDOE. IX nml his only pliin wan "not to think of what I neo«lii muHt feel " — anil to employ his mintl in ahstrnsc ruscArch. Woi>t of all, pain drovu him to aet-k relit^f in onium, taken at HrNt in the '* Kendal Black Drr.p" as a remedy for " a rheumatir att'ectifm, with HWillinga at the knees and pains all over me. " Too late, ('oleridge found '.liniself hound hy a chain which his enfeebled will could not shake off. In hope that change of air might henetit him, he visited his friend. Sir Jithn Stoending some « :ne in Naples an«l in Home, where he met Tieck, the (>< rntrort/i, written after hearing the recitatioii of the I •< hule. The 1,1 .do was inscril)ed to Coleridge, and the ge; rous eulogy of his character and genius which it contaiitH aiuused the sad feelings expressed in the lines beginning, " Ahl a.s I listened with a hoart forlorn." The history of the next ten years is mo.it jiainful. '* Worse than homeless " through having alienated his wife by the shift^essness, irresolution, and neglect of duty caused by Iuh evil habit, broken in health, with imjtaired ])owerH, forming many schemes, but persevering in none, Coleridge kiw)ts to t/f Iliiflur ClnMHiM, the liioiiraphia Litf-raria, or liio(jr(ij>h\c(tl Sk'tchea of )n;f L'lterarif Life (iiid Oiiiiiiotm. He also le-issued T/k' Friend in a form which made it almost a new work. In 182") appeared the A'ulu to Jfejlcction, of wliich Prinei])al Tul- loch says : — " In his Aidn t > liijlcrtion C(derioms ; nor aie the last notes inadequate to this majestic overture. Of all Coleridge's poems, the loveliest is assuredly "Chris- tabel." It is not so vast in scope and reach of imagination as the "Ancient Mariner ;" it is not so miraculous as " Kubla Khan ;" but for simple charm of inner and outer sweetness it is unequalled by either. The very tei'ror and m^'stery of magical evil is imV>ued with this sweetness ; the witch has no less of it than the maiden ; their contact has in it nothing disstmant or disfiguring, nothing to jar or deface the beauty and harmony of the whole imaginatiou. — SvkriNUtRNE. Coleridge's thought may be almost said to be as wide as life. To a[)ply to himself the word which he first coined, or rather translated from some obscure Hyzantian, to express Shakspere's quality, he was a "myriad-minded man." Ho touched being at almost every point, and wherever he touched it, he opened up some new shaft of truth, and his books contain some fragments of what he saw. If a man wished to learn wliat genuine criticism shoidd be» where else in our country's literature would he find so worthy * lu the Hues, "Ho prnjitU best wlw lovstli bebt,"^&c» WORKS OF COLERIDGE. xni a model as in that dissertation on Wordsworth ? * * * In oi>po3iti(>n to the blind and utterly wortldess criticism which Jeffrey then rejjfesented, he thought out for himself and laid toiii bird of tf' od omen. " God save thee, ancient Mariner ! From the fiends, that plague thee thus ! 80 Why look'st thou so ?" — With my cross bow I shot the Albatross I i i THE KIME OF TIIK ANCIKNT MARINER. PART THE SFX'OND. The sun now rose upon the right : Out of the sea came he, Still hid in mist, and on the left 85 Went down into the sea. And the good south wind still blew behind, But no sweet bird did follow, Nor any day, for food or play, Came to the mariners' hollo ! 90 rVy'ol&^C^ I had done a hellish thing, Mari"e'r"f.'r And it would work 'em woe ; of'gMuck"' H'or ''ill averred, I had killed the bird That made the breeze to blow. Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to slay 95 That made the breeze to blow ! J!w dear".i''off Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, il;;^'e^r.K The glorious sun ui)rist ; ie'vcV.uTom. Then all averred, I had killed the bird ..liccsiuthe ry^^^ brought the fog and mist. 100 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, That bring the fog and mist. o.'.ufmKS*' The fiiir breeze blew, the white foam flew, tlle'ivuiflir The furrow* streamed off free : Sv'.'ni,'""'' ^Ve were the first that ever burst Into that silent sea. cvcii till it rt^auUcs the Liue. 105 w!A^\c% Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, b.uiiintd. 'Twas sad as sad could be ; And we did speak only to break The silence of the sea ! no AH in a hot and copper sky. The bloody sun, at noon. ' In Ute furiner edition the line was, Tlie fiirrow Tollinved free ; but 1 had not been long on board sliip, before I perceived that this was the imaj^e as seen by a spectator from tlie shore, or from another vessel. From the sliip itstlf the IVuke appears like a brook tluwing otT trom the steru. 85 90 95 I i -d I •>' mmi^mmmmmmi'i'mm ^mmmmmm THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the Moon. Day after day, day after day, We stuck, nor breath, nor motion ; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean. 115 MhJv>»^^ Water, water, every where, a'wd" *"" And all the boards did shrink ; Water, water, every where, Nor any drop to drink. The very deep did rot : O Christ ! That ever this should be ! Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs Upon the slimy sea. About, about, in reel and rout The death fires danced at night ; The water, like a witch's oils. Burnt green, and blue, and white. 120 12- 130 A spirit hn4 foUoweil tliem one of the iiiviHllile iuliiibltaMtg of lliU planet, iK-itlier il'j- pitrtcil houIk nor anifelK ; iimciriiiii;; whom the lenriieil Jew, Jiwephin, ami the I'latoiili- l,'on*t:iiitllio- I'olltan, MUliail I'Hcl- lii.H. iiiiiy he iioiHulteil. They arc very And some in dreams assured were Of the spirit that plagued us so : Nine fathom deep he had followed us From the land of mist and snow. [us And every tongue, through utter drought. Was withered at the root : We could not speak, no more than if We had been choked with soot. numerous, and there Is no i:llMi:ite or element without one or more. The slilpnmtea in their sor Ah ! well-a-day ! what evil looks rli,uh;;.:7h" Had I from old and voung ! ttrj.'i.S^'" Instead of the cross, the Albatrosi About my neck was hung. 14a Mariner : In 8lifn whereof theyU lui; the tlcad 'sea bird round hla u r 6 I jt THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. PART THE THIRD. There passed a weary time, l^ch throat Was parched, and glazed each eye. A weary time ! a weary time ! 145 How glazed each weary eye ! Marinirb"* When looking westward, 1 beheld in'theeicS A something in the sky. iifiir off. At first it seemed a little speck, And then it seemed a mist : 150 It moved and moved, and took at last A certain shape, I wist. A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! And still it neared and neared : As if it dodged a water-sprite, 155 It plunged and tacked and veered. At Its iieiiror iippriiadli, it se MiiJtIi to l»ln\ to he a With throats unslaked, with black lips baked We could nor laugh nor wail ; ?karra^!.m ho Through Utter drought all dumb we stood ! I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, 160 And cried, A sail ! a sail ! froeth tils ^ipeeiilj fiHiin »'l • l)Olli|S of thirst. I' hi With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, Agape they heard me call : A flash of Joy. Qramcrcy I they for joy did grin. And all at once their breath drew in. As they were drinking all. 165 And horror follows. For See I See ! ( I cried) she tacks no more ! timt'L!!n!V"^''^' Hither to work us weal ; Without a breeze, without a tide She steadies with upright keel ! 170 onward wrtthu'.it wind oi- tide » i ! The western wAve was all aflame, The day was well nigh done ! Almost upon the western wave Rested the broad bright Sun ; When that strange shape drove suddenly Betwixt us and the Sun. 17s MS 150 155 aked ood ! 160 165 170 175 I ■ ' ' '■■■■■'■'" ■""''''■'''wiwwiiiwpiiiwWWWl l i I THE RIVE OF THE ANOIBlTr MARINER. '.urtTe"''' "*" And straight the sun was flecked with bars, ike^etonofa (jfcaven's mother send us grace !) As if through a dungeon grate he peered, With broad and burning face. i8o Alas ! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) How fast she nears and nears 1 Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, Like restless gossamers ? And Its riba arc seen as bars on the face of the netting Sun. The spefitre- womau an4 her death- mate, and no other on board the skeleton- ship. Like vessel, like crew ! Are those her ribs through which the sun 185 Did peer, as through a grate ? And is that Woman all her crew ? Is that a Death ? and are there two ? Is Death that woman's mate ? Her lips were red, her looks were free, Her locks were yellow as gold ; Her skin was as white as leprosy. The night-mare Life-in-Death was she, Who thicks men's blood with cold. 190 ufe*in'.Death The naked hulk alongside came, 195 thJsii1p» w'2w And the twain were casting dice ; "atU'rMimfeth " The gamc is do-ie ! I've won, I've won !" Ma'r?ner"* Quoth she, and whistles thrice. The Sun's rim dips ; the stars rush out : At one stride comes the dark : 200 With far-heard whisper o'er the sea, Off shot the spectre-bark. We listened and looked sideways up ! Fear at my heart, as at a cup, My life-blood seemed to sip ! 205 The stars were dim, and thick the night. The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white j From the sails the dew did drip — At the rising Till clomb above the eastern bar of the Moon, ^he homcd Moon with pne bright star 210 Within the nether tip. wmmwmfwmmmmk ■■iff! lfc *B " f JliL - ■I |! } 1 t THE BIM£ OF THE ANCIEKT MARINER. One after another. One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, Too quick for groan or sigh, Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, And cursed me with his eye. 215 dropdrn*'" Four times fifty living men, (lead. (And I heard nor sigh nor groan) With heavy thump, a lifeless lump. They dropped down one by one. But Life-in- Iteath bei^i her work on the anr.lent Mariner. The souls did from the bodies fly,- They fled to bliss or woe ! And every soul it passed me by, Like the whizz of my cross-bow ! 220 PART THE FOURTH. Th* Wedding- finest j'caretn that a, siiirlt l8 talking to him " I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! I fear thy skinny hand ! 225 And thou art long, and lank, and brown, As is the ribbed sea-sand.* " I fear thee and thy glittering eye, And thy skinny hand so brown." — But the ancient F^ar ttot, fcar not, thou Wedding-Guest ! 230 This body dropt not down. Mariner asBur- eth him of his bodily life and proceedcth to relate his horrible penance. Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on the wide, wide sea ! And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony. 235 lie degptseth the creuturea of the calm. The many men, so beautiful ! And they all dead did lie ; And a thousand thousand slimy things Lived on ; and so did I. * For the last two lines of this stanza, I am indebted to Mr. Words- worth. It was on a delightful walk ftum Nether Stowey to Dulverton with him and his sister, in the autumn of 1797, tluit this poem wait planned, and in part composed. 235 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 9 And envleth that they RhuiilJ live, anil so many li<.> aeiid. I looked upon the rotting sea, And drew my eyes away : I looked upon the rotting deck, And there the dead men lay. 240 I looked to Heaven, and tried to pray ; But or ever a prayer had gusht, A wicked whisper came, and made My heart as dry as dust. I closed my lids, and kept them close, And the balls* like pulses beat ; For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky Lay, like a load on my weary eye, And the dead were at my feet. 245 2i;o Ku^ the cune liVL'th for him In the eye of the Uead men. The cold sweat melted from their limbs, Nor rot nor reek did they : The look with which they looked on me 255 Had never passed away. An orphan's curse would drag to Hell A spirit from on high ; But oh ! more horrible than that Is the curse in a dead man's eye ! 260 Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, And yet 1 could not die. Ill hU loneli- negg and fixedness, he yeiirneth towards the loiirneylnK Moon, and the ittarsthat still sojourn, yet Htill move onward; and every where the blue t«ky helongs to The moving Moon went up the sky, And no where did abide : Softly she was going up, And a star or two beside — 265 Her beams bemocked the sultry main, Like April hoar-frost spread ; theiT'apJointed But where the ship's huge shadow lay, «ative"counti^ The chamicd water burnt alway r«'.^f LT.. A still and awful red. which they enter unannounced, aa lords that are certainly expected, and yet there ig a aUent Joy at their arrival. Bv the light of the Moon he heholdeth Hod'* Beyond the shadow of the ship, I watched the water-snakes : auiiiu 10 THE RIME OF THE ANOIENT MARINER. crcAturcH of the irrcat ralm. They moved in tracks of shining white, And when they reared, the elfish light 275 Fell off in hoary flakes. Within the shadow of the ship I watched their rich attire : Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, They coiled and swam ; and every track Was a flash of golden fire. Their beauty iin 1 their happlneu. 280 O happy living things ! no tongue Their beauty might declare : A spring of love gushed from my heart, And I blessed them unaware ! Sure my kind saint took pity on me, And I blessed them unaware. He blcRgeth tlieiii In hl8 heart. 285 Tlie ipell beglnH tu break. The self same moment I could pray; And from my neck so free The Albatross fell off, and sank Like lead into the sea. 290 PART THE FIFTH. Oh, sleep ! it is a gentle thing, Beloved from pole to pole ! To Mary Queen the praise be given ! She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, That slid into my soul. raitic 295 o(Xy "' The silly buckets on the deck, .indent*"" That had so long remained, refreshed with I dreamt that they were filled with dew ; And when I awoke, it rained. 300 My lips were wet, my throat was cold, My garments all were dank ; Sure 1 had drunken in my dreams, And still my body drank. 75 8o 85 )o '^'^^^mmmmmmmmm I THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 11 I moved, and could not feel my limbs ; I was so light — almost I thought lint I had died in sleep, And was a blessed ghost. 305 He hcureth »uuud«, uiitl >erth HtmiiKu KlithtH mill nimmDtioiiH In tliL- sky ikiiil the eleBicnt. And soon I heard a roaring wind ; It did not come anear ; But with its sound it shook the sails, That were so thin and sere. 310 The upper air burst into life ! And a hundred fire-flags sheen, To r»nd fro they were hurried about ; And to and fro, and in and out, The wan stars danced between. 315 And the coming wind did roar more loud. And the sails did sigh like sedge ; And the rain poured down from one black cloud ; 320 The Moon was at its edge. The thick black cloud was cleft, and still The Moon was at its side ; Like waters shot from some high crag, The lightening fell with never a jag, 325 A river steep and wide. ?he S" °' The loud wind never reached the ship, ins^iritld and Yct now the ship moved on ! movesSn. Beneath the lightning and the Moon The dead men gave a groan. 330 They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose. Nor spake, nor moved their eyes ; It had been strange, even in a dream, 'J'o have seen those dead men rise. The helmsman steered, the ship moved on ; 335 Yet never a breeze up blew ; The mariners all 'gan work the ropes, VVhere they were wont to do : They raised their limbs like lifeless tools — V\'e were a ghastly crew 340 ■P^Bw^^^wfWP^n" 12 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 1 The body of my brother's son Stood by me, knee to knee : The body and I pulled at one rope, But he said naught to me. '"mol tC " I fear thee ancient Mariner ;" 345 ImmiTea?*" Bc Calm, thou Wedding-Guest ! b u'b?am«scd 'Twas not those souls that fled in pain, H[.'!?iw"'^ienf "" Which to their corses came again, vZtiliroVthe But a troop of spirits blest : guardian gu'iit. For when it dawned — they dropped their arms, 350 And clustered round the mast ; Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths. And from their bodies passed. Around, around, flew each sweet sound, Then darted to the Sun ; Slowly the sounds came back again, 355 Now mixed, now one by one. Sometimes a-dropping from the sky I heard the sky-lark sing ; Sometimes all little birds that are, How they seemed to fill the sea and air 360 With their sweet jargoning ! And now 'twas like all instruments. Now like a lonely flute ; And now it is an angel's song, That makes the heavens be mute. 363 It ceased ; yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon, • A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night 370 Singeth a quiet tune. Till noon we quietly sailed on, Yet never a breeze did breathe : p I .■■.;^.w-.lll].|HII IIWUIIPP^^WIWPIIWW I THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 13 Slowly and smoothly went the ship, Moved onward from beneath. 375 Tl>e lonesome sj«irit from the noutli-pole (ViiTles (III the Hhlpg an fnr as the line, in obedtenre to the angelic troop but still requlreth venKeanoe. Under the keel nine fcithom deep, From the land of mist and snow, The spirit slid ; and it was he That made the ship to go. The sails at noon left off their tune, And the ship stood still also. 380 The Sun, right up above the mast, Had fixed her to the ocean ; But in a minute she 'gan stir, With a short uneasy motion — Backwards and forwards half her length. With a short uneasy motion. Then like a pawing horse let go, She made a sudden bound : It flung the blood into my head. And 1 fell down in a swound. 385 The Polar Spirit's fellDW- ilcniouH, the invisible inhiihitants of the element, take part in hia wrunK ; and two of them relate, one to the other, that penance lone and heiivy for tlio ancient Mariner hnth been accorded to the Polar Spirit who retiirneth soutliward. How long in that same fit I lay, I have not to declare ; But ere my living life returned, I heard, and in my soul discerned Two voices in the air. 395 " Is it he ?" quolh one, " is this the man ? By Him who died on cross, With his cruel bow he laid full low. The harmless Albatross. - • 400 " The spirit who bideth by himself In the land of mist and snow, He loved the bird that loved the man Who shot him with his bow." . The other was a softer voice, As soft as honey-dew : Quoth he, " The man hath penance done And penance more will do." 405 ivniHivm 14 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINES. PART THE SIXTH. First Voice, " Dut tell me, tell me ! speak again, Thy soft response renewing — 410 What makes that ship drive on so fast ? What is the ocean doing ?" Second Voice. " Still as a slave before his lord, The ocean hath no blast \ His great bright eye most silently 415 Up to the Moon is cast — "If he may know which way to go For she guides him smooth or grim, See, brother, see I how graciously She looketh down on him." 420 First Voice. h:ithbcen^9t " But why dHves on that ship so fast, into a trance ; -..t-.i . • j -»>i for tiie ftngeiic Without or wave or wind ? power causeth the vessel to diive north- ward faster than human life could endure. Second Voice. " The air is cut away before, And closes from behind. Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high ! Or we shall be belated : For slow and slow that ship will go. When the Mariner's trance is abated." 4*5 / Amotion I woke, and we were sailing on The luper uatura. Ihe'ttn'e^ As iu a gcntlc weather : nwakes, and his penance H^tjini anew. 'Twas night, calm night, the Moon was high ; The dead men stood together. All stood together on the deck, For a chamel-dungeon fitter : All fixed on me their stony eyes, That in the Moon did glitter. 435 |IO 15 20 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 15 The pang, the curse, with which they died, Had never passed away : I could not draw my eyes from theirs, Nor turn them up to pray. 13te euree la finally expiated, 440 And now this spell was snapt : once more I viewed the ocean green. And looked far forth, yet little saw Of what had else been seen — Like one, that on a lonesome road Doth walk in fear and dread. And having once turned round, walks on And turns no more his head ; Because he knows, a fearful fiend Doth close behind him tread. But soon there breathed a wind on me, Nor sound nor motion made : Its path was not upon the sea, In ripple or in shade. 445 450 It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek 455 Like a meadow-gale of spring- — It mingled strangely with my fears, Yet it felt like a welcoming. Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, Yet she sailed softly too : 460 Sweely, sweetly blew the breeze — On me alone it blew. Marine?'"* Oh ! dream of joy ! is this indeed beiuudethhu The lighthouse top I see? country. jg ^j^j, ^^^ ^^y^ f J^ ^^Jg ^^^ j^jj.}^ p ^^^ Is this mine own countree ? We drifted o'er the harbour-bar. And I with sobs did pray — O let me be awake, my God ! let me sleep alway. wnpWMPPPliP 10 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINBB. !: The harbour-bay was clear as glass, So smoothly it was strewn ; And on the bay the moonlight lay, And the shadow of the Moon. The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, That stands above the rock : The moonlight steeped in silentness The steady weathercock. 475 J-l'irusielvo And the bay was white with silent light, toallT^ 'I'ill rising from the same, Full many shapes, that shadows were. In crimson colours came. 480 hiUieir''o«n A little distance from the prow forms of light. Those crimson shadows were : I turned my eye upon the deck — Oh, Christ ! what saw I there ! Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat. And, by the holy rood ! A man all light, a seraph-man, On every corse there stood. This seraph-band, each waved his hand, It was a heavenly sight ! They stood as signals to the land, Each one a lovely light : This seraph-band, each waved his hand, No voice did they impart — No voice ; but oh ! the silence sank Like music on my heart. But soon I heard the dash of oars, I heard the Pilot's cheer ; My head was turned perforce away, And I saw a boat appear. The Pilot, and the Pilot's boy, I heard them coming fast : 48s 490 495 i *a 500 HJi ♦7S \8o 85 .90 95 00 |:. 1; ■■ TiiK iiui'A or Tir -, AVciENT mau:ni:u. Dear Loi 1 in IT 'avcn I it w.is ;i j )y The deal men cjul J not hi ist. I saw a third — I hj.ird his voicj ; ■ . It is the M :rmit g'l.nl ! Hl' siiij^clh hnid his {^^)dly hymns That hj makes in llie wood. He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away The Albatross's blood. 17 505 5'3 PART THK .SEVKXrif. n^h'.'u-Mi. 'I^his Hjrinit good lives in that wood Which slopes down to the .^cd. llyiw loudly his sweet voice he rears I He loves to talk with marineres 'i hat come from a far countrec. He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve — Jle hatli a cushion plump : It is the moss that wliolly hides The rotted old oak stuajp The skirfdK)at neared ■ I heard them talk, " Why, this is strange, I trow A\'liere are those lights so many and fair, 'J'hat si " cftest way." w •)•) THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MAUINEH. Hales points out that Coleridge is c rrect in using " minstrels" for "musicians," not, like Scott, for " [loets." 46 — /Is 'd'/io. JV/io is here an indefinite pronoun equivalent to ofie. So in Shakspere's "As who should say." /. c, "As one would say." 47 — T7cads the shadon'. Runs on ground overshadowed by his foe ; /. ^., is hotly pursued. This well expresses the sailors' fear and desperate efforts. Still, constantly. Note what life is thrown into the description l»y the jiersonitication, and by the comparison of the ship to the fugitive. This was not found in the first edition. 51-62 — A short but powerful descrijnion of a sea full of ice- bergs. Note the touch of color in 1. 54, and the imitative melody ("onomatopoeia") in 1. 61. 56 — 6'//^'^«, brightness, akin to j///'//^. 57 — Ken, discern. 62 — S^iwund, formed from sivoon by adding d ; Cf. sound from Fr. son, and the vulgar "sudden-t." Strange noises are heard by some people when fainting. O3 — Albatross, a corruption of Portuguese alcatiaz, in which al — is perhaps an article, a.'i,\nal-£f/>ra, al-coliol. The wandering albatross {Diotncdea cxtdans), allied to the petrels, but " rival- ling the condor in size and strength of wing," is an Antarctic bird abounding in the region of storms, near the Cajie of Good J lope and Cape Horn. The introduction of the albatross walew, foam tlew, furrow off free). .Most editions ke^p the earlier reading, "The furrow followed free." (See the foot- note. ) The change illustrates the poet's fidelity to nature. 107 — Sails dropi down. Hung slack instead of btdlying out with the wind. Observe how simple the language is, and yd how full of meaning, especially in lines 109-10. 1 1 1 — Copper, A viviil epithet whose correctness is confirmed by those who have been becalmed in the " Doldrums." 117 — Painted, in a picture. 119 — Water evey-ynoliere. This aggravated their distress, asdid the shrinking of the ship's planks through the drought and heat. 123— In the Middle Ages, even i)ious ]ieople (for instance Langland in " Piers Plowman ") weie given to uttering ^acietl names with a freedom that to us seems like downright jir.jfai ity. The Mariner's feelings, too, are harrowed up by recalling the rightful scene. ■ 2t Tin-: lUMK OF TUK AXriKXT MAHIXKR. IS 125 -IVii/i h\;s. Tills sec'ined unnatural an;l as if the onler of the universe were disturbefh l2S — /?i\i^/i-/i>is. Luninoiis a]»pcarances, viilj^rirly cillcd " corpse candles." Thev are j^onerally caused hy tlie cond)Us- tion of ^ises evolwd fro n decavinij orj^ranic matter. Here tlicy must have been of electric orij,'in, but resembling those seen on land. 132 -T/a: s/>iri/. We afterward-; learn that it was " 'l"hr- sjiirit wti'i lililctli by himself 111 lliJ l.uid of mist .'uul sii i\v." 13S —Cliokt'd (i'ith sojt. This homely phrase, as well as the (I nb'e neg\tive in the prccodini; line, is in kpcping with the Mariner's station in life. Is soot a perfect rhyme for root .•* 139 —lV:lI-i-:{i]i, a corruption of wellaway, which is itself a eorraptioi of O. K. w;'i hi wa, ~ooc '. lol icw ! 141 — f/i\i)\ but with O. IC. w\)rian, to wander; so that it means " as one feels aftjr wanderin},^" 152 — Wist, properly "knew," here rather "perceived." It is the past of wot, O. E. Wt'it, pret. wiste, inf. wit-an, to wit. 155 — Doii^i'J, "were do lining." This is not necessarily an undi_jiiiried word; thus Milton says, "some dodyjinj; casuist." It is probably akin to dodder, not to do^. 156— I'ltr, to swerve, lit. to go in a circle (P'r. vir-er, I.at. viria, a larife rin;j;t, imi)lies more sudar, the horizon. Oiio, br'igJit star. I'he poet is true to nature in making so minute a particular print itself on the Mariner's horror-stricken brain. 212 — .''A/;-i/('v,C'':u/id\s JViysiail Geoi;;r(j/>/iy, ji and J3. 275 — Eljisli. Like that of fairyland, "elf" being the pure English for " fairy." 2%\—Sprini^. Shew tliat this metaphor is here the most natural mode of expression. 286 — My kind saint. His patron after whom he was named. TART V. 297 — Silly must be tiken in the sense useless," rather a perversion of the older meaning " simple," which is itself a degradation of the original meaning "blessed." 302 — Dank, moist, dam[) ; probably is not connected with tlie latter word, bi.t with Icelandic doj^, dew. 306 — Almost modifies thought, 312 — Sere, otherwise spelled, sear, dry withered. 314 — Sheen, bright, f\iir, was originally, as here, an adjective. The ballad of " l
    in Hood and Guy of Gisborne" begins, " When shaws be sheene," /. e., when woods are shinidg. IVan, pale ; /. e , in comi)arison with the fires. 325 — yi^'^i a break. The comparison of lightning to a cata- ract well pictures the wonderful display of electricity witnessetl in tropical storms ; not flashes, but continuous sheets of flame. 333 — Had been ; would have been. 335 — This striking incident, which was suggested by Words- worth, might be objected to as burtlening the story with need- less supernatural interrcence. We may, however, consider that we receive ample amends in the weird picture contained in lines 313-26, and in *he beautiful description in lines 357-371 NOTES. 27 '^^^—Saiii iioiiii/it to me. For it was only tlie liody (sfc 347) of his nephew. In the first ediiiou these fuieihle Hnes follow : — "Ami I c|ii;ik'd to think of my "w.i voice- How fiij^htfiil it would be." 35S —The first eilition liad " lavrock,'" which Colcridj^i; has clianged to the modern "skylark," widely thinkin- thai the ixiem needs no more tlian an occassional archaic (01 ni. 361 — yiioot/i or grim : adjectives used \)y proh/>-sis (anticipa- tion) as predicates of //////. 434 — Cliavnel. A charnel house (L. carn-em, llesh) was one in which corpses were placed, or into which bones were removeed from the churchyard when the bodies were decayed. Fitter applies to all. 444. //(/(/= svould have. lie was too full of vague terror (powerfully pictured in the succeeding stanza) to mark what l)resented itself to his eyes. 454 — Ripple or in shade. It neither agitated nor cast a shade upon the sea. Even a " cat's-[>aw " darkens the water. 451 — Note how the contrast with the scene of horror just past heightens the tender beauty with the succeeding stanzas. It iiiiriglid straiigelij with i/iy ftuns. Perhaps because it was supernatural : "its path was not upon the sea." 466 — Coiiutree. The archaic accent may be justified as giving an antique tone to the language. 470-1 — Observe the beauty and force of these lines, and also of: "The moonlight steepeii in silentncss, 'I'he steady weathercock." "They silence sank Like music on my heart." ^l(y — In the first edition the corpses rose once more, and " They lifted up their stiff right arms, They h-^ld them strait and ti>;ht, And each right arm burned like a t rch, A torch that's bcrne upright, Their stony eye-balls glittered on In the reJ and smoky light." 28 THE niJi : OF THE ancient maiuner. r- H Wl- cannot leprct their omission, as tlicy nre too like a carici- turo of liu- scene in 433-'^, and moreover arc out of Keeping witli tlie i»rev.iilinLi lone of this part of the poem, which is one i)f piace and forgiveness. 4SS -/uKxl cross, from O. E. rAd a gallows, originally a pole or ret/. 489 — S.Kt///. One of the highest order of angels, a singular formed from tiie Ileijrew seri\|)him, literally "exalted ones." 493 — .S'/v'/fi'/.f, /. <'., for a j)ilot. 495— This is an impressive farewell sent from the bodies of liis slii])mates. We now leave the domain of the supernatural. 505 — /A/r /,;■;•(/, an exclamation of tiiankfuhiess. 50S — Ilcrniit. A corruption o( crcniiie (or ccreviiU'), a dweller in the wilderness (Gr. eremos). 511 — S/zr/tT'i', usually spelled shrive, to hear a confe'^sion (wlienco SIirove-Tuesday), probably through O. Iv jtvv/f'/;/ from Lat. scii'i'ic, to write, especially a law, hence to impose a penalty, whence the notion of imposing a penance might spring. I'ART VII. 515— A'( 'wi' comes from true. 530-6 — Why is the unkempt conlition of the ship so dwelt upon ? 534— 7I'stlic, terrible — which i;, akin to (iolhic us-gaisjan, to terrify — has no connection with g/iost, from which perhaps its // crept in. 590— ty/i-<>//r. This suggestive contrast of the boisterous revelry of the rude guests with the singing of the bride and her NOTES. •2'J inaidN, .111(1 the vcsner hell's call to prayer natuially iiUrodiKi-. the fiiiicliKliiiji rcticctions on the (lclii;Iiffuliiess of l)ivine ser- vice, and on tlie spirit uf love to all (jod's erealurcs, " witlioul which all our doinj^s are nothing worth." 623 — Sadder, more serious ; so, " .Sp.;ak you this with a sad brow?" (.Shak,, Ado I, i). It is interesting to read Coleridge's own opininn of tlie Ancient Mariner as fo\ind in his Table Talk : — " Mr-.. I'arbauld once told nie that she admired the Aiiciei.t Mariner very nnich. but that tliere were two faults in it— it was iin) rubaMe, ;ind had no moral. As for the prohability, I owned that it mi^ht admit some cpiestion ; but as to the want of a inoial, I told her that in my own judj^meni i!ie imeni had loo mucli ; atid that the only, or chief fault, if I mij^ht .^ay so, was tlie obtrusion of the moral sentiment so openly on the reader as a principle or cause of action in a work of such pure ima{.inalion.'' The moral referred to is contained evidently in the last stanza but two. The student should be able to shew wli.re else the moral hus been "obtruded on the reader," 'S^ KKBggnMM ik \ I SELECT ODES FlioM SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE E. I * ! ■Ill f! 1) E S ODE TO THE DEPARTING YEAR.* lor. inr, w (.) Kdnn. T.t' rtr II F (^nvor oi)0<)iinvTflag rr6i'n^ '£ri)(hitl, rnpnonuv f^jtmiiiiuq io/j/iiaic. To iitWnv i/;Fi. Kai nv ii Iv rnxti ~api.)v " A]ai' )' aXyOo/iarrtv (aKTeiiHii; ifmr. ARGUMENT, Til- 0(l(j commences with an acMress to t1ie T)iviiie Provi- flcncc. that ivi^ulates into one va^t harmony ail tiic cwMits nf time, liouever calamitous some of tliem may ap])ear to moilal-<. The second Strophe calls on men to suspend their private jjys and sorrows, and devote them for a while to the cau>e of human nature in _ti;eneral. The first Kpoile speaks of the Kmpre-s of Kus-,ia, will) died of an ai)oplexy on the I7ih of Xo\cmber. I79v5 ; having just concluded a subsidi-.ry treaty with the Kint^s combined against France. The first and second Antisiro] h'^ descril)e the image of the Departing \'ear, &c., as in a vision. 'I'he >econd I'lpode prophesies, in anguish of si)irit, the downfall of this country. Spirit who sweepest the wi.ci harp of Time I It is most hard, with an untroubled ear 'J'hy dark inwoven harmonies to hear ! Yet, mine eye fixed on Heaven's unchanginu^ cHme. Long had 1 hslened, free from mortal fear, 5 With inward stillness, and a bowed mind ; \Vhen lo ! its folds far waving on the wind, I saw the train of the departing Year ! Starting from my silent sadness, Then with no unholy madness 10 Ere yet the entered cloud foreclosed my siglit. I raised the impetuous song, and solemnised his Hight. This ( )ile was composed on the a4ih, 35th, and a6th days of December, 1796 ; and was first published on the last day of that year. 32 0DR8. II. Hither, from the pjcent tomb, I'rom tlic i)rison's direr gloom, From distemper's midni,t,'ht anguish ; 15 And thence, where Poverty doth waste and hingiiish I Or where, liis two bright torches blending, IvOve iUumines manhood's m i/e, Or where o'er cradled infants bending Hope has fixed her wishful ga/e ; Piither, in peri)lexed dance, Ve Woes ! ye young-eyed Joys ! advance. 20 1 !i V>y Time's wild harp, and by the hand Whose indefatigable sweej) Raises its fateful strings from sleep, I bid you haste, a mixed tumultuous band ! From everv jjrivate bower. And each domestic hearth, Haste for one solemn hour ; And with a loud and yet a loader voice, O'er Nature struggling in portentous birth, Weep and rejoice ! Still echoes the dread name that o'er the earth Let slip the storm, and woke the brood of hell : And now ad\ance in saintly jubilee Justice and Truth ! They too have heard thy spell ! They too obey thy name, divinest Liberty ! I) 35 III. I marked Ambition in his war array I I heard the mailed Monarch's troublous cry ; [40 " Ah I wherefore does the Northern Omcjueress stay ! Groans not her chariot on its onward way ? " Fly, mailed Monarch, fly I Stunned by Death's twire mortal mace, No more on murder's lurid face The insatiate hag shall gloat with drunken eye ! 45 Manes of the unnumbered slain ! Ye that gasped on Warsaw's plain ! I AijB.umJiii'Jgji'.ii.u ' it.jt^ui ".u n 20 3^' I uij. J ^^i.jme locks with wreaths, wliose wreaths with glorii^s shone. Then, his eye wild ard.iurs glancing, 70 From the clioired gods advancing, Tlie Spirit of the Marth made reverence meet, A id stood u[), beautiful, before the cloudy seat. V. Throughout the blissful throng, Hushed were harp and song : ' 75 J'ill v.heeling round the throne the Lampads seven, (The mystic words of Heaven) Permis^ive signal make : The fervent Spirit bowed, then s[)read his wings and spake ! " Thou in stormy blackness throning * 80 Love and uncreated Dight, •■ • ]]y the F'.arth's unsolaced groaning, Seize thy terrors, Arm of might ! ■,1A'.M'...M.S;,H,KJJI-1*P!|I t 34 ODES. By peace with proffered insult scared, Masked hate and envying scorn ! 85 By years of havoc yet unborn ! And hunger's l)Osom to the frost-winds bared ! But chief by Afric's wrongs, Strange, horrible, and foul ! By what deep guilt belongs ^o To the deaf Synod, ' full of gifts and lies !' By wealth's insensate laugh! by torture's howl ! Avenger, rise ! For ever shall the thankless Island scowl. Her quiver full, and with unbroken bow ? 95 Speak ! from thy storm-black Heaven O speak aloud ! And on the darkling foe Open thine eye of fire from some uncertain cloud ! O dart the flash ! O rise and deal the blow ! The Past to thee, to thee the Future cries ! 100 Hark ! how wide Nature joins her groans below ! Rise, God of Nature ! rise." VI. The voice had ceased, the vision fled ; Yet still I gasped and reeled with dread. And ever, when the dream of night 105 Renews the phantom to my sight, . Cold sweat-drops gather on my limbs ; My ears throb hot ; my eye-balls start ; My brain with horrid tumult swims ; Wild is the tempest of my heart ; 1 10 And my thick and struggling breath Imitates the toil of death ! No stranger agony confounds The soldier on the war-field spread, When all foredone with toil and wounds, 115 Death-like he dozes among heaps of dead ! (The strife is o'er, the daylight fled. And the night-wind clamours hoarse ! See ! the starting wretch's head Lies pillowed on a brother's corse !) 1 20 85 9o 95 oud ! lOO )w ! IC5 1 10 115 120 ii BSB SB '/. i I i ii ODES. 36 VII. Not yet enslaved, not wholly vile, O Albion ! O my mother Isle ! Thy valleys, fair as Eden's bowers, Glitter green with sunny showers ; Thy grassy uplands' gentle swells Jtj Echo to the bleat of flocks ; (Those grassy hills, those glittering dells Proudly ramparted with rocks) And Ocean mid his uproar wild Speaks safety to his island-child. 130 Hence for many a fearless age Has social Quiet loved thy shore ; Nor ever proud invader's rage Or sacked thy towers, or stained thy fields with gore. viir. Abandoned of Heaven, mad avarice thy guide, 135 At cowardly distance, yet kindling with pride — Mid thy herds and thy corn-fields secure thou hast stood, And joined the wild yelling of famine and blood ! The nations curse thee ! They with eager wondering Shall hear Destruction, like a vulture, scream ! 140 Strange-eyed Destruction ! who with many a dream Of central fires through nether seas upthundering Soothes her fierce solitude ; yet as she lies By livid fount, or red volcanic stream, If ever to her lidless dragon-eyes, 145 O Albion ! thy predestined ruins rise, The fiend-hag on her perilous couch doth leap, Muttering distempered triumph in her charmed sleep. IX. Away, my soul, away ! In vain, in vain the birds ot warning sing — 150 And hark ! 1 hear the famished brood of prey Flap their lank pennons on the groaning wind ! Away, my soul, away ! I unpartaking of the evil thing. With daily prayer and daily toil 155 Soliciting for food my scanty soil, 36 ODKSi. Have wailed my country with ,i loud Lament Now I reccntrc my imm )rtal mind 111 tlie deep s.ibbath of mjck sulf-contcnt ; C'lcanscJ from the vaporous p.issi ans that beJi (lods Imige, sister of the Seraphim. m I Go FRANCE.— AN ODE. 10 I. Ye Clouds ! tint far ab )\c me floU and pause, Whose pithljsi march no mortal may control ! Ye Ocean Waives I tliat, whcresoe'er ye roll, Yield homa;4e only to eternal laws ! Ye Woods ! that listen to the night-birds siu;4int;. Midway the smooth lUvA j)jrilou3 slai)a reclined, Save when your own imjjjrious branches swinijing, Have made a solemn music of the wind I Where, like a man beloved of G )d, Through glooms, which never woodman trod, How oft, i)ur3uing fancies holy, ., My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound, Ins])ired, beyond the guess of folly. Wy each rude shape and wild unconcpierable sound ! O ye loud Waves ! and O ye Forests high ! 15 And O ye Clouds that fiir above me soared ! Thou rising Sim ! thou blue rejoicing Sky ! Yea, every thing that is and will be free ! Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be. "\\'ith what deep worship I have still adored 20 The spirit of divinest Liberty. It. When France in wrath her giant limbs upreared. And with that oath, which smote air, earth and sea. Stamped her strong foot and said she would be free, Hear witness for me, how I hoped and feared ! 25 With what a joy my lofty gratulation I'nawed I sang, amid a slavish band : And when to whelm the disenchanted nation, I ODES, Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand, The Monarclis marched in evil day, 3c And Britain joined the dire array ; Though dear her shores and circling 'jrcan, Though many t"ricndshii)s, many }outhfnl loves Had swol'n the patriot emotion [35 And Hung a magic liut blessed the pirans of delivered l-'rance, And hung my head and wept at Britain's name. III. "And what," 1 said, "th oagh Bhisphemy's loud scream With that sweet music of deliverance strove ! [45 Though all the fierce and drunken ])assions w(ne A dance moie wild than e'er was maniac's dream ! Ye storms, tliat r(nmd the dawning east assembled, The Sun was risiiig, though ye hid his light I'" Ar.d when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled, The dissonance ceased, and all seemed calm and bright. ; 50 \\'hen France her front deei)-scarr'd and gory Concealed with clustering wreaths of glory : When, insujjportably advancing, Her arm made mocker\- of the warrior's tramp : While timid looks of fury glancing, 55 Domestic treason, crushed beneath her fatal stamp. Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore; Then I reproached my fears that would not flee , ''And soon," I said, "shall Wisdom teach her loie In the low huts of them that toil and groan I 6(» And, conquering by her ha])j)iness alone, Shall France comi)el the nations t(3 be free. Till Love and Joy look round, and call the F.arth their own." T ODES. w. Forgive me, Freedom ! O forgive those dreams ! I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament, 65 From bleak Helvetia's icy cavern sent— 1 hear thy groans upon her blood-stained streams ! Heroes, that for your peaceful country perished, And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain snows [70 With bleeding wounds ; forgive me, that I cherished One thought that ever blessed your cruel foes ! To scatter rage, and traitorous guilt, Vhere peace her jealous home had built ; A patriot ra( e to disinherit Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear ; 75 And with inexpiable s])irit To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer — O France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind, And patriot only in pernicious toils. Are these thy boasts, Chamjiion of human kind ? 80 To mix with Kings in the low lust of sway. Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prfey ; To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils From freemen torn ; to tempt and to betray ? V. The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain, 85 Slaves by their own compulsion ! In mad game They burst their manacles and wear the name Of freedom, graven on a heavier chain ! O Liberty ! with profitless endeavour Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour ; 90 But th(Hi nor swell'st the victor's strain, no»- ever Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human powtr. Alike from all, hovve'er they praise thee, (Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee) Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions, 95 And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves, Thou sjjeedest on thy subtle pinions. The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the waves 1 And there I felt thee I — on that sea-cliffs verge [100 Whose pines, scarce travelled by the bree/e above, 65 7,5 8o 85 90 K: T /'I ODES. 39 Had made one murmur with the distant surge I Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples hare, And shot my being through .\artli, sea and air. Possessing all things with mtensest love, O Liberty ! my spirit felt thee there. Fi-.iiRUARV, 1798. 10: TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. {Composed on the night after his recitntinii of n Poem on the Grouth of an Individual Mind.) Friend of the wise ' and teacher of the good ! Into my heart have I received that lay More than historic, that prophetic lay Wherein (high theme by thee first sung aright) Of the foundations and the l)uilding up 5 Of a Human Spirit thou hast dared to tell What may be told, to the understanding mind Revealable ; and what within the mind By vital breathings secret as the soul Of vernal growth, oft quickens in the heart la Thoughts all too deep for words ! — Theme hard as high Ot smiles spontaneous, and mysterious fears, (The first-born they of Reason and twin-birth) Of tides obedient to external force, 15 And currents self-determined, as might seem, Or by some inner power; of moments awful, Now in thy inner life, and now abroad, Wiien power streamed from thee, and thy soul received The light reflected, as a light bestowed — 20 Of fancies fair, and milder hours of youth, Hyblean murmurs of poetic thought Industrious in its joy, in vales and glens Native our outland, lakes and famous hills ! Or on the lonely high-road, when the stars 85 Were rising ; or by secret mountain streams. The guides and the companions of thy way ! 1^ 40 ODES. Of more than Fancy, of the Social Sense Distending wide, and man beloved :is man. Where I'rance in all her towns lay vibrating 30 Like some becalmed bark beneath the burst Of P-feaven's immedinte thunder, when no cloud Is visible, or shadow on the main. For thou wert there, thine own brows garlanded, Amid the tremor of a realm aglow^, :;5 .\mid a mighty nation jubilant, When from the general heart of human kind. Hope si>rang forth like a tnll-bc^-n Deity ! Of that dear Hope afllicted and struck down. [4c S(j summoned homeward, thenceforth calm and sure From the dread watch-tower of man's absolute self. With light unwaning on her eyes, to look Far on — herself a glory to behold, The Angel of the vision ! 'JMien (last strain) Of Duty, chosen laws c.jntrolling choice, 45 Action and joy I — An Orphic song indeed, A song divine of high and ])assionate thoughts 'I'o their own music chanted ! O great Bard ! Ere yet that last strain dying awed the air, With steadfast eye I viewed thee in the choir 50 Of ever-enduring men. 'I'he truly great Have all one age, and from one visible space Shed influence ! They, both in power and act. Are permanent, and Time is not with them, Save as it worketh for them, they in it. 55 Nor less a sacred roll, than those of old. And to be placed, as they, with gradual fame Auiong the archives of mankind, thy work Makes audible a liniced lay of Truth, Of Truth profound a sweet continuous lay, 60 Not learnt, but native, her own natural notes ! Ah ! as I listened with a heart forlorn, 'J1ie pulses of my being beat anew : And even as life returns ui)()n the drowned. Life's joy rekindling roused a throng of pains — ()5 Keen pangs of Love, awakening as a bibe 'I'urbulent, with an (futcry in the heart ] * ! !! ODFS. 41 And fears self-willed, that shunned the eye nf hope : And hope th..t scarce would know itself from fear ; Sense of past y< ulh. and manhood ( ( me in \airi, 70 And genius given, and knowledge won in vain ; And all which I had c ulled in woc;d-^^alks wild, And all whic h patient toil had reared, and all Conimunc with thee had ojjened out— hut tlowers Strewed on my ( (;rse, and borne iii)('n my bier, 75 In the same coffin, for the self-same grave ! That wa}' no more ! and ill beseems it mc, Who canie a welcomer in herald's guise, Singing of glory and futurity, To wander l)ac'k on such unhealthful road, 80 Plucking the poisons of self-haim ! And ill Such intertwine beseems triumphal wreailis Strewed before thy advancing ! Nor do th(iu, Sage bird 1 impair the memory of that hour 7] ^ /^ Hiotographic Sciences Corporation 33 WIST MAIN STRUT WHSTIR.N.Y. 14SM (716) 873-4S03 ^ i\ ^ iV \\ ^ ^. A- '^1^\ ^.V 6^ ■ ^ 'J^ww!p|^ ODES. 43 Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed, And sent my soul abroad, Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, [20 Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live ! II. A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief, Which finds no natural outlet, no relief. In word, or sigh, or tear — I^dy ! in this wan a.id heartless mood, 25 To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd, All this long eve, so balmy and serene, Have I been gazing on the western sky. And its peculiar tint of yellow green : And still I gaze — and with how blank an eye ! 30 And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars. That give away their motion to the stars ; Those stars, that glide behind them or between. Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen ; Yon crescent Moon as fixed as if it grew 35 In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue; 1 see them all so excellently fair, I see, not feel how beautiful they are ! III. My genial spirits fail ; And what can these avail 40 To lift the smothering weight from off" my breast. It were a vain endeavour, . Though I should gaze for ever On that green light that lingers in the west : I may not hope from outward forms to win 45 The passion and the life,Vhose fountains are within. IV. O Lady ! we receive but what we give. And in our life alone does nature live : Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud ! And would we aught behold of higher worth, 50 44 ODES. Than that inanimate cold world allowed To the poor loveless ever-nnxioiis crowd, Ah ! from the soul itself must issue forth, A light, a glory, a fair luminous cJoud Enveloping the Karth — And from the soul itself must there be sent A sweet and patent voice, of its own birth, Of all sweet sounds the life and element ! 55- 60 V, O pure of heart ! thou need'st not ask of me What this str.)ng music in the soul may be ! What, and wherein it doth exist. This light, this i^lory, this fair luminous mist, This beautiful and beauty-making power. Joy, virtuous Lady ! Joy that ne'er was given, Save to the pure, and in their purest hour, 65 Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and shower. Joy, Lady ! is the spirit and the power, Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower, A new Karth and new Heaven, Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud — Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud — We in ourselves rejoice ! And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight. All melodies the echoes of that voice, All colours a suffusion from that light. 70 75 VI. There was a tims when, though my path was rough, This joy within me dallied with distress. And all misfortunes were but as the stuff Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness : For Ho])e grew round me, Irke the twining vine, 80 And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine. But now afflictions bow me down to earth : Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth, But oh ! each visitation Suspends what nature gave me at my birth, 83 My shaping spirit of Imagination. For not to think of what I needs must feel, DDKS. 45 But to be still and i)atient, all I can ; And haply by abstruse research to steal From my own nature all the natural n.an — This was iny sole resource, my orly pLm : Till that which suits a j)art infects the whole, And now is almost grown the habit of my soul. 90 10: vn. Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, Reality's dark dream ! 95 1 turn from you, and listen to the wind. Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream Of agony by torture lengthened out That lute sent forth ! Thou Wind, that rarest without. Bare craig, or mountain-tairn,* or blasted tree, loj Or pine-grove whither woodman nevi^r ( lomb, Or lonely house, long held the witches* h )me, Methinks were fitter instruments for thee, Mad Lutanist ! who in this month of showers. Of dark brown gardens, and of peej)ing tl )wers, Makst Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song, The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among. Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic scundb 1 'I'hou mighty Poet, e'en to frenzy bold I What tell'st thou now about ? 'Tis of the rushing of a host in rout, With groans of trampled men, with wounds — ^"^^ At once they groan with pain, and sluidder with the cold ! But hush ! the. • is a pause of deej)est silence ! And all that noise, as of a rushing ( r(jwd. 1 1 5 With groans, and tremulous shudderings— all is over — It tells another tale, with sounds less deej) and loud ! A tale of less affright, And tempered with delight. As Otway's self had framed the tender lay, 120 1 10 smarting * Tairn is a sm.ill lake, eeriTalty if not always applied to the lakes up in the mountains, and whicli arc the feeders ot those in the valle^. 'I his addre&s to the Storm-wind will not appear extravaRaiit to those who have heard it at night, and in a mountainous country. 40 ODES. Tis of a little child Upon a lonesome wild, Not far from home, but she hath lost her way ; And now moans low in bitter grief and fear, And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear. 125 VIII. ' ris midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep : Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep ! Visit her, gentle Sleep ! with wings of healing, And may this storm be but a mountain-birth, May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling, 130 Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth ! With light heart may she rise, Gay fancy, cheerful eyes, Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice ; To her may all things live, from pole to pole, 135 rheir life the eddying of her living soul ! O simple spirit, guided from above. Dear Lady ! friend devoutest of my choice, Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice. YOUTH AND AGE.* Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying, Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee — Both were mine ! Life went a maying With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, When I was young ! When I was young? — Ah, woful when ! Ah ! for the change 'twixt Now and Then ! This breathing house not built with hands. This body that does me grievous wrong, * With respect to the date of the admired composition, " Youth and Age," memories and opinions differ. It is the impression of the writer of this note that the first stanza, from "Verse, a breeze," to "liv'd in't together," was produced as late as 1834, and that it was subsequently pre6xed to the sec- ond stanza, " Flowers are lovely," which is said to have been composed many years before. It appears, from the Author's own statement, already quoted, that the last verse was not added till 1837, to which period the poem, considered as a whole, may very well be assigned. )te as se- ed he 0DE8. 47 O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands, lo How lightly then it flashed along : — Like those trim skifls, unknown of yore, On winding lakes and rivers wide, That ask no aid of sail or oar, That fear no spile o' wind or tide ! 15 Nought cared this body for wind or weather When Youth and 1 liv'd in't together. Flowers are lovely ; Love is flower-like ; Friendship is a sheltering tree ; O ! the joys that came down shower-like, 20 Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, Ere 1 was old. Ere T was oldl — Ah, woful Ere, Which tells me, Youth's no longer here ! Youth 1 for years so many and sweet, 25 'Tis known, that Thou and 1 were one, I'll think it but a fond conceit — It cannot be that thou art gone ! Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toH'd : — And thou wert aye a masker bold ! 30 What strange disguise hast now put on. To make believe that thou art gone ? 1 see these locks in silvery slips. This drooping gait, this altered size : But springtide blossoms on thy lips, 35 And tears take sunshine from thine eyes ! Life is but thought : so think I wiU That Youth and I are house-mates still. Dew-drops are the gems of morning. But the tears of mournful eve ! 4o Where no hope is, life's a warning That only serves to make us giieve, When we are old : That only serves to make us grieve With eft and tedious taking-leave, 45 Like some poor nigh-related guest, That may not nidely be dismist ; Yet hath outstay 'd his welcome while, And tells the jest without the smile. NOTES. ODK TO Till*: DEPAUTING YKAR. Cot.kridok's stroTi}; sympathy with the French RevoUition WAS shown b-fore tlie writing of this ode (in the last days dI 179^)) in his " Keli;'ious Musinj^s," written in 1794, in his " Conciones ad I'opiihini," a course of lev;tures which denounced Pitt and the war with France in the stron},'e-;t terms, and in the ll\ih/nihin, a periodical puhlished every eii^hth day, but soon discontinued. The ye .r 1796 had been marked by varying success in the ;,'reat struggle between the French Republic and its eiumii s. On the one hand lionaparte's brilliant victories nt Montenotte I/xli, Areola, iS:c , h.id shattered Austria's power in Italy ; and tljiieral Hochu hid finally suppressed the Koyali^l rising in I. a \'end''e, shewing there a lunnanity that not only contr.isted strongly with thj savagery of his |iredecj-sors, but might well raise ho])es of the dawning on France of a new er.i. On the other hand the French commindL-rs in Ciernmiy had been baftk-d by t'le sivill of the Archduke Charles. The ode is a grand conception expressed in language of uniform ilignity and olten of great beau'y. The terms "strophe" and "anti-stroi)lie " used in the Argu- ment refer to divisions of the Gieek choral odes, the anti-strophe l)cing sung while the chorus circled round the altar in the con- trary direction to that observed while singing the strijj)!K', the epode being sung while standing still. The rule that tiie anti- strophe should have the same metrical structure as the strophe is here observe 1 only in stanza IV., which answers to f. Three kinds of metie occur in this and the next ode : — Iambic, as "Thy d6rk | inwo I ven har | moni\s | to h^ar ;" Trochaic, as " StArting I from my I secret) saidness ;" Anap- aests, as •' At cow' I ardly j);i.le." Iambic lines admit otlur " .Spirit I who swe<5p ] est," &c. (lis I tance yet kind ( ling feet than Ian)bs, with I. ns I — Spirit, "the Divine Providence that regulates into one vast harmony all the events of time." This invocation contain.'' a sublime metaphor. 3 — Harmonics, well expresses the manner in which the various series of contemporaneous and apparently conflicting events blend into one grand result as do the various parts in music. ODn. r cata Th« awful prsphekeu InfUHKte strive* Tu ihake frum off h«r '"'■>< the mighty god : 8o much the more be urw tier raving moiitli, Tames her wiM heart, and trains witli btroiig (control."— A'ennedy. II — Entered, '' that I had entered." Foreclosed, shut out, the grimary meaning of the word, which is the old French yi^rr/ox, ova/oris, outside, and e/ausus, shut. II. 13 — Rtcent, new made. 14 — Direr Xhvn the tomb, as had been the uastile, ani still were many in Russia, &c. I J — Ditttmper, disease ; properly a " wrong mixture" of the bodily " humors," this being accorcling to the ancient physicians the cause of disease. 16 — 7>ioth." 36 — yustice and truth were to be promoted by the triumph of Liberty, i. e., of the French Republic. lint see the following ode. 40 — Cottqueress, Catherine of Russia, ihe " Semiramis of the North." A native of Upper Saxony, she dethroned, in 1763, her husband, the Czar Peter, who was brutally strangled by her accomplice. Count Orloff. She seiz -d the Crimea, and was the chief mover in the infamous partitions of Poland. Her sud leii death before she could send effectual aid to the allie 1 sovereigns had a great influence on the event of the war. 42 — Mailed Mon irch, the Emperor Francis, the head of the coalition against the Revolutio ». Mailed, in warlike guis;.*. These sovereigns Coleridge denounces in the Religious Musings as "That foul woman of the North, The histful nuirdeieHs of her wedded h>id I And he connutmul mind ! whom * * Some Fury fondled in her hate to man." Catherine, " insati- "dart," as im- /^■^— Stunned, attributive of "hag,"/, e. ale " of conquest and slaughter. Mace, more appropriate than the conventional plying a crushing blow. Tivice mortal. See Revelation xxi., 8. ^ 45 — Murder's lurid face. The ghastly faces of those murdered to glut htr ambition— her husband, and also the Poles slain in the struggle of 1793-4. 46 — Manes, the Latin word for spirits ; pronounced mdnis. 47 — IVarsmo's plain, in the storming of Praga, a suburb of Warsaw, on the 4th November, 1794, when ten thousand .soldiers fell, and twelve thousand peaceful citizens of both se-ve^ were massacred. ODB». ftl 48 — Ismail, a Turkish fwtrass stormed by Suwaroff in 1790, when a general ma>«sacre of its people took place. Hence the epithet, " exterminating fiend," 1, 55. 49 — Human ruin. Heaps of human corpses. " Of forty thousand thnt had mann'd tlie wall, '• Borne hundreds breath'd." 54 — Misty train, shadowy troops. 57 — Foul her life. Her example encouraged systematic im- morality. Death-fires. See note on the Ancient Mariner, line 128. IV. 64 — Cloudy throne. ** Clouds and darkness are about him." Psalm xcvii,, 2. 65 — Memory sits. The remembrance of men's deeds is ever present. 67 — Storiectst, relatedst the sad events of 1796. 71 — Choired gods, godlike angels, assembled in their choirs. 72 — Spirit of the Earth, a fine personification (see lines 80- loi) of the prayers of the oppressed calling for Divine interven- tion. Contrast with "Ambition" (1. 38) which has little per- sonality. V. 75 — Hushkd, not hush't. 76 — Lampads serpen, properly the golden candlesticks ; but here the reference is to the " Seven Lamps " in Revelation iv., 5. 84 — Proffered insult refers to the interference of Austria and Russia in the internal affairs of France, and in particular, per- haps, to the Duke of Brunswick's insolent proclamation in 1792, which said that anarchy had "annihilated the political existence of France." 85 — Masked hate, probably referring to Pitt's reluctance to begin a war, which reluctance Coleridge then misjudged. 88 — Afric's wrongs. The slave trade was then legal, and con- tinued so till 1807. 91 — Deaf Synod, Parliament, which he deemed "deaf" to the voice of justice and mercy. Gifts, bribes. <)^ — Thankless, for the blessings described is stanza VII. 95 — Her quiver full. Absolute phrase. The "quiver" is appropriate to a country which had won so many victories by the valor of her archers. 97 — Darkling, properly an adverb, in the dark, as in Mil- ton's " The wakeful bird sings darkling." loi — Cf., " The whole creation groaneth." VI. 106 — Phantom, the vision and especially the apparition of the Earth Spirit calling for vengeance. m KOftS. 115 — Faredonef exhausted ; should be written y^rdone cf., '• If either salres, or oyles, or herbes, or chamm A fordunne wight fromdore of death inote ratite."— 5]>en — " Where Britain courta the western spring ; Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian ^ride, And brighter streainH than f fmed Hydasi>vs glide. There aU around the gentlest breezes stray, There gentlest music melts on every spray." The contrast between these two passages well illustrates one of the main differences between the poets of the " school of Pope " and those of the present century. 131 — Hence^ from the ocean's protection. Fearless, free from alarm. The peaceful beauty of this stanza heightens the effect of the indignant outburst that follows. VIII. 136— itf/ coioardly distance, engaging in a contest in whicb» owing to her insular position, she incurred little risk. Cole- ridge did not then see that the seizure of Holland had forced war upon England. Secure probably has its primitive sense, "careless." Strange-eyed. Coleridge, in revising his poems, " pruned the double epithets with no sparing hand," but left this and " young-eyed joys." 142 — Central fires. The meaning is that England was about to undergo a convulsion like that which the outburst of the earth's central fire would produce in the physical world, a con- vulsion that would stirtle even the Spirit of Destruciion, described in the Religious Musings as " The old Hag, unconqnerable, huge, Creation's eyeless drudge." The " perilous couch " by " red volcanic stream " heightens the impressive picture, while the rhythm of line 142 is an " echo to the sense." 145 — Dragon-eyes, like those of a serpent. LeaPf perhaps with joy, ODB4. 6S IX. 150 ^ Birds of 19 irnhfr. The ancients believe that the notes of certain birds indicate Divine displeasure. Their singing " in vain " implies that Eni^land will not take warning ; and her rum is so near that already the "brood of prey" are flying towards the feast she is to supply. 151 — Famisheiit by England's long exemption from invasion. This epithet as well as groaning (/. e., burdened) wind is in- tended to heighten the feeling of horror. \^^— The evil thing. The war with France, which Coleridge then regarded as one against liberty and humanity. 156 — Soiici/ing. This is of course a fancy touch. Coleridge never lived by agriculture, though he had expected to do so in the Pantisocratic colony of Susquelianna, which plan he still perhaps cherished. 1$9—Sad6ath, rest, the primary meaning of the word. 161 — Goifs imai;^e, &c., the human soul. The thought is a fitting conclusion to this noble ode. FRANCE- Coleridge's revolutionary ardor cooled during the year 1797. In later years he said of the Revolution, '• It had all my wishes, none of my expectations." Being " in religion," as he says him- self, "at the opposite pole" from the Jacobins, he must have seen with displeasure the violence by which they regained power in 1797, and the shameless plundering of Italy by its " Liber- ators." What thoroughly opened his eyes, however, was the wanton attack upon the sister Republic of Switzerland in De- cember, the objects and results of which are anticipated in the present ode. Coleridge, though an anti-Jacobin, continued an opponent of Mr. Pitt and of the war. This ode, though it has its own peculiar beauties, necessarily falls behind its predecessor in vigor, for it is in the main defen- sive, though the Morning Post went quite too far in styling it a " Recantation." Compare lines 27, s£qq. Shelley called it the finest ode in the language, influenced, perhaps as Mr Traill suggests, by the melody which charac* terizes it as well as nearly all Coleridge's poetry, and rises to its height in " Christabel." i ! I — Clouds. Why these are thus apostrophized will appear from the last stanza. 4 — Homage t4 eternal laws, the essence of true liberty, as op- posed to license. 6 — Midway, used here as a preposition. Perilous slope, the steep side of some mountain. 7 — Imperious, exercising command t advanced In spite of tlieir proud arms and warl ke tools Spurned them to death by troops." It is, however, absurd to ground a charge of plagiarism on this imitation, for happy phrases become the property of the language and of all who use it. 62 — Hy shewinfj in her happiness the benefits of freedom. 63 — Compare, " Return pure B'aith 1 letum meek Piety ! The kingdoms of tlie world are yours." — Religioua Musingt. IV. 64— Why fAose, not iAese ? 66 — Helvetia, Switzerland. The ancient Helvetii possessed the greater part of the modern Switzerland. 78 — Perished. As yet but little blood had been shed ; but in March fierce conflicts took place at Frauenbrunne, Graholtz, and Berne, where ** the Swiss peasants, though defeated, faced about with the utmost resolution. . . . The place of the dead and the wounded was instantly supplied by crowds of every age and sex." Other conflicts followed at Morgarten and in the Valais. 72 — To scatter — to disinherit — are in a sort of apposition to " these " in line 80. Traitorous guilt, as of Ochs and other -chiefs of the Demo- cratic faction, who had invited French intervention to establish their pet form of Government, which Ochs described as "the 0!ily means of rendering Switzerland the permanent ally of France." 75 — What made their stormy wilds so dear? See the " Trav- eller," lines 175-8. "^6 —Inexpiable, &c., to mingle with the pure liberly of the- Swiss a taint of corruption and violence that cannot be purged out. Inexpiable is properly that cannot be atoned for ^from. piare, to atone). 78 — Adulterous, forsaking its allegiance to God. Cf. James, iv., 4. 80 — Champion, self-styled. The French Convention declared that it would "grant fraternity and assistance to all people who wish to recover their liberty." 81 — Low lusi qf sway. . A happy phrase. Why "low?" 56 N0TB8. %2 --Murderous prty. Plunder obtained by murder. The poet correctly divined the motive of the invasion. Konaparte, the secret mover of these villainies, had, while passing through Berne, " asked a question of sinister import as to the amount of its treasure"; and the plunder of that Canton alone in 1798 amounted to 40,000,000 francs. Morover, 40,000 French soldiers lived for months at free quarters, paid and maintained by the unfortunate Swiss. 83 — Their robbing a free people was an insult to the cause of liberty. The ancients dedicated their spoils in the shrines of their gods. 85 — Dark, unenlightened. In the Watchman Coleridge had asserted— to the disgust of many of his readers — that the only hope for liberty lay in the precepts of the Gospel and in popu- lar education. 86 — Their ets of this century — a friendship which brought out the best points in each, and to which we owe the "Ancient Mariner." A most pleasing trait of Coleridge's chanoter is the freedom oDES; 6t front jealousy shown by his strong admiration of his great rival, which produced not only this poem, but also that masterpiece of criticism, the dissertation on Wordsworth's poetry contained in chapters xvi.-xxii. of the " Biographia Literaria," itself intended to trace the development of Coleridge's "individual mind." The poem referred to is the " Prelude" (i. e., to the " Excur- sion "), addressed to Coleridge, and at one time deemed by him superior even to the '* Excursion." In his " Table Talk " he adds : — " I think Wordsworth possessed more of the ijenius cf a great philosophic poet than any man I ever knew, or, as I believe, that has existed in England since Milton." And again, " He will wear the crown while English is English." The sad tone of the references to Coleridge himself is, no doubt, owing to the habit of opium-eating which blighted his life. I — This praise has been justified by the illustrious men who have been admirers of Wordsworth. 2 — That lay. Of it Wordsworth says : — " When the author retired to his native mountains with the hope of being enabled to construct a literary work that might live, it was a reasonable thing that he should take a review of his own mind and ex- amine how far Nature and Education had qualified him for such employment. As subsidiary to this preparation he undertook to record in verse the origin and progress of his own powers " He adds that it formed, as it were, an ante-chapel to the main work. 3 — Prophetic, as indicating Wordsworth's future achievements from the view it gave of his mental history. lo — Vernal grmvlh. The growth of plants in spring is well put forward as the type of imperceptible progress. Quickens, gives life to Cf., " Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears." 13 — Smiles spontaneous . . . y^arj, of infancy. 14 — Tides and currents, respectively denote thoughts awakened by external things, and the independent action of the mind itself. Before "by , . . power " supply eneaih, a gentle hue j here an emanation. VI. 76 — A time. The time of his poetical activity, from 1794 to 1798. Dallied with, trifled with, made li^jht of. 81 — Not my own. Successes which he never attained seemed then certain. 86 — Sha/in^, creative, the old me.ininf of the word. The O. E. word for Creator was scyppcud, lit. " the shaper." The phrase shaping spirit forms a brief but exact definition of imaj^i* nation. 87 — Not to think of, and thereby increase the sorrows, real or as it would seem, partly imaginary, that he could not escape. ^o—The natural man. To repress his natural dispo.sitio;i. Part. His reasoning power. VII. 95 — Reality''s dark dream, a reality dark and strange enough to be a hideous dream. 96 — IVind. What he had wished for comes and diverts his melancholy thoughts. fyj—Lute. See line 7. icx) — Taint, usually tarn ; see the foot-note. . 102 — Were, would be. 103 — Lutanist, player on a lute. Low Latin lutana. Note the climax in the comparison of the wind successively to a player of wild music, an actor declaiming tragedy, and a great poet. This month, April. 106 — Yule, the Norse word for Christmas. I20~0hvay, a Poet of the Restoration, author of " Venice Preserved" and the "Orphan," of which Hallam says : — " They have both a deep pathos springing from the intense and unmerited distress of women." Of the part of Belvidera, the heroine of " Venice Preserved," he says : — " When that part is represented by such as we remember to have^seen, no tragedy is honored by such a tribute not of tears alone, but of more agony than many would seek to endure." 1. OI^ES. es Tttuifr is therefore no expletive. We now see how the storm could " send his thoii};hts abroad," and also what his " shaping spirit " could make out of so com- mon a thing as the sound of a gale. VIII. I2g—A mountain bi*th, a local storm originating among the mountain.^. He was then in the Lake District. 136 — E(fdyini;, whirling, as of a river. May they all reflect the motions of her pure mind. > his YOUTH AND AGE. The second part of this 1 ;• was written over forty years before the last part. The first part was written long after the second. I — Verse, poetry. Develop the metaphor in "a breeze str.ay- ing." 3 — A mayini^. Life was for a time a scene of enjoyment. 4 — Poesy, literally " making " the composition of poetry. 6 — Wo/iilwhen. The word 'when is '* woful," as showing that he now was young no longer. 8 — House ; cf., '• Our earthly house of this tabernac'.e. " Grievous wron^, causes much pain and is a sad obstruction to his spirit. He was troubled nearly all his life with rheunintisni, and, from the time of his visit to Malta, with an oppre>^sion of breathing. l2 — Trim skiffs, steamboats, not then so familiar as to be unfit for a poetic figure. 18 38 — We must remember that these lines were written in the poet's boyhood, whence their sportive tone. 24 — Fond conceit, a foolish notion, *' fond " once meaning foolish, as "Thou fond mad woman ;" and " conceit" simply conception, thought, as "The horrible conceit of death and night. 29 — Venper-hcll, evening bell, or bell that at last " ringeth for evensong." 37 — Lt/e is but thought, a sentiment characteristic of Cole- ridge. 39 — Deiv dtops, &c. Thoughts like those contained in the preceding lines were pleasing fancies in youth, but are a sad reality in old age, " the evening of life." 44-47 — Do "leave" and "dismist" from perfect rhymes with " grieve " and " guest ? " Why ? 47 — WitlntU the smile, that should be caused by it, if he had not outstayed his welcome.