Читать книгу The Complete Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge (Illustrated Edition) - Samuel Taylor Coleridge - Страница 133

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[Nemo repente turpissimus]

Deep in the gulph of Vice and Woe

Leaps Man at once with headlong throw?

Him inborn Truth and Virtue guide,

Whose guards are Shame and conscious Pride.

In some gay hour Vice steals into the breast; 5

Perchance she wears some softer Virtue’s vest.

By unperceiv’d degrees she tempts to stray,

Till far from Virtue’s path she leads the feet away.

Then swift the soul to disenthrall

Will Memory the past recall, 10

And Fear before the Victim’s eyes

Bid future ills and dangers rise.

But hark! the Voice, the Lyre, their charms combine —

Gay sparkles in the cup the generous Wine —

Th’ inebriate dance, the fair frail Nymph inspires, 15

And Virtue vanquish’d — scorn’d — with hasty flight retires.

But soon to tempt the Pleasures cease;

Yet Shame forbids return to peace,

And stern Necessity will force

Still to urge on the desperate course. 20

The drear black paths of Vice the wretch must try,

Where Conscience flashes horror on each eye,

Where Hate — where Murder scowl — where starts Affright!

Ah! close the scene — ah! close — for dreadful is the sight.

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF CHATTERTON

FIRST VERSION

Cold penury repress’d his noble rage,

And froze the genial current of his soul.

Now prompts the Muse poetic lays,

And high my bosom beats with love of Praise!

But, Chatterton! methinks I hear thy name,

For cold my Fancy grows, and dead each Hope of Fame.

When Want and cold Neglect had chill’d thy soul, 5

Athirst for Death I see thee drench the bowl!

Thy corpse of many a livid hue

On the bare ground I view,

Whilst various passions all my mind engage;

Now is my breast distended with a sigh, 10

And now a flash of Rage

Darts through the tear, that glistens in my eye.

Is this the land of liberal Hearts!

Is this the land, where Genius ne’er in vain

Pour’d forth her soul-enchanting strain? 15

Ah me! yet Butler ‘gainst the bigot foe

Well-skill’d to aim keen Humour’s dart,

Yet Butler felt Want’s poignant sting;

And Otway, Master of the Tragic art,

Whom Pity’s self had taught to sing, 20

Sank beneath a load of Woe;

This ever can the generous Briton hear,

And starts not in his eye th’ indignant Tear?

Elate of Heart and confident of Fame,

From vales where Avon sports, the Minstrel came, 25

Gay as the Poet hastes along

He meditates the future song,

How Ælla battled with his country’s foes,

And whilst Fancy in the air

Paints him many a vision fair 30

His eyes dance rapture and his bosom glows.

With generous joy he views th’ ideal gold:

He listens to many a Widow’s prayers,

And many an Orphan’s thanks he hears;

He soothes to peace the care-worn breast, 35

He bids the Debtor’s eyes know rest,

And Liberty and Bliss behold:

And now he punishes the heart of steel,

And her own iron rod he makes Oppression feel.

Fated to heave sad Disappointment’s sigh, 40

To feel the Hope now rais’d, and now deprest,

To feel the burnings of an injur’d breast,

From all thy Fate’s deep sorrow keen

In vain, O Youth, I turn th’ affrighted eye;

For powerful Fancy evernigh 45

The hateful picture forces on my sight.

There, Death of every dear delight,

Frowns Poverty of Giant mien!

In vain I seek the charms of youthful grace,

Thy sunken eye, thy haggard cheeks it shews, 50

The quick emotions struggling in the Face

Faint index of thy mental Throes,

When each strong Passion spurn’d controll,

And not a Friend was nigh to calm thy stormy soul.

Such was the sad and gloomy hour 55

When anguish’d Care of sullen brow

Prepared the Poison’s death-cold power.

Already to thy lips was rais’d the bowl,

When filial Pity stood thee by,

Thy fixéd eyes she bade thee roll 60

On scenes that well might melt thy soul —

Thy native cot she held to view,

Thy native cot, where Peace ere long

Had listen’d to thy evening song;

Thy sister’s shrieks she bade thee hear, 65

And mark thy mother’s thrilling tear,

She made thee feel her deep-drawn sigh,

And all her silent agony of Woe.

And from thy Fate shall such distress ensue?

Ah! dash the poison’d chalice from thy hand! 70

And thou had’st dash’d it at her soft command;

But that Despair and Indignation rose,

And told again the story of thy Woes,

Told the keen insult of th’ unfeeling Heart,

The dread dependence on the low-born mind, 75

Told every Woe, for which thy breast might smart,

Neglect and grinning scorn and Want combin’d —

Recoiling back, thou sent’st the friend of Pain

To roll a tide of Death thro’ every freezing vein.

O Spirit blest! 80

Whether th’ eternal Throne around,

Amidst the blaze of Cherubim,

Thou pourest forth the grateful hymn,

Or, soaring through the blest Domain,

Enraptur’st Angels with thy strain, — 85

Grant me, like thee, the lyre to sound,

Like thee, with fire divine to glow —

But ah! when rage the Waves of Woe,

Grant me with firmer breast t’oppose their hate,

And soar beyond the storms with upright eye elate! 90

AN INVOCATION

Sweet Muse! companion of my every hour!

Voice of my Joy! Sure soother of the sigh!

Now plume thy pinions, now exert each power,

And fly to him who owns the candid eye.

And if a smile of Praise thy labour hail 5

(Well shall thy labours then my mind employ)

Fly fleetly back, sweet Muse! and with the tale

O’erspread my Features with a flush of Joy!

ANNA AND HARLAND

Within these wilds was Anna wont to rove

While Harland told his love in many a sigh,

But stern on Harland roll’d her brother’s eye,

They fought, they fell — her brother and her love!

To Death’s dark house did grief-worn Anna haste, 5

Yet here her pensive ghost delights to stay;

Oft pouring on the winds the broken lay —

And hark, I hear her—’twas the passing blast.

I love to sit upon her tomb’s dark grass,

Then Memory backward rolls Time’s shadowy tide; 10

The tales of other days before me glide:

With eager thought I seize them as they pass;

For fair, tho’ faint, the forms of Memory gleam,

Like Heaven’s bright beauteous bow reflected in the stream.

TO THE EVENING STAR

O meek attendant of Sol’s setting blaze,

I hail, sweet star, thy chaste effulgent glow;

On thee full oft with fixéd eye I gaze

Till I, methinks, all spirit seem to grow.

O first and fairest of the starry choir, 5

O loveliest ‘mid the daughters of the night,

Must not the maid I love like thee inspire

Pure joy and calm Delight?

Must she not be, as is thy placid sphere

Serenely brilliant? Whilst to gaze a while 10

Be all my wish ‘mid Fancy’s high career

E’en till she quit this scene of earthly toil;

Then Hope perchance might fondly sigh to join

Her spirit in thy kindred orb, O Star benign!

PAIN

Once could the Morn’s first beams, the healthful breeze,

All Nature charm, and gay was every hour: —

But ah! not Music’s self, nor fragrant bower

Can glad the trembling sense of wan Disease.

Now that the frequent pangs my frame assail, 5

Now that my sleepless eyes are sunk and dim,

And seas of Pain seem waving through each limb —

Ah what can all Life’s gilded scenes avail?

I view the crowd, whom Youth and Health inspire,

Hear the loud laugh, and catch the sportive lay, 10

Then sigh and think — I too could laugh and play

And gaily sport it on the Muse’s lyre,

Ere Tyrant Pain had chas’d away delight,

Ere the wild pulse throbb’d anguish thro’ the night!

ON A LADY WEEPING

IMITATION FROM THE LATIN OF NICOLAUS ARCHIUS

Lovely gems of radiance meek

Trembling down my Laura’s cheek,

As the streamlets silent glide

Thro’ the Mead’s enamell’d pride,

Pledges sweet of pious woe, 5

Tears which Friendship taught to flow,

Sparkling in yon humid light

Love embathes his pinions bright:

There amid the glitt’ring show’r

Smiling sits th’ insidious Power; 10

As some wingéd Warbler oft

When Spring-clouds shed their treasures soft

Joyous tricks his plumes anew,

And flutters in the fost’ring dew.

MONODY ON A TEA-KETTLE

O Muse who sangest late another’s pain,

To griefs domestic turn thy coal-black steed!

With slowest steps thy funeral steed must go,

Nodding his head in all the pomp of woe:

Wide scatter round each dark and deadly weed, 5

And let the melancholy dirge complain,

(Whilst Bats shall shriek and Dogs shall howling run)

The tea-kettle is spoilt and Coleridge is undone!

Your cheerful songs, ye unseen crickets, cease!

Let songs of grief your alter’d minds engage! 10

For he who sang responsive to your lay,

What time the joyous bubbles ‘gan to play,

The sooty swain has felt the fire’s fierce rage; —

Yes, he is gone, and all my woes increase;

I heard the water issuing from the wound — 15

No more the Tea shall pour its fragrant steams around!

O Goddess best belov’d! Delightful Tea!

With thee compar’d what yields the madd’ning Vine?

Sweet power! who know’st to spread the calm delight,

And the pure joy prolong to midmost night! 20

Ah! must I all thy varied sweets resign?

Enfolded close in grief thy form I see;

No more wilt thou extend thy willing arms,

Receive the fervent Jove, and yield him all thy charms!

How sink the mighty low by Fate opprest! — 25

Perhaps, O Kettle! thou by scornful toe

Rude urg’d t’ ignoble place with plaintive din.

May’st rust obscure midst heaps of vulgar tin; —

As if no joy had ever seiz’d my breast

When from thy spout the streams did arching fly, — 30

As if, infus’d, thou ne’er hadst known t’ inspire

All the warm raptures of poetic fire!

But hark! or do I fancy the glad voice —

‘What tho’ the swain did wondrous charms disclose —

(Not such did Memnon’s sister sable drest) 35

Take these bright arms with royal face imprest,

A better Kettle shall thy soul rejoice,

And with Oblivion’s wings o’erspread thy woes!’

Thus Fairy Hope can soothe distress and toil;

On empty Trivets she bids fancied Kettles boil! 40

GENEVIEVE

Maid of my Love, sweet Genevieve!

In Beauty’s light you glide along:

Your eye is like the Star of Eve,

And sweet your voice, as Seraph’s song

Yet not your heavenly beauty gives 5

This heart with Passion soft to glow:

Within your soul a voice there lives!

It bids you hear the tale of Woe.

When sinking low the sufferer wan

Beholds no hand outstretch’d to save, 10

Fair, as the bosom of the Swan

That rises graceful o’er the wave,

I’ve seen your breast with pity heave,

And therefore love I you, sweet Genevieve!