Nor thine unseen in cavern depths to well,
The hermit-fountain of some dripping cell!
Pride of the vale! thy useful streams supply
The scatter'd cots and peaceful hamlet nigh.
The elfin tribe around thy friendly banks
With infant uproar and soul-soothing pranks,
Released from school, their little hearts at rest,
Launch paper navies on thy waveless breast.
The rustic here at eve, with pensive look,
Whistling lorn ditties leans upon his crook,
Or starting pauses with hope-mingled dread
To list the much-loved maid's accustom'd
tread:
She, vainly mindful of her dame's command,
Loiters, the long-fill'd pitcher in her hand.
Unboastful' Stream; thy fount with pebbled falls
The faded form of past delight recalls,
What time the morning sun of hope arose,
And all was joy; save when another's woes
A transient gloom upon my soul imprest,
Like passing clouds impictured on thy breast.
Life's current then ran sparkling to the noon,
Or silvery stole beneath the pensive moon:
Ah!
now it works rude brakes and thorns
Or o'er the rough rock bursts and foams along!
1 Unboastful.] See Songs of the Pixies.
OH! cease thy tears and sobs, my little
Life!
I did but snatch away the unclasp'd
knife;
Some safer toy will soon arrest thine eye,
And to quick laughter change this peevish cry!
Poor stumbler on the rocky coast of woe,
Tutor❜d by pain each source of pain to know!
Alike the foodful fruit and scorching fire
Awake thy eager grasp and young desire;
Alike the good, the ill, offend thy sight,
And rouse the stormy sense of shrill affright!
Untaught, yet wise! mid all thy brief alarms
Thou closely clingest to thy mother's arms,
Nestling thy little face in that fond breast,
Whose anxious heavings lull thee to thy rest!
Man's breathing miniature! thou mak'st me
sigh-
A babe art thou—and such a thing am I!
To anger rapid and as soon appeased,
For trifles mourning and by trifles pleased,
Break1 friendship's mirror with a tetchy blow,
Yet snatch what coals of fire on pleasure's altar
glow.
O thou that rearest with celestial aim
The future Seraph in my mortal frame,
1 Break, &c.] Cottle describes a brief quarrel Coleridge had with his friend Lovell, afterwards his brotherin-law, who disapproved of marrying, with nothing but love to live upon.
Thrice holy Faith! whatever thorns I meet,
As on I totter with unpractised feet,
Still let me stretch my arms and cling to thee, Meek nurse of souls through their long infancy!
RE sin could blight or sorrow fade,
Death came with friendly care;
The opening bud to heaven convey'd,
And bade it blossom there.
NE kiss, dear maid, I said and
sigh'd-
Your scorn the little boon denied.
Ah why refuse the blameless bliss?
Can danger lurk within a kiss?
Yon viewless wanderer of the vale,
The Spirit of the western gale,
At morning's break, at evening's close,
Inhales the sweetness of the rose,
And hovers o'er the uninjured bloom
Sighing back the soft perfume.
* Another epitaph on an infant will be found later on. The title was originally To Sara. Coleridge was introduced to his future wife in August, 1794.
Vigour to the Zephyr's wing
Her nectar-breathing kisses fling;
And he the glitter of the dew
Scatters on the rose's hue.
Bashful lo! she bends her head,
And darts a blush of deeper red!
Too well those lovely lips disclose
The triumphs of the opening rose;
O fair! O graceful! bid them prove
As passive to the breath of love.
In tender accents, faint and low,
Well-pleased I hear the whisper'd "No!"
The whisper'd "No!"-how little meant!
Sweet falsehood that endears consent!
For on those lovely lips the while
Dawns the soft relenting smile,
And tempts with feign'd dissuasion coy
The gentle violence of Joy.
ISTER of love-lorn poets, Philomel!
How many bards in city garret pent,
While at their window they with
downward eye
Mark the faint lamp-beam on the kennell'd mud,
Vigour to, &c.] The same ideas occur in the last stanza of Songs of the Pixies.
And listen to the drowsy cry of watchmen,1 (Those hoarse, unfeather'd nightingales of time!)
How many wretched bards address thy name, And hers, the full-orb'd queen that shines above.
But I do hear thee, and the high bough mark,
Within whose mild moon-mellow'd foliage hid,
Thou warblest sad thy pity-pleading strains.
O, I have listen'd, till my working soul,
Waked by those strains to thousand phantasies,
Absorb'd, hath ceased to listen! Therefore oft
I hymn thy name: and with a proud delight
Oft will I tell thee, minstrel of the moon,
"Most musical, most melancholy" bird!
That all thy soft diversities of tone,
Though sweeter far than the delicious airs
That vibrate from a white-arm'd lady's harp,
What time the languishment of lonely love
Melts in her eye, and heaves her breast of
Are not so sweet as is the voice of her,
My Sara-best-beloved of human kind!
When breathing the pure soul of tenderness,
She thrills me with the husband's promised
name!
1 Cry of watchmen.] Probably written at first "drowsy watchman's cry; " but the line being then found to rhyme with the line but one above, it was thus clumsily altered, and the line following added.
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