It chanced I pass'd again that way, In autumn's latest hour, And wondering saw the selfsame spray Ah, fond deceit! the rude green bud Had bloom'd where bloom'd its parent stud, 1796. TIME, REAL AND IMAGINARY.* AN ALLEGORY. N the wide level of a mountain's head, (I knew not where, but 'twas some faery place) Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails outspread, Two lovely children run an endless race, * One of the three poems in this division, not in the editions of 1796, 1797, or 1803, but collected in the supplementary sheet to Sibylline Leaves. The others are The Raven and Mutual Passion. "By imaginary Time I meant," says Coleridge, in the preface to Sibylline Leaves, "the state of a schoolboy's mind when on his return to school he projects his being in his day-dreams, and lives in his next holidays, six months hence; and this I contrasted with real Time." This poem is stated by Gillman (p. 27) to have been written in Coleridge's sixteenth year. A sister and a brother! That far outstripp'd the other; Yet ever runs she with reverted face, O'er rough and smooth with even step he pass'd, And knows not whether he be first or last. THE RAVEN.* A CHRISTMAS TALE, TOLD BY A SCHOOL-BOY TO HIS LITTLE BROTHERS AND SISTERS. NDERNEATH an old oak tree There was of swine a huge company, That grunted as they crunch'd the mast: For that was ripe, and fell full fast. Then they trotted away, for the wind grew high: One acorn they left, and no more might you spy. Next came a Raven, that liked not such folly: He belong'd, it was said, to the witch Melancholy ! *See Note to Time, Real and Imaginary. We take this to be decidedly the earliest poetical production of Coleridge which survives. Thirteen, or fourteen at the outside, must have been his age, when he wrote it. It is to be noted that Coleridge had no brothers or sisters so young as himself, nor more than one sister. Blacker was he than blackest jet, Flew low in the rain, and his feathers not wet. He pick'd up the acorn and buried it straight By the side of a river both deep and great. Where then did the Raven go? He went high and low, Over hill, over dale, did the black Raven go. At length he came back, and with him a She, And the acorn was grown to a tall oak tree. They built them a nest in the topmost bough, And young ones they had, and were happy enow. But soon came a woodman in leathern guise, His brow, like a pent-house, hung over his eyes. He'd an axe in his hand, not a word he spoke, But with many a hem! and a sturdy stroke, At length he brought down the poor Raven's own oak. His young ones were kill'd; for they could not depart, And their mother did die of a broken heart. 1 Travell'd he, &c.] Seventeen or eighteen years ago, an artist of some celebrity was so pleased with this doggerel, that he amused himself with the thought of making a Child's Picture Book of it; but he could not hit on a picture for these four lines. I suggested a roundabout with four seats, and the four seasons, as children, with Time for the showman.-C. 1817. The boughs from the trunk the woodman did sever; And they floated it down on the course of the river. They sawed it in planks, and its bark they did strip, And with this tree and others they made a good ship. The ship, it was launch'd; but in sight of the land Such a storm there did rise as no ship could withstand. It bulged on a rock, and the waves rush'd in fast: Round and round flew the Raven, and caw'd to the blast. He heard the last shriek of the perishing souls See! See! o'er the topmast the mad water rolls! Right glad was the Raven, and off he went fleet, And Death riding home on a cloud he did meet, And he thank'd him again and again for this treat: They had taken his all, and Revenge it was sweet! MUTUAL PASSION. ALTERED AND MODERNIZED FROM AN OLD POET.* LOVE, and he loves me again, Yet dare I not tell who: For if the nymphs should know my swain, I fear they'd love him too. Yet while my joy's unknown, Its rosy buds are but half-blown : What no one with me shares, seems scarce my own. I'll tell, that if they be not glad, They yet may envy me: But then if I grow jealous mad, And of them pitied be, 'Twould vex me worse than scorn! And yet it cannot be forborne, Unless my heart would like my thoughts be torn. He is, if they can find him, fair, * Printed in 1811. See note to Time, Real and Ima ginary. |