acigeies tans ce} 3 i. ’ a aad oat arias ‘ bat 3e i Sn peer rn ark re ALDERM STACKS PR 4479 A1 1900 ps ia q ee S ee Se Bee ae B; 3 : 3 2 5Fae i rh ieie titi Hi - xe eeny of Virginia Library PR4479 .A1 1900 ALD Coleridge’s The ancient marine A il IMU, ; his ieVos é pee We me STteast Ho e Toren Z op he ew ore_ re pi ha :SdLIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA | PRESENTED BY Armistead Churchill GordonThe Students’ Sevies of English Classics. COLERIDGE’S ANCIENT MARINER. EDITED BY KATHARINE LEE BATES. WELLESLEY COLLEGE. * Nothing can be truer than fairy wisdom. alt is as true as sunbeams.” DOUGLAS JERROLE SIBLEY & COMPANY ' BOSTON __ CHICAGO cp FUR SWE PWS US BEEP SS UARTA Nas FSS Fs a PeCopyriGuHtT, 1889, Br Leacu, SHEWELL, & SANBORN C. J. PETERS & SON, TYPOGRAPHERS AND ELECTROTYPERS, 145 HIGH STREET, BOSTON.PREFACE. On the list of entrance requirements in English liter- ature, as recently adopted by the Association of New England Colleges, stands Coleridge’s “ Ancient Mariner.” - The selection is a happy one, for the reason that the poem, exquisite in melody and imagery, and abounding in nature-pictures equally remarkable for wide range and delicate accuracy, nevertheless produces at first so vivid an impression of spectral horror as to blind the casual reader to its rare poetic grace aud charm. But as the poem is dwelt upon in the class-room, the stu- dent being brought to realize the marvellous succession of moonlight, ocean scenes, then the agonies of that dis- ordered soul and the frightfulness of the images reflected from its guilty consciousness will but serve to throw into fairer contrast the blessedness of the spirit restored to the life of love, and the peaceful beauty of the uni- verse as beheld by eyes purged from selfishness and sin. Coleridge at his best is so purely poetical that he is an especially valuable author for class-room use, his mastery of diction, melody and figure tending to eulti- ii ae ; a aun eS eet tl Cr ames TD ogee eeareem td nt ee mr MPPgPTP ETE TMS Messe toanhnns eee sapeaeensreuperer cat? Nt : ; : “ ‘ PIR Re scree ieee sy toa ela aes ee i sais beansnaonnunegaurtesPREFACE. vate in the student a high poetic standard. Yet Cole- ridge at his best could be comprehended within the limits of a very thin volume. If it should be desired to extend the study of Coleridge beyond the “ Ancient Mariner,” the finest of his other poems might be brought before the class by recitations or readings. Such poems are “Christabel,” “Genevieve,” “Kubla Khan,” “ Ballad oO: the Dark Made,’ “Prance,” “Fears in Solitude,” “The Eolian Harp,” “Reflections on Having Left a Place of Retirement,” “The Foster Mother’s Tale,” “Sonnet to Burke,” “Answer to a Child’s Question,” “Hymn before Sunrise,” “The Lime Tree Bower My Prison,” “The Nightingale: A Conversation Poem,” “Frost at Midnight,” “Dejection,” “Ode to Tranquil- lity,” “Jiimes to W. L.,” “The Pains of Sleep,” “The Knight’s Tomb,” “Youth and Age,” “Fancy in Nubi- bus.” the bird song in “Zapolya,” the Miserere in “Remorse,” and the famous original passage upon “The fair humanities of old religion” in “The Picco-. lomini.” KATHARINE LEE BATES. WELLESLEY COLLEGE, May, 1889.COLERIDGE. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. ~ (1772-1834.) SamusEL TAYLOR CoLERIDGE, born in Devonshire, Eng: land, Oct. 21, 1772, was the youngest of thirteen children. His father was a clergyman, schoolmaster, and book- worm, holding the two positions of vicar of Ottery St. Mary and master of Henry VIIL.’s Free Grammar School in the same parish. Coleridge has recorded of his mother that she was, as doubtless she had need to be, “ an admir- able economist.” His childish love, however, seems to have gone out less to her, the Martha “careful and trou- bled about many things,” than to the absent-minded, un- worldly old vicar, who is remembered for his “ Critical Latin Grammar,” wherein he proposed a change in the names of the cases, designating the ablative, for example, as “the quare-quale-quidditive case;” and also for the Hebrew quotations, which, copiously besprinkled through- out his sermons, he used to recommend to the awe- stricken hearts of his rustic congregation, as “the im- mediate language of the Holy Ghost.” “The truth iS says Coleridge, “my father was not a first-rate genius; he was, however, a first-rate Christian, which is much better.” 1 as BEMIS ess ars hes aeeee te rears re resenen teat eet e oe Te eT SES ee eect arn tome ote COLERIDGE. In this crowded vicarage the little poet led, as he tells us, a solitary life. “I took no pleasure in boyish sports, but read incessantly. I read through all gilt-cover little books that could be had at that time, and likewise all the uncovered tales of Tom Hickathrift, Jack the Giant-killer, and the like. And I used to lie by the wall and mope, and my spirits used to come upon me suddenly, and in a flood; and then I was accustomed to run up and down the churchyard, and act over again all I had been read- ing on the docks, the nettles, and the rank grass... . I never played except by myself, and then only acted over what I had been reading or fancying, or half one, half the other; with a stick cutting aown weeds and nettles, as one of the ‘Seven champions of Christendom.’ Alas! I had all the simplicity, all the docility of the little child, but none of the child’s habits. I never thought as a child, never had the language of a child.” Before the boy was nine years old, occurred the sud- den death of his father. Money, never abundant in this household, was now scarcer than ever, and the dreamy, precocious child must needs be abruptly pushed out of the home shelter into the rough life of a London Charity School. Through the exertions of one of his father’s old pupils, an eminent judge of the neighborhood, Cole- ridge obtained admission to Christ’s Hospital and was made a Blue-Coat Boy. Here among the Blue-Coats he passed the next eight years of his life, still lonely, for all his six hundred schoolfellows, and rapt in strange imaginings. “My talents and superiority,” he says, “made me forever at the head in my routine of study,BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 3 though utterly without the desire to be so; without a spark of ambition; and as to emulation, it had no mean- ing for me; but the difference between me and my form- fellows, in our lessons and exercises, bore no proportion to the measureless difference between me and them in the wide, wild wilderness of useless, unarranged book knowledge and book thoughts.” It is related that the visionary student, who seems to have been addicted to at least one boyish pastime, delighting on summer holi- days in the bathing excursions to a neighboring stream, was once walking down the Strand, throwing out his arms continually, asif in the act of swimming. A stran- ger, with whose person his hand came in contact, taking the lad for a pickpocket, seized him, with the exclama- tion: “ What, so young and so wicked!” —“J am not a pickpocket,’’ pleaded Coleridge, “I only thought I was Leander swimming the Hellespont.” The astonished stranger, finding his thief turn genius, procured for him, hy way of apology, free access to a circulating library. “Here,” writes Coleridge, “I read through the cata- logue, folios and all, whether I understood them, or did not understand them, running all risks in skulking out to get the two volumes which I was entitled to have daily. Conceive what I must have been at fourteen; I was in a continual low fever. My whole being was, with eyes closed to every object of present sense, to crumple myself up in a sunny corner, and read, read, read —fancying myself on Robinson Crusoe’s island, finding a mountain of plum-cake, and making a room for myself, and then eating it into the shapes of tablesCOLERIDGE. and chairs—hunger and fancy!” Poor little Blue. Coat! Those feasts of books were the only feasts he knew in Christ’s Hospital. It required a flight of fancy indeed for the half-starved orphan to imagine a plum- cake. For at that time, in the words which Coleridge himself used years after: “The portion of food to the Blue-Coats was cruelly insufficient for those who had no friends to supply them.” Lamb, his schoolfellow, then and always Coleridge’s “gentle-hearted Charles,” had relatives in town, and so fared better ; but the whimsical essayist has given, in the sketch entitled “Christ’s Hos- pital Five and Thirty Years Ago,” a sympathetic picture of his less fortunate friend’s experience. Yet Coleridge’s recollections of his school days were not all unhappy. ‘To an eager intellect like his, the field of knowledge was itself delectable land. Under the guidance of this same choleric head master, the “rabid pedant” at whom Lamb pokes such irresist ible fun, Coleridge ranged widely over Greek, Latin, and English literature. “At school (Christ’s Hospital),” he says, in his Biographia. Literaria, “I enjoyed the inestimable advantage of a very sensible, though at the same time a very severe master, the Rev- erend James Bowyer. He early moulded my taste to the preference of Demosthenes to Cicero; of Homer and Theocritus to Virgil; and again of Virgil to Ovid. -.. At the same time that we were studying the Greek tragic poets, he made us read Shakspeare and Milton as lessons; and they were the lessons, too, which required most time and trouble to bring up, so as toBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 5 escape his censure. I learned from him, that poetry, even that of the loftiest and, seemingly, that of the wildest odes, had a logic of its own, as severe as that of science; and more difficult, because more subtle, more complex, and dependent on more and more fugitive causes. ‘In the. truly great poets,’ he would say, ‘there is a reason assignable, not only for every word, but for the position of every word.’” But it was not to the study of poetry that the young student gave him- self up with freest abandon. “At a very premature age,” Coleridge has recorded, “even before my fifteenth year, I had bewildered myself in metaphysics, and in theological controversy. Nothing else pleased me. His- tory and particular facts lost all interest in my mind. ... Poetry itself, yea, novel and romance, became insipid to me.” In his nineteenth year, Coleridge wrote a poetic fare- well, not without tenderness, to Christ’s Hospital; and entered at Jesus College, Cambridge, just a month after Wordsworth, having taken the bachelor’s degree, had quitted the university. Of Coleridge’s career at Cam- bridge, one of his college mates writes: “ Coleridge was very studious, but his reading was desultory and capri- cious. He took little exercise merely for the sake of exercise: but he was ready at any time to unbend his mind in conversation; and, for the sake of this, his room was a constant rendezvous of conversation-loving friends, —I will not call them loungers, for they did not call to kill time, but to enjoy it. What evenings have I spent in those rooms! What little suppers, or sizings,COLERIDGE. as they were called, have I enjoyed; when Atschylus, and Plato, and Thucydides were pushed aside, with a pile of lexicons and the like, to discuss the pamphlets of the day. Ever and anon a pamphlet issued from the pes. of Burke. There was no need of having the book before us; Coleridge had read it in the morning, and in the evening he would repeat whole pages verbatim.” But brilliant as these occasional feats of memory might be, phenomenal though his natural gifts of understand. ing and imagination were, the irresolution and lack of practical energy, which so deeply marred the poet’s later life, had already begun their injurious work with him. Even at Christ’s Hospital, drunken with metaphysics, he had turned impatiently away from the mathematics and the other exact sciences, the colder and stricter disvipline which these exert over the mental faculties being distaste- ful to him ; and at Cambridge, although he gained a gold medal for a Greek ode, he seems to have neglected the minutic of classic scholarship, for we find him more than once an unsuccessful candidate for college honors. Early in the third year of his Cambridge residence, in debt and despondent, he yielded to a reckless impulse, and took coach for London. There he drifted about for a few days, spent his scanty stock of money, waxed hungry and, a recruiting advertisement catching his eye, enlisted off-hand, the most unsoldierly young Englishman that ever wore the scarlet, as a private in the 15th Light Dragoons. “Being at a loss, when suddenly asked my name,” he afterwards wrote to a friend, “I answered, Cumberback, and verily, my habits were so little eques-BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. trian, that my horse, I doubt not, was of that opinion.” For four months Coleridge served his country under arms as best he might, his comrades helping the awk. ward recruit about the grooming of his horse, and lke non-scholastic duties; while he repaid these services by writing letters for them to their wives and sweethearts. But the words, “ Hheu, quam infortunt miserrumum est fuisse felicem,” inscribed in pencil on the stable wall under his saddle, attracted the notice of an officer. The upshot was that Coleridge, bought off with some difficulty by his friends, returned in April to Cambridge, where he remained only until the summer vacation. Then, diverted from college interests by his large en- thusiasms for political and social reform, and shut off from all chance of college preferment by his profession of the Unitarian faith, he severed his connection with the University without taking a degree. The year in which the restless poet thus broke free from academic life was 1794. For four years past all Europe hac been shaken to its centre by the great event of modern history. The French Revolution, with its impetuous rush, had been sweeping all the frank and generous young hearts of England away from traditional moorings on the wild, glad dream of universal liberty, equality, and brotherhood. ‘‘ Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, But to be young was very Heaven.”’ Coleridge shared to the full the leaping hope, the delt- rious joy, the pure ideal of the hour. The horrors of the8 COLERIDGE. Revolution daunted him no more than they did Words worth; for the blasphemy and carnage both our poets deemed but the cloud before the daybreak, the transient evils incident to the holy triumph of Freedom. In the blood-stained leaders of the mob they sought to discern patriots, philosophers, philanthropists. “‘Elate we looked Upon their virtues; saw, in rudest men, Self-sacrifice the firmest; generous love, And continence of mind, and sense of right, Uppermost in the midst of fiercest strife.’ And when England arrayed herself with the enemies of France; when ‘“¢'To whelm the disenchanted nation, Like fiends embattled by a wizard’s wand, The monarchs marched in evil day, And Britain joined the dire array,”’ Coleridge, like Wordsworth, in the hot grief and indig. nation of a youthful spirit, withdrew his sympathies from his native land. ‘¢ Though dear her shores and circling ocean, Though many friendships, many youthful loves, Had swoln the patriot emotion, And flung a magic light o’er all her hills and groves, Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang defeat To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance, And shame, too long delayed, and vain retreat. For ne’er, O Liberty, with partial aim, I dimmed thy light, or damped thy holy flame; But blessed the pezeans of delivered France, And hung my head, and wept at Britain’s name.”BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 9 Breaking away from the routine of University life in such mood as this, Coleridge almost immediately fell in with the poet Southey, ike himself, at this time, Uni- tarian in religion, and ardently democratic in politics. These two young dreamers speedily gave themselves up to architecture of that unprofessional kind known as air- castle building. They proposed to establish in America, on the banks of the Susquehanna, —a location chosen because of the resonant name of the river, —a social com- munity under the title of Pantisocracy. The Adams in this earthly paradise were to till the soil, the Eves were to perform the household tasks; there was to be an abun- dance of leisure. for social intercourse, for reading of books, and writing of poems; all things were to be held in common, and selfishness was to be unknown. But while Coleridge and Southey were maturing the details of this plan at Bristol, they fell in love with two sisters resident there; and in the fall of 1795, at the age of twenty-three, Coleridge, with no visible means of sup- port, was married to Sarah Fricker. We hear little more of the project ‘* The tinkling team to drive O’er peaceful Freedom’s undivided vale.”’ The young husband and wife cast in their lot with un- enlightened England; where not even bread was held in common, but it behooved every man to win for himself and his what portion of the loaf he could. And here began for Coleridge a painful and a losing struggle. To tell what he did is a brief matter, but to tell what he proposed and intended to do would fll many pages.COLERIDGE. First he tried his hand at lecturing, then at the publica- tion of a weekly miscellany, The Watchman. For his third venture he issued a volume of “Juvenile Poems,” receiving in compensation thirty guineas. These poems, some fifty in number, many of them dating from under- eraduate days, represent rather the byplay of Coleridge’s pen than any sustained exertion of his genius; and yet, though more often eloquent and graceful than highly im- aginative, these youthful poems, above and beyond their wealth of diction, ease of rhythm, breadth of thought and dignity of tone, bear upon them that indefinable something which we recognize as the pure poetic im- press. Meanwhile the poet had turned preacher and was delivering impassioned discourses, usually upon the political topics of the time, in the Unitarian chapels about Bristol. Hazlitt thus records his impressions on hearing Coleridge preach, — “As he gave out his text, ‘He departed again into a mountain, himself alone, his voice rose ‘like a stream of rich, distilled perfumes ;’ and when he came to the two last words, which he pronounced loud, deep, and distinct, it seemed to me, who was then young, as if the sounds had echoed from the bottom of the human heart, and as if that prayer might have floated in solemn silence through the universe. . .. The preacher then launched into his subject, like an eagle dallying with the wind. . . . For myself, I could not have been more delighted if I had heard the music of the spheres.” Seventeen hundred and ninety-six was ushered out by Coleridge with his “Ode to the Departing Year.” With TRIES ceeBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 1 1797 dawned the annus mirabilis of his genius. His poetic activity, stimulated by his new friendship with Wordsworth, touched its zenith then. It was the year of the “Rime of the Ancient Mariner,” and “Christa- bel;” of “Love,” and the “Ode to France;” of “Re- morse,” and “Kubla Khan.” His poet comrade, ** Friend of the wise and teacher of the good,” has sketched us one last picture of a blithe-hearted Coleridge. “That summer, under whose indulgent skies Upon smooth Quantock’s airy ridge we roved Unchecked, or loitered ’mid her sylvan combs, Thou, in bewitching words, with happy heart, Didst ca at the vision of that Ancient Man, The bright-eyed Mariner, and rueful woes Didst utter of the lady Christabel.”’ From these joyous rambles sprang a rich poetic har- vest. ‘The thought,” says Coleridge, “suggested itself (to which of us I do not recollect) that a series of poems might be composed, of two sorts. In the one the inci- dents and agents were to be, in part at least, supernatu- ral; and the interest aimed at was to consist in the interesting of the affections by the dramatic truth of such emotions as would naturally accompany such situa- tions, supposing them real. For the second class, sub- jects were to be chosen from ordinary life; the charac- ters and incidents were to be such as will be found in every village ana its vicinity, where there is a medita- tive and feeling mind to seek after them, or to notice them when they present themselves.” Thus originatedcraaeh Pore ae ce sabes eee teme Peep tereet eres es eee COLERIDGE. the Lyrical Ballads, a joint volume of poems, prepared in accordance with this idea, save that the division of labor proved to be unequal, Wordsworth contributing nearly five times as many poems as his fitful companion. This ttle book appeared in the spring of 1798, its pub- hieation, though productive at the time of small fame and less profit to the brother authors, marking an epoch in the history of English poetry. In the autumn of this Same year, the two poets, with Wordsworth’s sister Dorothy, took a trip to Germany, the poetic outcome being, for Coleridge, his masterly translation of Schil- ler’s “Wallenstein.” But over the onward path of the young poet, still in the radiant sunrise of his genius, the menacing clouds had gathered; and the annals of his later life are but “the tragic story of a high endowment with an insufficient will.” The troubles that were fast closing about Coleridge, to stifle his exquisite song, sprang mainly from two sources ; the overthrow of his early, passionate faith in a dawn- ing era of liberty and love, and the slavery of the opium habit. For to the young poets of England, who had thrown the purest enthusiasm of their hearts into the French Revolution, came bitter disappointment and paralyzing sorrow. When the France in whom they had trusted, once freed from her own tyrants, exchanged her pledges of love for deeds of hate, her theories of uni- versal brotherhood for acts of selfish injustice, her psalms ‘to the Goddess of Liberty for the battle-cry raised against the free mountains of Switzerland; when England herself was threatened with invasion; when theBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 18 oppressed became the oppressor; when the Republic passed into the Empire; when Napoleon’s wars of con- quest drenched Europe with blood; —then it was that, bewildered, betrayed, despairing of humanity, liberals turned conservatives, lovers of the race were driven back on the narrower virtue of patriotism and, for visions of the Golden Age and inspired songs 59 Free- dom, came disbelief in visions, and loss of the power to sing. Wordsworth’s stronger nature, on which the shock of disillusion fell at first with crushing force, rose from the blow chastened and serene, though never the same again. Henceforth he cared little for popular move- ments, trusted little in political agitations, but dwelt apart from cities, among the rustic poor, regaining his faith in mankind as he lingered in cottage doorways and heard, — ‘‘From mouths of men obscure and lowly, truths Replete with honor.’’ His wounded heart found healing in the dear, familiar touch of nature; and his broken hopes for society were re-united in a deeper reverence for humanity. The ideal that made the glory of his youth was darkened ; but, year by year, a calm-thoughted philosopher, he wrought steadily at his art, presenting his life to God as ‘‘ An oblation of divine tranquillity ;”’ end bequeathing to his fellow-men a noble body of poetry, instinct with “Love and hope and faith’s transcendent dower.”COLERIDGE. But with the death of his aspiration for man, died the poet-life of Coleridge. “For Coleridge,” says a keen- sighted critic, “wanted will; and with will, perseverance and continuance. Nothing gave his will force but high- pitched enthusiasm ; and with its death within him, with the perishing of his youthful dream, the enduring energy of life visited him no more. And this is specially true of him as Poet. Almost all his best poetic work is coincident with the Revolution; afterwards, everything is Incomplete.” Yet it is possible that the poetic power, even after this benumbing shock, might yet have rallied, had not Coleridge suffered himself to become enslaved by the opium-habit. ‘‘ Sickness, ’tis true, Whole years of weary days, besieged him close, Even to the gates and inlets of his life :”’ but the remedy was worse than the disease. Recogniz- ing to the full the shame and misery entailed upon him by this bondage, which made lethargy of his days and torture of his nights, he nevertheless lacked the manli- ness to break his chain. “Sad lot, to have no hope! Though lowly kneeling He fain would frame a prayer within his breast, Would fain entreat for some sweet breath of healing, That his sick body might have ease and rest; - He strove in vain ! the dull sighs from his chest Against his will the stifling load revealing, Though nature forced; though like some captive guest, Some royal prisoner at his conqueror’s feast, An alien’s restless mood but half concealing, oe Seer ee srBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. The sternness on his gentle brow confessed Sickness within and miserable feeling; Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams, And dreaded sleep, each night repelled in vain, Each night was scattered by its own loud screams; Yet never could his heart command, though fain, One deep full wish to be no more in pain.” The laudanum fostered his natural indolence and pro: crastination. Bitterly he reproached himself, but his self-rebukings did not lead to amendment. ‘¢To me hath Heaven with bounteous hand assign’d Energic reason and a shaping mind, The daring ken of truth, the patriot’s part, And pity’s sigh, that breathes the gentle heart — Sloth-jaundiced all! and from my graspless hand Drop friendship’s precious pearls, like hour-glass sand.” And beneath one of his unfinished poems he wrote these words of saddest significance, -~ “Carmen reliquum in futurum tempus relegatum. To-morrow! and To-morrow! and To-morrow !” — It was not the least of Coleridge’s sufferings that he could not suffer alone. To read the record of his Her- culean projects and frail accomplishment, 1s to pity, not only him, but his wife and children. Domestic care, financial responsibility, fretted and harassed the man of contemplation; he struggled against the stream for a little, and then drifted with the current, lamenting, but no longer resisting. In his earlier poems we have fre- quent and tender allusions to his bride, and passages of purest beauty concerning his infant child. But he hagNee tec stn Peake ok tte tetera Dect sS Catt ce tee cee eer eats Sas Vakeaeaete. 16 : COLERIDGE. not been one year married before his spirit 1s sorely irked by the necessity for regular labor with his pen, to meet the expenses of his little household. To a friend he writes: “I am forced to write for bread — write the flights of poetic enthusiasm, when every minute I am hearing a groan from my wife. Groans, and complaints, and sickness. The present hour I am in a quickset hedge of embarrassments, and, whichever way I turn, a thorn runs into me. The future is cloud and thick darkness. Poverty, perhaps, and the thin faces of them that want bread looking up to me! Nor is this all. My happiest moments for composition are broken in upon by the reflection that I must make haste. ‘I am too late!’ ‘I am already months behind!’ ‘I have received my pay beforehand.’ O wayward and desultory spirit of Genius, ill canst thou brook a taskmaster!” The odds were too heavily against him, restless, irres- clute, unreliable as he was. “The courage necessary for kim, above all things, had been denied this man,” says Carlyle. “His life, with such ray of the empyrean in it, was great and terrible to him, and he had not val- iantly grappled with it; he had fled from it, sought refuge in vague day-dreams, hollow compromises, in opium, in theosophic metaphysics. Harsh pain, danger, necessity, slavish, harnessed toil, were of all things abhorrent to him. And so the empyrean element, lying smothered under the terrene, and yet inextinguishable there, made sad writhings. For pain, danger, difficulty, steady slay- ing toil, and other highly disagreeable behests of destiny, shall in no wise be shirked by any brightest mortal thatBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. ah will approve himself loyal to his mission in this world; nay, precisely the higher he is, the deeper will be the disagreeableness and the detestability, to flesh and blood, of the tasks laid on him, and the heavier, too, and more tragic, his penalties if he neglects them.” Never was erring poet blessed with more patient and more generous friends. Southey’s home afforded a refuge to Mrs. Coleridge and the children. The Wordsworths opened their doors to him. De Quincey gave him money. Many another friend did the same, sometimes sponta- neously, more often in response to Coleridge’s begging letters. For the last eighteen years of his life the un- thrifty, humiliated poet was kindly cared for in the family of a Dr. Gilman. “Tt is no secret,” says Leigh Hunt, “that Coleridge lived in the Grove at Highgate with a friendly family, who had sense and kindness enough to know that they did themselves honor by looking after the comfort of such a man. His room looked upon a delicious prospect of wood and meadow, with colored gardens under the window, like an embroidery to the mantle. I thought, when I first saw it, that he had taken up his dwelling- place like an abbot. Here he cultivated his flowers, and had a set of birds for his pensioners, who came to break- fast with him. He might have been seen taking his daily stroll up and down, with his black coat and white locks, and a book in his hand; and was a great acquaint- ance of the little children.” In this peaceful retreat, enabled at last, by the aid of his friendly physician, to escape in some degree from the18 COLERIDGE. tyranny of opium, Coleridge seemed to begin life anew, but it was life as a philosopher, now, no longer as a poet. Fourteen years before this retirement to Highgate, Cole- ridge himself had mournfully recorded the suspension of his poetic faculty. ‘““ There was a time 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 hope grew round me, like the twining vine, 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, — My shaping spirit of imagination. For not to think of what I needs must feel, But to be still and patient, all I can, And haply by abstruse research to steal From my own nature all the natural man, — This was my sole resource, my only plan, Till that which suits a part infects the whole, And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.’’ The “shaping spirit of imagination” did not return to him, in this quiet evening of his stormy day; but his pen was industrious, especially in lines of literary eriti- cism and of religious philosophy. The list of his prose works comprises “The Friend,” “Two Lay Sermons,” “Biographia Literaria,” “Aids to Reflection,” “Church and State,” “Confessions of an Inquiring Spirit,” and “Literary Remains.” Besides these, he left behind a mass of notes and correspondence, and a volume has beenBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 19 made of his “Table-talk.” These works, though unequal in merit, all reveal the presence of what De Quincey has styled “the largest and most spacious intellect, the sub- tlest and the most comprehensive, in my judgment, that has yet existed amongst men.” As a Shakspearian critic, Coleridge is unsurpassed in English letters. As a religious philosopher, he exerted a powerful influence over his own and the succeeding generation, being the first to introduce the German spec- ulations into English theology. Abandoning his Unita- rianism, he found place again within the Established Church, and notwithstanding his familiarity with the writings of the most able sceptics of France and Ger- many, taught a distinctively Christian philosophy. Coleridge’s wonderful flow of speech attracted many disciples to Highgate; his later years knew honor and reverence, and the faithful friends of his youth loved him to the end. Charles Lamb, indeed, never recovered from the shock of his old schoolfellow’s death, which occurred in 1834, and survived him but a short time. Wordsworth laments the two friends together. ‘‘ Nor has the rolling year twice measured From sign to sign its steadfast course, Since every mortal power of Coleridge Was frozen at its marvellous source. ‘‘The rapt one, of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth; And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth,”rents toe ieee eeepc tenes rere nee ee re 44 20 COLERIDGE. For Wordsworth, like Scott and all that shining group of poets who were Coleridge’s contemporaries, stood awe- stricken before the miraculous imagination which, in the “Rime of the Ancient Mariner,” but gave forth one flash of its splendor. After that twenty-fifth year of high achievement, the over-burdened life went astray in sad, ignoble confusions; but at last it was the poet who lay dying. “Tam dying,” he said, “ but without expectation of a speedy release. Is it not strange that very recently bygone images, and scenes of early life, have stolen into my mind, like breezes blown from the spice-islands of Youth and Hope, — those two realities of this phantom world ? ” To Coleridge these might well seem the only realities ; for in the days of youth and hope alone had he been true to his own reality, — his one rightful life as poet. Inthe presence of these words his later years, their errors and their sufferings, even their labors, fade away; and we know Coleridge once again as the “heaven-eyed” youth who roamed with Wordsworth over the Quantock Hills, chanting his magical, dreamland ballads, “exquisitely wild,” to the music of his own inspired heart. ron 59 oa SS em oe SePEN PICTURES OF COLERIDGE. ComE back into. memory, like as thou wert in the dayspring of thy fancies, with hope like a fiery column before thee — the dark pillar not yet turned — Samuel Taylor Coleridge — Logi- cian, Metaphysician, Bard! — How have I seen the casual passer through the cloisters stand still, entranced with admi- ration (while he weighed the disproportion between the speech and the garb of the young Mirandula), to hear thee unfold, in thy deep and sweet intonations, the mysteries of Jamblichus, or Plotinus (for even in those years thou waxedst not pale at such philosophic draughts), or reciting Homer in his Greek, or Pindar — while the walls of the old Gray Friars re-echoed to the accents of the inspired charity-boy !— CHARLES LAMB. You had a great loss in not seeing Coleridge. He is a won- derful man. His conversation teems with soul, mind, and spirit. ‘Then he is so benevolent, so good-tempered and cheer- ful, and, like William, interests himself so much about every little trifle. At first, I thought him very plain, that is, for about three minutes; he is pale, thin, has a wide mouth, thick lips and not very good teeth, longish, loose-growing, halt- curling, rough black hair. But if you hear him speak for five minutes, you think no more of them. His eye is large and full, and not very dark but gray; such an eye as would receive from a heavy soul the dullest expression ; but it speaks every emotion of his animated mind: it has more of the poet’s eye in Al. : |22 COLERIDGE. a fine frenzy rolling than I ever witnessed. He has fine, dark eyebrows and an overhanging forehead. — DoRoTHy WoRDs- WORTH. The noticeable man with large gray eyes. — WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. In height, he might seem to be about five feet eight (he was, in reality, about an inch and a half taller, but his figure was of an order which drowns the height); his person was broad and full, and tended even to corpulence; his complexion was fair, though not what painters technically style fair, because it was associated with black hair; his eyes were large and soft in their expression; and it was from the pecul- iar appearance of haze or dreaminess, which mixed with their light, that I recognized my object. This was Coleridge. — THOMAS DE QUINCEY. Coleridge was as little fitted for action as Lamb, but on a different account. His person was of a good height, but as sluggish and solid as the other’s was light and active. He had, perhaps, suffered it to look old before its time, for want of exercise. His hair was white at fifty; and, as he generally dressed in black, and had a very tranquil demeanor, his ap- pearance was gentlemanly, and for several years before his death was reverend. Nevertheless, there was something in- vincibly young in the look of his face. It was round and fresh colored, with agreeable features, and an open, indolent, good-natured mouth. This boy-like expression was very be- coming in one who dreamed and speculated as he did when he was really a boy, and who passed his life apart from the rest of the world with a book and his flowers. His forehead was prodigious, a great piece of placid marble; and his fine eyes, in which all the activity of his mind seemed to concentrate, seePEN PICTURES OF COLERIDGE. 25 moved under it with a sprightly ease, as if it was pastime te him to carry all that thought. — LricH Hunt. Coleridge sat on the brow of Highgate Hill, in those years, looking down on London and its smoke-tumult, like a sage escaped from the inanity of life’s battle; attracting toward him the thoughts of innumerable brave souls still engaged there. His express contributions to poetry, philosophy, or any specific province of human literature or enlightenment, had been small and sadly intermittent ; but he had, especially among young inquiring men, a higher than literary, a kind of prophetic or magician character. He was thought to hold, he alone in England, the key of German and other transcenden- talisms ; knew the sublime secret of believing by ‘‘ the reason” what ‘‘the understanding” had been obliged to fling out as incredible; and could still, after Hume and Voltaire had done their best and worst with him, profess himself an orthodox Christian, and say and print to the Church of England, with its singular old rubrics and surplices at Allhallowtide, Esto perpetua. A sublime man; who, alone in those dark days, had saved his crown of spiritual manhood; escaping from the black materialisms, and revolutionary deluges, with ‘‘ God, Freedom, Immortality,” still his: a king of men. ‘The prac- tical intellects of the world did not much heed him, or carelessly reckoned him a metaphysical dreamer: but to the rising spirits of the young generation, he had this dusky, sublime character; and sat there as a kind of Magus, girt in mystery and enigma; his Dodona oak grove (Mr. Gilman’s house at Highgate) whispering strange things, uncertain whether ora- cles or jargon. The good man, he was now getting old, towards sixty, per- haps; and gave you the idea of a life that had been full of24 COLERIDGE. sufferings ; a life heavy-laden, half-vanquished, still swimming painfully in seas of manifold physical and other bewilder- ment. Brow and head were round, and of massive weight, but the face was flabby and irresolute. The deep eyes, of a light hazel, were as full of sorrow as of inspiration; confused pain looked mildly from them, as in a kind of mild astonish- ment. The whole figure and air, good and amiable other- wise, might be called flabby and irresolute; expressive of weakness under possibility of strength. He hung loosely on his limbs, with knees bent, and stooping attitude; in walking, he rather shuftled than decisively stepped; and a lady once remarked, he never could fix which side of the garden-walk would suit him best, but continually shifted, in corkscrew fashion, and kept trying both. A heavy-laden, high-aspiring, and surely much-suffering man. His voice, naturally soft and good, had contracted itself into a plaintive snuftle and sing- song; he spoke as if preaching, you would have said, preach- ing earnestly and also hopelessly the weightiest things. I still recollect his ‘‘ object” and ‘‘ subject,” terms of continual recurrence in the Kantean province; and how he sung and snufied them into ‘‘om-m-mject” and ‘‘sum-m-mject” with a kind of solemn shake or quaver, as he rolled along. No talk, in his century or in any other, could be more surprising. — THOMAS CARLYLE. To pass an entire day with Coleridge was a marvellous change, indeed [from the taik of daily life]. It was a Sab- bath past expression, deep, and tranquil, and serene. You came to a man who had travelled in many countries, and in critical times; who had seen and felt the world in most of its ranks, and in many of its vicissitudes and weaknesses ; one to whom all literature and art were absolutely subject; and to whom, with a reasonable allowance as to technical details,PEN PICTURES OF COLERIDGE. 25 all science was, in a most extraordinary degree, familiar. Throughout a long-drawn summer's day, would this man talk to you in low, equable, but clear and musical tones, concerning things human and divine; marshalling all history, harmonizing ° all experiment, probing the depths of your consciousness, and revealing visions of glory and terror to the imagination; but pouring, withal, such floods of light upon the mind that you might for a season, like Paul, become blind in the very act of conversion. And this he would do without so much as one allusion to himself, without a word of reflection upon others, save when any given art fell naturally in the way of his dis- course; without one anecdote that was not proof and illustra- tion of a previous position; gratifying no passion, indulging no caprice, but, with a calm mastery over your soul, leading you onward and onward forever through a thousand windings, yet with no pause, to some magnificent point in which, as in a focus, all the parti-colored rays of his discourse should con- verge in light. In all these, he was, in truth, your teacher and guide; but, in a little while, you might forget that he was other than a fellow-student and the companion of your way, so playful was his manner, so simple his language, so affection- ate the glance of his eye! —_ NELSON COLERIDGE. Visionary Coleridge, who Did sweep his thoughts, as angels do Their wings, with cadence up the blue. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNINGHINTS ON THE HANDLING OF A POEM. “POETRY,” says Coleridge, “is the blossom and the fragrance of all human knowledge, human thoughts, human passions, emotions, language.” Essentially a poem cannot be taught. The student learns his deepest lesson from the poet and from no other. A teacher does well to be on his guard, lest he obtrude his own personality between the two. It is the poet himself, who, arresting the attention by song, hold- ing it by vision after vision, can best impart to the young intellect the truth he has to tell, can alone inspire in the young heart a sympathetic passion for that truth. The function of the teacher, in dealing with any partic- ular poem, is, first and foremost, to help the student fix his attention upon it. This can usually be done by questioning, better than in any other way. A running fire of questions, searching, varied, stimulates the mental activity, pricks into life the sluggish perceptions, gives form and color to those poem-pictures which are often so dimly and vaguely reproduced by the untutored im- agination; and thus securing the vivid presentment of the scene, the clear comprehension of the thought, does away with the intellectual barrier, and brings the heart of the student into free contact with the glowing heart See ea meHINTS ON THE HANDLING OF A POEM. 2° of the poet. Since definite knowledge is a requisite basis for true sympathy, such questions would relate in part to the meaning of terms and phrases employed; and rigid must be the will of that teacher who is not some- times tempted aside from his main object by the “fossii poetry” of individual words, and led to inquire into the secrets of their origin and growth; yet the study of literature is more than philology. Such questions might relate, in part, to the structure of sentences; the significance of allusions, geographical, historical, myth- ological; the value of an illustration; the force of an argument; the development of a thought ;—all this to insure a firm intellectual grasp of the subject-matter. Yet this done, the half has not been done. To under- stand the poet’s message is one thing; to feel it, know it, and reach out beyond it toward the purer message he suggests, but has not words to utter, is another. Indeed, care should constantly be taken that these more super- ficial questions be kept in the background and not suffered to distract the student’s mind from the poetic essence. For the study of literature must not be mis. taken for the study of syntax, geography, history, myth- ology or logic. All questions that awaken the imagina- tion and enable it to glorify the printed words into such clear-colored visions as dazzled the “mind’s eye” of the poet while he wrote are of peculiar value. Questions that quicken the ear to the music of the poet’s verse, and all other questions that render the student aware of poetic artifice, responsive to poetic effects, indirectly serve to deepen the central impression of the poem;28 COLERIDGE. since these very melodies and rhetorical devices are not idle ornament, but the studied emphasis of the poet’s word. Questions that lead the student to recognize and define in himself the emotions aroused by one passage or another in the poem, questions that call forth an attempt to supply missing links in the chain of events, questions that carry the reason and imagination forward on the lines suggested by the poet, all tend to mould the student’s mood into sympathy with that higher mood, sensitive, eager, impassioned, in which the singer first conceived his song. The question-method may be well supplemented by topical recitation, class discussion, citation of parallel passages, comparison with kindred poems and, under due precautions, the reading of criticisms. The commit- ting a poem to memory, that its virtue may gradually distil into the mind and become a force in the uncon- scious life, is most desirable wherever it is possible to train the student to learn poetry by heart and not by rote. The slavish and mechanical engrossing of words, lines and stanzas upon some blank tablet of the brain, is of questionable benefit; but where the student is able to learn the poem as a poem, not as a column of verses, —to possess himself, by the powers of attention and analysis, of the sequence of events and grouping of images, remembering these in the poet’s own language, because on trial he finds that language the most natural and best; this surpasses for poetic education every exer- cise that the ingenuity of teacher can devise. At all events, leave the student alone with the poet atHINTS ON THE HANDLING OF A POEM. 29 the first and at the last. Let him have his earliest read- ing of the poem with fresh, unprejudiced mind, and when teacher, classroom and critics have done their best and their worst with him, return him to the poet again. If possible, let a little time intervene, and then let the poem be read aloud before the class; or, better still, recited by some one who has entered deeply into its Spirit, and whose voice is musical and expressive. So will the first impression be intensified, and the seed- sowing of analysis and criticism be harvested in a richer renewal of poetic sympathy. For poetry is not knowl- edge to be apprehended; it is passion to be felt, — pas- sion for the truth revealed in beauty, and for the hinted truth too beautiful to be revealed.THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. IN SEVEN PARTS. (1797.) ——— eee Facile credo, plures esse Naturas invisibiles quam visibiles in rerum uni- versitate. Sed horum omnium familiam quis nobis enarrabit? et gradus et cognationes et discrimina et singulorum munera? Quid egunt? que loca hab- itant? Harum rerum notitiam semper ambivit ingenium humanum, nunquam attigit. Juvat, interea, non diffiteor, quandoque in animo, tanquam in Tabula, majoris et melioris mundi imaginem contemplari: ne mens assuefacta hodi- erne vite minutiis se contrahat nimis, et tota subsidat in pusillas cogitationes. Sed veritati interea invigilandum est, modusque servandus, ut certa ab incer- tis, diem a nocte, distinguamus. T. BURNET: ARCHZOL. PHIL. p. 68. TRANSLATION. —I readily believe that there are more invisible beings in the universe than visible. But who will declare to us the nature of all these, the rank, relationships, distinguishing characteristics and qualities of each? What is it they do? Where is it they dwell? Always the human intellect circles around the knowledge of these mysteries, never touching the centre. Meanwhile it is, I deny not, oft-times well pleasing to behold sketched upon the mind, as upon a tablet, a picture of the greater and better world; so shall not the spirit, wonted to the petty concerns of daily life, narrow itself over- much, nor sink utterly into trivialities. But meanwhile we must diligently seek after truth, and maintain a temperate judgment, if we would distinguish certainty from uncertainty, day from night. T. BURNET: ARCHXOL. PHIL. p. 68. pen ac pase PART I. Tad : . Iv is an ancient Mariner, An arclent Mere ea h £ th tei ner meetet ree , ion eee aes oe e t aoe to a wedding- ee n Yr ar feast, and detain- nee ee ee et eth one. Now wherefore stopp’st thou me ? «‘The Bridegroom’s doors are opened wide, And I am next of kin; The guests are met, the feast is set: Mayst hear the merry din.” 30 aE pee el a LaTHE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. ol He holds him with his skinny hand, ‘¢ There was a ship,” quoth he. ** Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!” Eftsoons his hand dropt he. He holds him with his glittering eye — The Wedding-Guest stood still, And listens like a three-years’ child: The Mariner hath his will. The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone: He cannot choose but hear ; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner. «The ship was cheered, the harbor cleared, Merrily did we drop Below the kirk, below the hill, Below the light-house top. The Sun came up upon the left, Out of the sea came he! And he shone bright, and on the right Went down into the sea. Higher and higher every day, Till over the mast at noon” — The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, For he heard the loud bassoon. The bride hath paced into the hall, Red as a rose 1s she; Nodding their heads before her goes The merry minstrelsy. The Wedding- Guest is spell- bound by the eye of the old sea- faring man, and constrained to hear his tale, The Mariner tells how the ship sailed southward with good wind and fair weather, till it reached the Line.& Ih The Wedding- Guest heareth the bridal music; but the Mariner continueth his tale. The ship, drawn by a storm to- ward the South Pole. The land of ice, and of fearful sounds, where no living thing was to be seen. Till a great sea- bird, called the Albatross, eame through the snow-fog, and was received with great joy and hospitality. COLERIDGE. The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, Yet he cannot choose but hear ; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner: ‘¢ And now the Storm-blast came, and he Was tyrannous and strong: He struck with his o’ertaking wings, And chased us south along. With sloping masts and dipping prow, As who pursued with yell and blow Still treads the shadow of his foe, And forward bends his head, The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, And southward aye we fled. And now there came both mist and snow, And it grew wondrous cold; And ice, mast-high, came floating by, As green as emerald. And through the drifts the snowy clifts Did send a dismal sheen ; Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken —- The ice was all between. The ice was here, the ice was there, The ice was all around: It cracked and growled, and roared and howled, Like noises in a swound! At length did cross an Albatross ; Through the fog it came ; As if it had been a Christian soul, We hailed it in God’s name.THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 38 It ate the food it ne’er had eat, And round and round it flew. The ice did split with a thunder-fit ; The helmsman steered us through ! And a good south wind sprung up behind ; The Albatross did follow, And every day, for food or play, Came to the mariners’ hollo! In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, It perched for vespers nine ; Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, Glimmered the white moon-shine.” ‘God save thee, ancient Mariner, From the fiends, that plague thee thus ! — Why look’st thou so?” — ‘* With my cross-bow I shot the Albatross. PARE Ii. The Sun now rose upon the right: Out of the sea came he, Still hid in mist, and on the left 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! And lo! the Al- batross proveth a bird of good omen, and fol- loweth the ship as it returned northward, through fog and floating ice. The ancient Mar. iner inhospitably killeth the pious bird of good omen34 His ship-mates cry out against the ancient Mari- ner, for killing the bird of good luck. But when the fog cleared off, they justify the same, and thus make themselves ac- complices in the crime. The fair breeze continues; the ship enters the Pacific Ocean and sails northward, even till it reaches the Line. The ship hath been suddenly becalmed. COLERIDGE. And I had done a hellish thing, And it would work ’em woe; For all averred, I had killed the bird That made the breeze to blow. Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay, That made the breeze to blow! Nor dim nor red, like God’s own head, The glorious Sun uprist. Then all averred, I had killed the bird That brought the fog and mist. "Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, That bring the fog and mist. The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, The furrow followed free ; We were the first that ever burst Into that silent sea. Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, *T was sad as sad could be; And we did speak only to break The silence of the sea! All in a hot and copper sky, The bloody Sun, at noon, 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.THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 39 Water, water, everywhere, And all the boards did shrink ; Water, water, everywhere, 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. And some in dreams assuréd were Of the spirit that plagued us so: Nine fathom deep he had followed us From the land of mist and snow. 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. Ah, well-a-day ! what evil looks Had I from old and young! Instead of the cross, the Albatross About my neck was hung. And the Albatross begins to be avenged. A spirit had fol- lowed them; one of the invisible inhabitants of this planet, neither departed souls nor angels; concerning which the learned Jew, Josephus, and the Platonic Con stantinopolitan, Michael Psellus, may be consulted. They are very numerous, and there is no cli- mate or element without one or more. The ship-mates, in their sore dis- tress, would fain throw the whole guilt on the an- cient Mariner; in sign whereof they hang the dead sea-bird round his neck. int oYThe ancient Mar- iner beholdeth a sign in the ele- ment afar off. At its nearer approach, it seemeth him to be a ship; and at a dear ransom he freeth his speech from the bonds of thirst. A flash of joy; And horror fol- lows. For can it bea ship that comes onward without wind or tide? COLERIDGE. PART III. There passed a weary time. Each throat Was parched, and glazed each eye. A weary time! a weary time! How glazed each weary eye, When looking westward, I beheld A something in the sky. At first it seemed a little speck, And then it seemed a mist; 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, It plunged and tacked and veered. With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, We could nor laugh nor wail ; Through utter drought all.dumb we stood! I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, And cried, A sail! a sail! With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, Agape they heard me call: Gramercy! they for joy did grin, And all at once their breath drew in, As they were drinking all. See! see! (I cried), she tacks no more. Hither to work us weal, — Without a breeze, without a tide, She steadies with upright keel! RE e's!THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 381 The western wave was all a-flame. 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. And straight the Sun was flecked with bars, (Heaven’s Mother send us grace!) It seemeth him 3 ; but the skeleton As if through a dungeon-grate he peered of a ship. With broad and burning face. Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) How fast she nears and nears! Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, Like restless gossameres ? And its ribs are Are those her ribs through which the Sun seen as bars on the face of the Did peer, as through a grate? setting Sun. The ‘ = Spectre-Woman And is iat Woman all her crew? aha ier Deathe c te, and Is that a Death? and are there two? oes oebORa Is Death that Woman’s mate ? EE SEDI ON SE Her lips were red, her looks were free, Like vessel, like Her locks were yellow as gold: crew! Her skin was as white as leprosy, The Night-mare, Life-in-Death was she, Who thicks man’s blood with cold. Death and Life- in-Death have diced for the ship’s crew and The naked hulk alongside came, she (the latter) ; : 3 winneth the an- And the twain were casting dice ; cient Mariner. ‘The game is done! I’ve won, [ve won!’ Quoth she, and whistles thrice.38 COLERIDGE. No twilight The Sun’s rim dips; the stars rush out; maria the courts At one stride comes the dark ; 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! The stars were dim, and thick the night, The steersman’s face by his lamp gleamed white: From the sails the dew did drip, — Till clomb above the eastern bar The hornéd Moon, with one bright star Within the nether tip. Attherisingor One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, he Moun. Too quick for groan or sigh, Kaca turned his face with a ghastly pang, And cursed me with his eye. Four times fifty living men, One after another, (And I heard nor sigh nor groan,) his shipmates er drop down dead. With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, They dropped down one by one. The souls did from their bodies fly, — Bayh ine re They fled to bliss or woe! work on thean- And every soul, it passed me by, Gent Mariner. 2 : Like the whizz of my cross-bow!”THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 389 PART IV. ‘¢T fear thee, ancient Mariner { I fear thy skinny hand! 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.” — ‘‘ Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest ! This body dropt not down. Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide wide sea! And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony. The many men, so beautiful! And they all dead did lie: And a thousand thousand slimy things Lived on; and so did I. I looked upon the rotting sea, And drew my eyes away; I looked upon the rotting deck, And there the dead men lay. 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. The Wedding- Guest feareth that a spirit is talking to him: But the ancient ariner assureth him of his bodily life, and proceed- eth to relate his horrible penance. fle despiseth the creatures of the calm. And envieth that they should live, and so many lie dead.But the curse liv- eth for him in the eye of the dead men. In loneliness an@ fixedness he yearneth towards the journeying Moon, and the stars that still sojourn, yet still move on- ward; and every- where the blue sky belongs to them, and is their appointed rest, and their native country and their own natura! homes, which they enter unannounced, as lords that are certainly ex- pected, and yet there is a silent joy at their ar- rival. By the light of the Moon he be- holdeth God’s creatures of the great calm. COLERIDGE. 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. The cold sweat melted from their limbs, Nor rot nor reek did they : The look with which they looked on me 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! Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, And yet I could not die. The moving Moon went up the sky, And nowhere did abide: Softly she was going up, And a star or two beside: Her beams bemocked the sultry main, Like April hoar-frost spread ; But where the ship’s huge shadow lay The charméd water burnt alway A still and awful red. Beyond the shadow of the ship, I watched the water-snakes: They moved in tracks of shining white, And when they reared, the elfish sight Fell off in hoary flakes.THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 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 fiash of golden fire. 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. The self-same moment I could pray; And from my neck so free The Albatross fell off, and sank Like lead into the sea. PART V. O 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. The silly buckets on the deck - That had so long remained, I dreamed that they were filled with dew; And when I awoke, it rained. Ad Their beauty and their happiness. zie blesseth them in his heart. The spell begins to break. By grace of the holy Mother, the ancient Mariner is refreshed with rain,He heareth sounds and seeth strange sights and commotions in the sky and the element Mett. ta! COLERIDGE. My lips were wet, my throat was cold, My garments all were dank ; Sure I had drunken in my dreams, And still my body drank. I moved, and could not feel my limbs: I was so light, — almost I thought that I had died in sleep, And was a blesséd ghost. 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. The upper air burst into life! And a hundred fire-flags sheen, To and fro they were hurried about! And to and fro, and in and out, The wan stars danced between. And the coming wind did roar more loud, And the sails did sigh like sedge ; And the rain poured down from one black cloud ; 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 lightning fell with never a jag, A river steep and wide.THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 48 The loud wind never reached the ship, Wie oadiab otite Yet now the ship moved on! ship's crew are : ; inspirited, and Beneath the lightning and the Moon the ship moves The dead men gave a groan They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, Nor spake, nor moved their eyes; It had been strange, even in a dream, To have seen those dead men rise. The helmsman steered, the ship moved on; Yet never a breeze up-blew ; The mariners all ’gan work the ropes, Where they were wont to do; They raised their limbs like lifeless tools, — We were a ghastly crew. The body of my brother’s son Stood by me, knee to knee: The body and I pulled at one rope, But he said nought to me.” — ‘*T fear thee, ancient Mariner!” — But not by the! i. ‘Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest! pou eee of *T was not those souls that fled in pain, eae Which to their corses came again, Rea But a troop of spirits blest: invocation of the guardian saint. For when it dawned, they dropped their arms, And clustered round the mast; Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, And from their bodies passed.cores teeter Tees COLERIDGE. Around, around, flew each sweet sound Then darted to the Sun; Slowly the sounds came back again, Now mixed, now one by one. Sometimes a-dropping from the sky I heard the skylark sing; Sometimes all little birds that are, How they seemed to fill the sea and ai 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. 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 Singeth a quiet tune. Till noon we quietly sailed on, Yet never a breeze did breathe: Slowly and smoothly went the ship Moved onward from beneath. Under the keel nine fathom deep, FEO From the land of mist and snow, Mie: be uit slide and itawas he ee That made the ship to go. The sails at noon left off their tune, angelic troop, but still requireth : ; : And the ship stood still also. vengeance.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, — THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 45 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 I fell down in a swound. 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. ‘Is it he?’ quoth one, ‘Is this the man ? By Him Who died on cross, With his cruel bow he laid full low The harmless Albatross. 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.’ The Polar Spirit's fellow-dzmons, the invisible in- habitants of the element, take part in his wrong; and two of them re- late, one to the other, that pen- ance long and heavy for the an- cient Mariner hath been ac- corded to the Polar Spirit, who returneth south: ward.COLERIDGE. PART VI. First VOICE. ‘But tell me, tell me! speak again, Thy soft response renewing, — 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 Up to the Moon is cast, — If he may know which way to go; For she guides him smooth or grim. See, brother, see! how graciously She looketh down on him.’ First VOICE. The Marinerhath «But why drives on that ship so fast, been cast into a : : trance; for the Without or wave or wind?’ angelic power causeth the vessel to drive north- ward faster than i human life could SECOND VOICE. endure. as ‘ 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.’ a eT TTY RE ee 2 | peers. Tay oe)THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 47 I woke, and we were sailing on The supernatural ° tion is re- As in a gentle weather: fardedeahe "was night, calm night, the Moon was High; Gamenecones The dead men stood together. begins anew. All stood together on the deck, For a charnel-dungeon fitter: All fixed on me their stony eyes, That in the Moon did glitter. 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. And now this spell was snapt: once more I viewed the ocean green, The curse ia i And looked far forth, yet little saw Of what had else been seen, — Sect eerrireer rer rrrsss soonest srsredy TEER csr nen Tee ean aria anclaibciiecitie soe mitenatiee aie 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 frightful 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.COLERIDGE. It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek, 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: Sweetly, sweetly biew the breeze, —= On me alone it blew. Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed And the ancient Mariner behold The light-house top I see? eth his native : . : ° > country Is this the hill? is this the kirk? Is this mine own countree? We drifted o’er the harbor-bar, And I with sobs did pray, — Oh, let me be awake, my God! Or let me sleep alway. Piotr tr ere teee Pee pet teeer esate eres The harbor-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, n That stands above the rock: The moonlight steeped in silentness The steady weathercock. And the bay was white with silent light, The angelic Till rising from the same, spirits leave the dead bodies. Full many shapes, that shadows were, _ In crimson colors came.THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 49 A little distance from the prow Those crimson shadows were: I turned my eyes upon the deck, — O Christ! what saw I there? Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, And, by the holy rood! And appear in their own forms A man all light, a seraph-man, of light. 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 | a Like music on my heart. ‘Ee But soon I heard the dash of oars, J heard the Pilot’s cheer ; My head was turned perforce away, And I saw a boat appear. The Pilot and the Pilot’s boy, | 1 I heard them coming fast: | Be Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy : | The dead men could not blast. . i I saw a third, — I heard his voice; It is the Hermit good! He singeth loud his godly hymns That he makes in the wood. He'll shrive my soul, he’ll wash away The Albatross’s blood.The Hermit of the wood. Approacheth the ship with wonder. COLERIDGE. PART VII. This Hermit good lives in that wood Which slopes down to the sea. How loudly his sweet voice he rears! He loves to talk with marineres That come from a far countree. He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve, — He hath a cushion plump; It is the moss that wholly hides The rotted old oak-stump. The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk, ‘Why, this is strange, I trow: Where are those lights so many and fair, That signal made but now?’ ‘Strange, by my faith!’ the Hermit said, ‘And they answered not our cheer! The planks looked warped! and see those sails. How thin they are and sere! I never saw aught like to them, Unless perchance it were Brown skeletons of leaves that lag My forest-brook along ; When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, And the owlet whoops to the wolf below That eats the she-wolf’s young.’ i eebabs &THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. ol ‘Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look’ (The Pilot made reply), ‘I am afeared.’— ‘ Push on, push on!’ Said the Hermit cheerily. Lhe boat came closer to the ship, But I nor spake nor stirred ; The boat came close beneath the ship, And straight a sound was heard. Under the water it rumbled on, Still louder and more dread : The ship sud- It reached the ship, it split the bay; ee The ship went down like lead. Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, Which sky and ocean smote, The ancient Man Like one that hath been seven days drowned inet is saved in e Pilot's boat. My body lay afloat ; But swift as dreams, myself I found Within the Pilot’s boat. Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, The boat spun round and round; And all was still, save that the hill Was telling or the sound. I moved my lips, — the Pilot shrieked And fell down in a fit ; The holy Hermit raised his eyes, And prayed where he did sit.The ancient Mar- iner earnestly en- treateth the Her- niit to shrieve him; and the pen- ance of life falls on him. And ever and anon throughout his future life an agony constrain- eth him to travel from land to land. COLERIDGE. T took the oars: the Pilot’s boy, Who now doth crazy go, Laughed loud and long, and all the while His eyes went to and fro. ‘Ha, ha!’ quoth he, ‘full plain I see, The Devil knows how to row.’ And now, all in my own countree, I stood on the firm land! The Hermit stepped forth from the boat, And scarcely he could stand. ‘O, shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man !?’— The Hermit crossed his brow. — ‘Say quick,’ quoth he, ‘I bid thee say, — What manner of man art thou?’ Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched With a woful agony, Which forced me to begin my tale; And then it left me free. Since then, at an uncertain hour, That agony returns; And, till my ghastly tale is told, This heart within me burns. I pass, like night, from land to land; I have strange power of speech ; That moment that his face I see, I know the man that must hear me: To him my tale I teach.THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. What loud uproar bursts from that door! The Wedding-Guests are there: But in the garden-bower the bride And bride-maids singing are: And hark! the little vesper bell, Which biddeth me to prayer! O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been Alone on a wide wide sea: So lonely ‘twas, that God himself Scarce seeméd there to be. O, sweeter than the marriage-feast, ’Tis sweeter far to me, To walk together to the kirk With a goodly company !— To walk together to the kirk, And all together pray, While each to his great Father bends, Old men, and babes, and loving friends, And youths and imaidens gay ! Farewell, farewell! but this I tell To thee, thou Wedding-Guest, — He prayeth well, who loveth well Both man and bird and beast. He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small ; For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all.” And to teach by his own example love and rever- ence to all things that God made and loveth.COLERIDGE. The Mariner, whose eye is bright, Whose beard with age is hoar, Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest Turned from the bridegroom’s door. He went like one that hath been stunned, And is of sense forlorn: A sadder and a wiser man, He rose the morrow morn.NOTES ON THE ANCIENT MARINER. In the manuscript notes which Wordsworth left behind him stands this record: ‘‘In the autumn of 1797, Mr. Coleridge, my sister, and myself started from Alfoxden pretty late in the afternoon with a view to visit Linton and the Valley of Stones near to it; and as our united funds were very small, we agreed to defray the expense of the tour by writing a poem to be sent to the New Monthly Magazine. Accordingly, we set off, and proceeded along the Quantock Hills towards Watchet; and in the course of this walk was planned the poem of the ‘Ancient Mariner,’ founded on a dream, as Mr. Coleridge said, of his friend Mr. Cruikshank. Much the greatest part of the story was Mr. Coleridge’s invention, but certain parts I suggested; for example, some crime was to be committed which should bring upon the Old Navigator, as Coleridge afterwards delighted to call him, the spectral perse- cution, as a consequence of that crime and his own wander- ings. I had been reading in Shelvocke’s ‘ Voyages,’ a-day or two before, that while doubling Cape Horn, they fre- quently saw albatrosses in that latitude, the largest sort of sea fowl, some extending their wings twelve or thirteen feet. ‘Suppose,’ said I, ‘you represent him as having killed one of these birds on entering the South Sea, and that the tutelary spirits of these regions take upon them to avenge the crime.’ The incident was thought fit for the purpose, and adopted accordingly. , 1 also suggested the navigation of the ship by the dead men, but do not recollect that I had anything more to 55Peake od arene ee etene Pee ttatac: cetera aeneatt COLERIDGE. do with the scheme of the poem. The gloss with which it was subsequently accompanied was not thought of by either of us at the time, at least, not a hint of it was given to me, and I have no doubt it was a gratuitous afterthought. We began the composition together on that, to me, memorable evening. I furnished two or three lines at the beginning of the poem, in particular, — ‘And listened like a three years’ child : The Mariner had his will.’ These trifling contributions, all but one, which Mr. C. has with unnecessary scrupulosity recorded, ‘ And thou art long, and lank, and brown As is the ribbed sea sand,’ slipped out of his mind, as well they might. As we en- deavored to proceed conjointly (I speak of the same even- ing) our respective manners proved so widely different that it would have been quite presumptuous in me to do anything but separate from an undertaking upon which I could only have beenaclog.... The ‘Ancient Mariner’ grew and grew till it became too important for our first object, which was limited to our expectation of five pounds; and we began to think of a volume which was to consist, as Mr. Coleridge has told the world, of poems chiefly on supernatural subjects.” Says De Quincey in his ‘‘ Lake Poets: ” — ‘‘In the year 1810, I happened to be amusing myself by reading, in their chronological order, the great classical cir- cumnavigations of the earth; and, coming to Shelvocke; I met with a passage to this effect: —That Hatley, his second captain (7. e. lieutenant), being a melancholy man, was pos- sessed by a fancy that some long season of foul weather was due to an albatross which had steadily pursued the ship; upon which he shot the bird, but without mending their condition.NOTES ON THE ANCIENT MARINER. Dt There at once I saw the germ of the ‘Ancient Mariner :’ . . though it is very possible, from something which Cole- ridge said on another occasion, that before meeting a fable in which to embody his ideas, he had meditated a poem on delirium, confounding its own dream scenery with external things, and connected with the imagery of high latitudes.” Part the First. Jf this poem be compared for ballad char- acteristics with other sea ballads, as the ‘‘ The Wreck of the Hesperus,” ‘‘ The Ship o’ the Fiend,” and, in Coleridge’s own words, — ‘The grand old ballad of ‘Sir Patrick Spence,’” it will be noticed how closely the first stanza of this last resem- bles in form the introductory stanza of the ‘ Ancient Mariner.’ “The king sits in Dunfermline town, Drinking the blude-red wine; ‘O whare will I get a skeely skipper To sail this new ship 0’ mine?’”’ Part the Second: stanza fifth. In the ‘‘ Sibylline Leaves” (1817), the second line is printed, — ‘“ The furrow stream’d off free,” with the foot-note by Coleridge: ‘:In the former edition the line was, — ‘The furrow follow’d free; ’ but I had not been long on board a ship before I perceived that this was the image as seen by a spectator from the shore, or from another vessel. From the ship itself the wake appears like a brook flowing off from the stern.” But in later editions the earlier and more musical expression was restored. Part the Third: stanza tenth. Notice Milton’s picture of Death : ‘‘That other shape — If shape it might be called that shape had none . Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb, Or substance might be called that shadow seemed,aoe tee DORs on tas Veet eee oes a o COLERIDGE. For each seemed either — black it stood as Night, Fierce as ten Furies, terrible as Hell, And shook a dreadful dart: what seemed his head The likeness of a kingly crown had on.” Paradise Lost, II., 666-673. Stanza twelfth. In the early editions this was followed by the stanza: ‘A gust of wind sterte up behind, And whistled through his bones; Through the holes of his eyes and the hole of his mouth, Half whistles and half groans.”’ Part the Fourth : stanza fourth. Compare Milton’s “ Attended with ten thousand thousand saints; ” Paradise Lost, VI., 767. and Spenser’s “ All these, and thousand thousands many more.” The Faerie Queene, II., XII., 25. Stanza seventh, line fifth. The earlier editions have ‘‘ cloud” dor << load.” Part the Fifth: stanza sixteenth. See poems to ‘The Sky- lark,” by Shelley, Wordsworth, and Hogg. Stanza twenty-second. Notice this same echo-effect as a favorite device of Poe, in ‘“‘ Lenore,” « Ulalume,” ‘‘ Annabel Lee,” etc. Part the Sixth: stanza tenth. Compare Spenser’s “‘ So soone as Mammon there arrivd, the dore To him did open and afforded way; Him followed eke Sir Guyon evermore, Ne darkeness him ne daunger might dismay. Soone as he entred was, the dore streightway Did shutt, and from behind it forth there lept An ugly feend, more fowle than dismall day, The which with monstrous stalke behind him stept, And ever as he went dew watch upon him kept. Eo R tees iat bis Bicep Sram Bp FsNOTES ON THE ANCIENT MARINER. 59 . ‘s Well hoped hee, ere long that hardy guest, If ever covetous hand, or lustfull eye Or lips he layd on thing that likte him best, Or ever sleepe his eie-strings did untye, Should be his pray; and therefore still on hye He over him did hold his cruell clawes, Threatning with greedy gripe to doe him dye, And rend in peeces with his ravenous pawes, If ever he transgrest the fatall Stygian lawes.” The Faerie Queene, II., VII., 26-27. Stanza sixteenth, fourth line. Compare Longfellow’s ‘I stood on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour, And the moon rose o’er the city, Behind the dark church-tower. “T saw her bright reflection In the waters under me, Like a golden goblet falling And sinking into the sea. s¢ And forever and forever, As long as the river flows, As long as the heart has passions, As long as life has woes, “ The moon and its broken reflection And its shadows shall appear, As the symbol of love in heaven, And its wavering image here.” The Bridge. Stanza eighteenth, first line. Compare Coleridge’s ‘¢ Hark! the cadence dies away On the yellow, moonlight sea.” Remorse, Act III., Sc. I., Song. Part the Seventh: stanza second. Compare Goldsmith’s her mit in ‘‘ Edwin and Angelina.”COLERIDGE. Stanza twenty-second. Compare Wordsworth’s ‘‘The Being, that is in the clouds and air, That is in the green leaves among the groves, Maintains a deep and reverential care For the unoffending creatures whom he loves. ‘“One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide, Taught by what Nature shows, and what conceals; Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.” Hart-Leap Well Compare also the conclusion of Tennyson’s ‘‘ Two Voices.”QUESTIONS ON THE ANCIENT MARINER. PARIS THE ERS: Why should not the poem open less abruptly, — with a descrip- tion, for example, of the surrounding scenery, as in Longfellow’s ‘‘ Evangeline”? ? Would the first scene be equally effective, if the Wedding-Guest were alone, instead of “‘one of three’? ? Is there any gain in thus giving us the picture of the Ancient Mariner, —not directly, but in the words of the Wedding-Guest ? What is the impression made on the Wedding-Guest at the outset by the ‘“‘long grey beard and glittering eye’? ? What poetic purpose is served by setting this tale of the Ancient Mariner against the background of a wedding feast? What indication of hurry and impatience is there in the last line of the second stanza? What is the meaning of eftsoons ? How is it that the “ glittering eye”’ holds the Wedding-Guest better than the ‘‘skinny hand’? ? What do the interruptions of the Wedding-Guest, as the tale proceeds, indicate in regard to his successive states of mind? Are there more reasons than one for giving this picture of the harbor here ? How does the poem tell us in what direction the ship is sailing ? Where is the ship when the sun stands over the mast at noon? What makes the beauty of the ninth stanza? Does the tenth stanza gain or lose in force from the fact that every line is the repetition of a former line ? How do you understand the line 66 Still treads the shadow of his foe’? What is the main force of the comparison in the twelfth stanza? How do the following three stanzas contrast with the twelfth? What impressions are made upon the ship’s crew by this Antarctic 61Seestele oietteet ia. our teeeamee are 62 COLERIDGE. sea? How do you understand the word drifts in this connection ? Why was it a “‘dismal sheen’? ? What is the obvious and what the suggested significance of the comparison in the last line of the fifteenth stanza ? What is the appearance of an albatross? How does the greeting given the Albatross make the Mariner’s crime the more revolting ? How do the actions of the Albatross enhance the guilt of the Mariner? What advantage is believed by the sailors to accrue to them from the presence of the Albatross ? Why, as suggested in the phrase ‘‘ vespers nine,’’ with later refer- ences to the saints, ‘‘ Mary Queen”’ and the ‘‘ holy Hermit’? who has power to shrive the soul of sin, does Coleridge choose Roman Catholicism for the religious setting of his poem? Is the snow- fog, glimmering white in the moonshine, white or dark by day ? By what device does the poet increase the effect upon us of the Mariner’s confession? What have been so far the sounds of the voyage ? Can you find a line farther on in the poem which vividly depicts the last, ominous sound hinted at in this division of the tale ? PART THE SECOND. When and how did the ship turn northward? Why did the Mariner shoot the Albatross? Why do his shipmates cry, out against him? Have his shipmates any share in his crime, or is it unjust that they should share his punishment? What change is there in the appearance of the rising sun, as they pass from fog to clear weather? What is the ‘‘silent sea’? ? Would the first line of the sixth stanza be as effective written thus: ** Down dropt the breeze, down dropt the sails ’’? At what point is the ship becalmed? What does the poet mean by a ‘‘copper sky ?”’ What is the effect of the repetition in the eighth and ninth stanzas? Can you substitute a better word for stuck in the eighth stanza? What gives its peculiar force to the simile of the eighth stanza? In the ninth stanza, what is the syntax of water? What figure of speech prevails in this ninth stanza? Do the last two lines of the tenth stanza help or hinder Iles ies eess ot pee eee hs het ree Seed bo oat ee Ped es ee Pe Eh SS re OS SETS PPS bes Sah ae oe te ae’.QUESTIONS ON THE ANCIENT MARINER. 68 the poetic effect 2 Are the words ‘‘ with legs”? superfluous ? Why is the rhyming effect emphasized in the first line of the eleventh stanza? What is the meaning of rout in this connection? What do you understand by death-fires? What suggestions come with the words ‘‘ witch’s oils’’? Does the eleventh stanza, with its dance and color, produce upon you an impression of gladness ? Why does not the poet make the avenging spirit visible? Can you find two lines, farther on in the poem, descriptive of this spirit 2 What are the numbers referred to in the poem, and why should these numbers be selected rather than others ? What pic- ture in strong contrast to this tropic belt of calms, is suggested to memory by the last line of the twelfth stanza? What is the deri- vation of well-a-day ? Why do the sailors hang the Albatross about the Mariner’s neck ? PART THE THIRD. Does the word weary occur too often in the first stanza ? What lines earlier in the poem convey a like idea with: ‘‘ Hach throat was parched,’’ and which expression seems to you the stronger? Why does the poet place the spectral ship in the west 2? How does he arouse our expectation and interest as re- gards the ship? What picture is called up by the third line of the third stanza ? How is this suggestion of a water-sprite in accord- ance with the rest of the poem? How does the fourth stanza com- pare with the gloss upon it ? What is the derivation of Gramercy ? Why does the poet use the word grin in this connection ? What is the significance of the last two lines of the fifth stanza? How do you picture the group of mariners that stand watching the progress of the coming ship? Are their eyes still glazed? What successive changes pass over their faces, as the ship draws near? What feeling does the Ancient Mariner express in the sixth stanza? Is there any indication in the seventh stanza that he regards the ship as supernatural? Why should the picture sketched in the eighth stanza fill the Ancient Mariner with fear ? What reason have we for assuming that his feeling is one of fear? - parte eee Fear eca ras:COLERIDGE. What is the meaning of the gloss: “‘ Like vessel, like crew’? ? What is the gain in poetic effect from placing this scene at the hour of sunset ? What is the derivation of gossameres? What does the word gossameres suggest in regard to the sails? What figure of speech gives force to stanzas ninth and tenth ? Why is the attention of the Ancient Mariner concentrated from the first upon the Woman rather than upon Death? Is there any culmina- tion of horror in the questions of the Ancient Mariner? Does the Woman, with her red lips and yellow locks, impress us as beautiful? What feeling does she arouse in us? What is there in the description to justify this feeling? How do you picture that group of the twain casting dice? (See Notes for Milton’s conception of Death.) What is the demeanor of the Woman? What do you imagine to be the demeanor of Death ? What was the stake in this game which the Woman has won 2 Has Death won anything by the dice? How does the gloss enhance the beauty of the description given in the first two lines of the thirteenth stanza? How does the sep ence struc- ture in those two lines heighten the effect? What are the peculiarly expressive words in those lines? To what sense does the first half of the thirteenth stanza appeal? To what sense the second ? What causes the “ far-heard whisper ’’ 2? Why is the swift motion of the spectre-bark so appalling ? What is signified by the looking sideways up ? What is the force of the comparison in the fourteenth stanza ? How do the dim stars and thick night correspond with the Mariner’s mood? What is the value of the fifth and sixth lines of this stanza? What is the eastern bar? Can you sketch “The hornéd Moon, with one bright star Within the nether tip” ? What is the function, in the narrative, of this long stanza? Isthe expression “‘ the star-dogged Moon” pleasant or unpleasant to you ? Why does the poet throw moonlight, rather than darkness, over so terrible a scene? Why does he make the deaths so swift and sud- den? What seems to the horror-stricken Mariner most strange Teer te ren ase sCentey yeQUESTIONS ON THE ANCIENT MARINER. 65 about these deaths? What is the peculiarity of certain words em- ployed in the third line of the sixteenth stanza? Why should the poet arrange that the close of the sixteenth stanza suggest the be- ginning of the fifteenth? Has the Ancient Mariner a heavier or lighter punishment than his shipmates? When does his torment of conscience begin? Why should the poet close each division of the tale with an allusion to the Albatross ? PART THE FOURTH. Why does the Wedding-Guest fear the Ancient Mariner? What do you understand by the expression ‘‘the ribbed sea sand” ? What does that expression modify ? What in form goes to con- stitute the peculiar power of the third stanza? What in sub- stance? How do the glosses interpret that mood of the Ancient Mariner suggested in the fourth stanza? How does the Ancient Mariner regard himself? What is the feeling which constrains him to turn his eyes from ‘‘the rotting sea’? ? What is the feel- ing which constrains him to turn his eyes from ‘‘the rotting deck’? 2? What is the feeling which constrains him to turn his eyes from Heaven? What figures of speech occur in the sixth stanza? Do you detect any technical tault in this stanza? Does the Mariner escape his punishment by closing his eyes? What line earlier in the poem is formed like the third line of the seventh stanza? What similarity in poetic effect follows upon this simi- larity of structure? What is the climax of the Mariner’s suffer- ing? What is the effect upon him of the seven days and nights of penance? What first beguiles him from the consciousness of his own guilt and wretchedness? How is the verse suggestive here of the motion of the Moon? How does this tenth stanza cou- trast, in music and in vision, with the earlier part of the poem? What corresponding change may we infer is coming over the spirit of the Mariner? Why does his heart yearn toward ‘the journeying Moon,”’ with her attendant stars? What added beauty does the gloss lend to the vision? Does the Mariner recognize the peaceful joy of the stars? In seeing the moon and the stars,Presta eoe ete ees teen ane eres ees pea! COLERIDGE. what have his tortured eyes at last forgotten to see? How de the Moon’s beams bemock the main? What suggestion does the word charmed throw upon this tropical sea-picture ? What effect does the silence throughout all this scene produce? How is it that the Mariner can now bear to look upon the sea? With what feeling does he now watch those ‘‘slimy things,’’? — ‘‘ God’s creatures of the great calm’? ? How do the water-snakes without the shadow of the ship contrast with those within the shadow ? Why does the poet speak of ‘‘ the elfish light ’’ ? What colors have we in the pic- ture now? How is the Mariner able to distinguish beauty where before he had seen but the loathsome and the horrible? What is the force of the metaphor in the third line of the fourteenth stanza ? What word in the following line enforces that meta- phor ? With what lines earlier in the poem do the last two lines of the fourteenth stanza contrast ? What change in the Mariner’s spirit is indicated by this contrast ? In blessing the water-snakes, whom else does the Mariner bless? Why could he not pray before ? How is it that he can pray now? Why at this point should the Albatross fall from his neck? Why is the Albatross described as sinking “ Like lead into the sea”? ? Why should not the poem end here ? PART DHE, PIPTH. How is it that the Ancient Mariner can sleep at last ? What other praises of sleep do you find in poetry ? How is the second line of the first stanza especially suited to the general range of this poem ? How is the musical effect of the last two lines produced ? What is the meaning of silly in this connection? Was the Mar- iner’s dream unnatural ? In what terms has he mentioned his lips and throat before ? Would it have been better for the Mariner if he had died in sleep and become “a blessed ghost’’ 2? What fur- ther allusions have we to the “‘ roaring wind’? ? What is the sig- nificance of burst in stanza sixth? What are the fire flags? What is the picture suggested by the sixth stanza? Why is the rhyming effect emphasized ? How is the expression ‘‘ wan stars”QUESTIONS ON THE ANCIENT MARINER. 67 peculiarly appropriate here ? Does the comparison in the seventh stanza seem to you good ? In the eighth stanza, what is the most forceful word? What is the meaning of jag here? What has been the progress of events since the Mariner awoke? What is the climax of that progress? Why should the poet resort to this device of inspiriting the bodies of the crew? What is the effect on the Mariner of the rising of the dead men? How does his present mood contrast with his mood as described in the first half of Part Fourth ? Has the curse faded from the dead eyes of the sailors ? Why does the Wedding-Guest again shrink back from the Ancient Mariner? At what hour do the blest spirits leave the bodies? In what form do the spirits ascend? Why is the rhyming effect emphasized in the first line of the fifteenth stanza? Why do the sounds seek the Sun ? What is the suggestion in the word darted ? Why should the poet select the skylark for special mention ? What is the meaning of jargoning here? Why does the poet change the tense in the seventeenth stanza? How does the simile in the eighteenth stanza compare with, — ‘¢ And the sails did sigh like sedge” ? Why ‘‘ the sleeping woods’? ? Why “a quiet tune’? ? Why this sound of a breeze in the sails? When do the sails leave off their tune? Where is the ship then ? How do you reconcile the gloss here with the gloss on the sixth stanza of Part Second ? Why cannot the Polar Spirit carry the ship beyond the Line? Why has he borne on the ship so far ? Is this restless, violent motion of the ship better or worse than her previous becalmed condition ? What does the poet mean by ‘‘ living life’? ? What are these voices in the air? Wherein is the Mariner’s deed a contrast to the deed of ‘¢ Him Who died on cross’’ ? What does the first voice tell us that makes the crime of the Mariner darker than before ? What feeling is expressed by the first voice? What by the second ? PARLE Eh, SOV: As you seem to hear the two voices, what is the difference in their sound and tone? Which does the poet represent as wiser, the a3 Paes a68 COLERIDGE. pitiful or the indignant spirit ? Which spirit sees effect ? Which sees cause? What scientific truth have we in stanzas second and third ? What addition of poetic beauty ? What bears on the ship ? Why is the rhyming effect emphasized in the converse of the spirits ? What further penance awaits the Mariner on awaking ? How has it come to pass that the dead men stand together on the deck ? What horror does the Mariner behold in the moonlight ? When the spell is snapt and he draws his eyes from the glittering eyes of the dead, why cannot he clearly see the sights of the ocean? What corre- sponds in his experience to the frightful fiend of the comparison ? What in the description leads us to feel that this wind is a symbol of hope? What would you select as the two most beautiful lines of the description ? What poetic device is employed in the thirteenth stanza? What significance in the last line of that stanza? How does the poet make the fourteenth stanza expressive of strong emotion? Why does the Mariner take the sight of his ‘‘own countree”’ fora dream? How does his prayer connect with this first exclamation ? Where have we seen already a picture of this same harbor? Was that also a moonlight picture? What reason is there for the change of order in these two mentions of hill and kirk and light-house top? What is the meaning of strewn in stanza sixteenth ? Is the phenomenon described in the latter part of this stanza true to nature? What is the effect of the silence here as contrasted with the effect of that pervading Part Fourth ? How does the phrase ‘‘the steady weathercock’’ deepen this impression? Is moonlight always white? How has the moon- picture prepared us for this second shadow-picture ? Why does the poet show us the crimson reflections of the seraphs on the moonlight bay before we see the ‘‘men of light’’ themselves ? How had the troop of blessed spirits been manifest before? Is there any expression here linking this scene to that? Why should the poet select the color crimson for the seraph-men ? Instead of angel songs, what sounds does tne Mariner hear? What is his chief reason for rejoicing in these sounds ? Fries ere eeg se eres:QUESTIONS ON THE ANCIENT MARINER. 68 PART THE SEVENTH. Has the poet any design in the number of these divisions? Why has he changed his usual term to marineres ? Has he taken a like liberty with any other word in the poem? By what hint codes the poet bring before us a vivid picture of the Hermit’s ora- tory? Why is it natural for the Hermit to liken the thin sails to wintry leaves? What is the ivy-tod? What impression is made by the last two lines of the fifth stanza? How does the fourth stanza help to prepare us for the eighth ? What causes the sink- ing of the ship? What general truth is there in the comparison ‘“swift as dreams’? ? Is there peculiar value in such a comparison in this poem? Why is the rhyming effect emphasized in the tenth stanza? What else conduces to make the latter part of this stanza musical? Is the beauty of these two lines altogether in the music ? What is the penance which the Hermit lays on the Mar- iner? Jn the seventeenth stanza, why would not the simile “like morn,”’ for instance, be as good as ‘‘like night’’ ? What did the Ancient Mariner see in the Wedding-Guest to lead him to declare his tale? What is your impression of the character of the Wedding- Guest ? What contrast of sounds is there in the eizhteenth stanza ? What previous stanza is recalled by the second line of the nine- teenth ? Why does the Mariner find the kirk sweeter than the feast 2 Why does the Wedding-Guest turn from the bridegroom’s door ? What change has taken place in him ? Does wisdom always bring sadness ? How many successive sea-pictures can you find in the entire peem? How many moonlight pictures? Why does the poet have most of the scenes take place by moonlight ? Why is the vocabulary of this poem so largely Anglo-Saxon ? From what sources are the similes drawn? What is the general character of the similes ? What are the most striking contrasts of the poem ? What would you say of the melody? What of the imagery ? What is the superficial falsehood of the poem? What the funda: mental truth ? What the central teaching ?COLERIDGE. INTERPRETATION OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. _ How much does the Ancient Mariner mean ? Is it true, as is ingeniously argued by a contributor to the Journal of Speculative Philosophy (July, 1880), that this poem embodies a complete system of Christian theology, presenting ‘‘ the Fall from the innocence of ignorance, from the immediacy of natural faith; and the return, through the mediation of sin and doubt, to conscious virtue and belief’’.? Does the Ancient Mariner represent mankind ? the ship, the physical environment of the soul ? the Albatross, faith in spirit- ual things ?° the snow-fog, ignorance ? the golden sun, knowledge of good and evil ? the tropic seas, the weary calm of ‘‘ mere finite subjectivity ’? ? the demon woman, unbelief ? the spirit under the keel, divine grace ? the Pilot and the Pilot’s boy, ‘* sensuous know- ing and finite understanding”? ? the Hermit, reason? and the happy outcome, the loss of ‘‘all particularity ”’ and recognition of ‘‘the true Universal’’ ? However edifying such a hieroglyphic reading between the lines may be to the philosophers, there is little reason to suppose that Coleridge and Wordsworth, in their merry tramp over the Quantock Hills, had the faintest suspicion of their own profundity, as they planned together, with young imaginations aglow, this wild, pic- 4 turesque, melodious ballad of dreamland. Certainly any attempt to expound to youthful students of the ‘‘ Ancient Mariner’? an interpretation so technical — may philosophy forgive the term !— would result for them in mental bewilderment and disgust and an echo of Endymion’s cry, — * And now, by Pan, I care not for this old mysterious man!” Yet few teachers will be content to pass the poem by without an effort to impress upon their classes not merely its marvellous poetic beauty, the elfin sweetness of the music, the vivid imagery of the swiftly shifted scenes, the terse energy cf phrase, and artistic order and harmony of the whole, but also its undoubted, inmost teaching that the soul makes its own world, and that in alliance with the living spirit of love is the only lifeof man. ‘* My endeay: ET Ege i ont ese aeINTERPRETATION OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 71 ors,” says Coleridge, distinguishing between his work and that of Wordsworth in the Lyrical Ballads, ‘‘ were to be directed to per- sons and characters supernatural, yet so as to transfer from our inward nature a human interest, and a semblance of truth, suffi- cient to procure from these shadows of imagination that willing suspension of disbelief for the moment which constitutes poetic faith.” And throughout the ‘‘ Ancient Mariner”’ we clearly per- ceive it to be the ‘‘inward nature’? which is mirrored upon the changing face of that magical, moonlight ocean. It is the storm of life that rages there so ‘“‘tyrannous and strong”’’ ; it is the dreary, stagnant selfishness of the soul which by wanton act has severed itself from the living principle of love — the wretched soul, “alone, alone,’’ and perishing of thirst —that paints the ghastly waters of that awful tropic sea; it is the revival of love in the heart that calls down from Heaven the sweet rain of refreshment. “‘Coleridge’s ‘Rime of the Ancient Mariner,’’’ writes Professor Corson of Cornell University, in his ‘‘ Introduction to Browning,” ‘Sis an imaginative expression of that divine love which embraces all creatures, from the highest to the lowest, of the consequences of the severance of man’s soul from this animating principle of the universe, and of those spiritual threshings by and through which it is brought again under its blessed influence.”’ The temptation is strong to carry on this thought into minute illustration, but it is dangerous for prose to attempt to speak for poetry. The ‘‘ Ancient Mariner’? is its own best interpreter. Every reader who becomes subject to its subtle spell will prefer to be left free to read his own meanings into its flashing hints. For that it teaches by inspired suggestion rather than by infolding within itself an elaborate system of thought or even a detailed his- tory of human experience follows from its essential character as the most poetical of poems, as first and foremost a tour de force of the imagination. Rev. Stopford Brooke, in ‘‘ Theology in the Eng- lish Poets,” insists upon the simplicity of its lesson. ‘** We see in it how childlike the philosophic man could be in his faith, how little was enough for him. Its religion is all contained in the phrase —-‘ He prayeth well who loveth well both man and bird andTo COLERIDGR. beast.” On this the changes are rung throughout; the motiveless slaughter of the bird is a crime; the other mariners who justify t the killing of the bird because of ne good it seems to bring ‘them are even cnc: sinners than the ancient mariner. He did the ill deed on a Hasty impulse; iney Boreas agree to it for selfish r reasons. on him, and again for eelnen reasons. ‘They are fatally San he lives to feel and expiate his wrong. And the turning point of his repentance is in the uCavanenne of love, and_is clearly marked. Left all alone ot on the sea, me he despiseth the creatures of the calm, and envieth that_so ‘many shotld Ive ‘and_so many lie dead,’ ‘and in that temper of contempt and envy Cr Coleridge suggests that no prayer can live. But when seven days had passed, he looked again on God’s creatures of the great calm, and seeing their beauty and their happiness, forgot his own misery, and the curse, and himself in them, and blessed and loved them, and in that temper of spirit, prayer became possible.”’ On this at least all the interpreters are agreed, — that the kernel of the whole peem is love, — love as the living link between man and nature, —love as the atmosphere wherein alone spirit life is possi- ble, —that love of God which involves the love of the least of His “beloved. ‘In one of Coleridge’s early poems, a meditative essay in blank verse entitled ‘ Religious Musings,” which is believed by certain critics to present in a didactic form the meanings of the ‘* Ancient Mariner,’ this chief burden of the ballad is distinctly voiced: *‘ There is one Mind, one omnipresent Mind, Omnific. His most holy name is Love. Truth of subliming import! with the which Who feeds and saturates his constant soul He from his small particular orbit flies With blest outstarting! from himself he flies, Stands in the sun, and with no partial gaze Views all creation; and he loves it all, And blesses it, and calls it very good!” gee eeeho ese ee See Gs rps} + ef yi or rr Tey ca = bed JAMES KUSSEBEE LOWEEL us weOG ee he eae Peseeepubega ee eensacregeetie cece iu i SESa ice the Students’ Series of Euglish Classics. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL’S VISION or SIR LAUNFAL AND OTHER POEMS EDITED BY MABEL CALDWELL WILLARD INSTRUCTOR IN LITERATURE, NEw HAVEN, Conn. SIBLEY & COMPANY BOSTON CHICAGO Reg bee |COPYRIGHT, 1896, By LEACH, SHEWELL, & SANBORN. TYPOGRAPHY BY C. J. PETERS & SON, BOSTON. PRESSWORK BY BERWICK & SMITH,PREPAC E: JAMES RusseLtt Lowe. stands among the foremost of American poets: perhaps the majority of scholars would say, that for range of subject, for power and grace of expression, and for poetic insight and spiritual vision, he stands as the foremost of American poets. It was, therefore, a wise decision that placed The Vision of Sir Launfal, one of the most poetic of Low- ell’s poems, on the list of requirements in English literature for entrance to our colleges. It has been the endeavor in this edition to make the Notes and Questions of such a nature as will help the student, — first, to get the truth which the poet would teach; and, second, to see the beauty of the poetic language, music, and figure, and their relation to the thought. The thanks of the editor are due to Prof. Katharine Lee Bates, of Wellesley College, who has kindly al- lowed her “ Hints on the Handling of a Poem,” which iiiTee TT iy: i Sa ya 1V PREFACE. forms part of the Introduction to her edition of Cole- ridge’s Ancient Mariner, to be reprinted here. For the use of some of the facts in the Biographical Sketch, acknowledgment is here made to Mr. Francis H. Underwood’s Biographical Sketch of James Russell Lowell. MABEL CALDWELL WILLARD. NEw HAVEN, CONN., November, 1896. RSS Peis: |) crcer Se |CONTENTS: BREEACH, . , INTRODUCTION — I. SKETCH OF LOWELL’s LIFE II. Lowewu’s Lirerary StyuE 7 i III. LirkrRary Estimares oF Lowe. 3 9 TY. ‘HINTS ON THR HANDING OF A Porm? 993 ie (Reprinted from PrRoF. KATHARINE LEE BATES’s edition of COLERIDGE’s Ancient Mariner.) aH VISION OF SIR TiAUNPAL: ¢ . =. | EBROMEEAMUS . 6. 40a 6 os eee Gee Tite PRESENT CRISIS =, . 2. 4.75. Se ee fae BATHERLAND . 05° 2. i040, oo) ee AN INDIAN-SUMMER REVERIE . . ... 3) 2) call DONG we a ~ . 65 Mo THE DANDELION. 3°... . . «= 3 On & CHIPPEWA LEGEND:. . 9.68 2... fe OO AMBROSE. «4 6 ou ss os 5 BEREME UNCTION 25.0 Soe Be AC TRAR ABT Wi WS ok a a il SONNETS: 9 9 2 BOE ee NoTEes AND QUESTIONS a 59 eeeseeuteucnseeastestestuteupacsuteat hetSa (og A a fy AG t i Te: tata benat Sarath Deen oa area eeINTRODUCTION. I. SKETCH OF LOWELL’S LIFE. (1819-1891.) JAMES RusseLL LowELu came from a Massachusetts family descended from Percival Lowell of Bristol, England, who came to New England in 1639, and settled in Newbury. The fam- ily, as far back as can be traced, has been eminent for those characteristics of great intelligence, rare ability, and high moral worth, which distinguish only the truly great. Lowell’s grandfather, John Lowell, drafted the clause in the Constitu- tion of Massachusetts by which slavery was brought to its end in that State. His father was a clergyman in Boston for over fifty years; his mother, who was Harriet Traill Spence before her marriage, was of Scotch descent, and it was from her that the son inherited his imaginative, poetic nature. Four children preceded James Russell, who was born on the 22d of February, 1819, at “Elmwood,” Cambridge, — where, in the same house, seventy-two years later, he passed on into the higher life. “Elmwood” is a beautiful, old New England place, with ample grounds studded with large fine elms. The influence of his environment is most forcibly seen 12, LOWELL'S POEMS. in his writings. His poems are crowded with similes and metaphors taken from Nature, and show him to have been, not merely a close observer of her, but a friend who entered into warmest sympathy with her every mood. His father’s library contained an excellent collection of miscellaneous works; and here the boy browsed, and fed, and cultivated his taste with biographies, travels, and classics from the English and French. When he was sixteen he entered Harvard College; but distinguished himself more by his in- difference to the prescribed studies than by his attainments in them. He himself has frankly confessed that he would never have been allowed to take his degree had it not been that he was his father’s son. It is pleasant to remember, and perhaps consoling to some youthful minds to think, that in years after he became a professor in this same University, and received honorary degrees from the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge, England. His negligence of the college curric- ulum, of which he repented in later days, was, however, more than compensated for, in the way of literary culture, by his great love for reading, and the excellent judgment which he exercised in satisfying this love. In 1844 he married Miss Maria White, the influence of whose pure and beautiful character upon the young man was most ennobling and permanent. His own innate nobility and beauty of soul received through her a stimulus and inspiration which never left him. At “Elmwood” still hang their por. traits, painted by William Page. “She, with refined features, transparent skin, starry blue eyes, and smooth bands of light brown hair; he, with serious face and eyes in shadow, with ruddy, wavy, and glossy auburn hair falling almost to the shoulders, a full, reddish beard, wearing a coarse-textured Beets Sy Soe bts bene & yi aINTRODUCTION. brown coat, and a broad linen collar turned carelessly down. There are few modern portraits in which costume counts for so little, and soul for so much.” The social life became to him from this time forth a medium through which his spiritual nature might work for the ennobling of his fellow-beings. It is interesting to note that it was soon after his marriage that the following poem, Sir Launfal, was written. No one can read his poetry without being impressed by his conse- cration to all that is pure and just and holy. His efforts were always in behalf of freedom, love of man, and love of Christ. In the Biglow Papers, two series, the first published in 1848, and the second during the Civil War, 1861-1866, he enlisted himself in the anti-slavery cause—a cause which in those early days was a most unpopular one, even in the North. In 1851 and 1852 he spent some time travelling in Europe with his wife, whose health was growing constantly more frail. In 1853 this wife, in whose fellowship there had been such rare inspiration, passed on into the unseen world—and yet we cannot feel that there was any real separation, for to one of his beautiful sonnets we listen with bowed head, hearing words which tell of his heart’s history : — “Love hath so purified my being’s core, Meseems I scarcely should be startled, even, To find, some morn, that thou hadst gone before, Since, with thy love, this knowledge too was given, Which each calm day doth strengthen more and more, That they who love are but one step from Heaven.”’ In 1855 he succeeded Longfellow as professor of Modern Languages and Literature at Harvard College. Hi bes Pores PERRET eerse SreeeT g am Stpotuseuepeusrestue astasasens pusbasdapsustese par cuaeatesetaoreesuslweusel ss tusgnocest stedsepadtcaeced tesevothuscsgesspesteseastsncceasiathareaes _ sSho 4: LOWELL’S POEMS. In 1857 he became editor of the Atlantic Monthly ; this office he filled for about five years, and then, for the next ten years, held a similar position on the North American Review. It was in the same year in which he undertook the editorship of the Aélantic Monthly that he was married to Miss Frances Dunlap, a woman of prepossessing qualities of mind and person. He was United States Minister to Spain in 1877, and from 1880 to 1885 United States Minister to England. In his ca- pacity as foreign minister, especially in Great Britain, where he was much longer than in Spain, he held a most enviable place in the esteem and regard of the Queen and her subjects. Here, as everywhere, he was always a most loyal American, His patriotism never allowed him to swerve from his demo- cratic principles, and his loyalty to high ideals kept him singularly free from the slightest subserviency to a desire for fame. Besides his poems he published at various times essays — Among my Books, and My Study Windows; and addresses, both literary and political. Lowell’s prose is clear, often bril- liant, and always delightful. But it is as a poet pre-eminently that we love and admire him. Perhaps to no other American is the name of poet more truly applicable, although he himself most generously and admiringly shared it with Longfellow, Whittier, Bryant, and Holmes. Mis sense of humor is most happy; it was by the use of the humorous element, rather than the serious, that he did his most effective work for the anti-slavery cause. He had a love for Nature, both intense and deep; as with Wordsworth, she was to him a living, breathing soul. His Peta ae ate a ee at Uwe Egees Ne ¢ —— In the gain or loss of one race all the rest have equal claim. 20 Vi Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide, In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side; Some great cause, God’s new Messiah, offering each the bloom or blight, Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon the right, And the choice goes by forever ’twixt that darkness and that light, a Se ees a} errs aTHE PRESENT CRISIS. VI. Hast thou chosen, O my people, on whose party thou shalt stand, Ere the Doom from its worn sandals shakes the dust against our land ? Though the cause of Evil prosper, yet ’tis Truth alone is strong, And, albeit she wander outcast now, I see around her throng Troops of beautiful, tall angels, to enshield her from all wrong. 30 vil. Backward look across the ages and the beacon-moments see, That, like peaks of some sunk continent, jut through Oblivion’s sea ; Not an ear in court or market for the low foreboding cry Of those Crises, God’s stern winnowers, from whose feet earth’s chaff must fly ; | Never shows the choice momentous till the judgment hath passed by. VIII. Careless seems the great Avenger; history’s pages but record One death-grapple in the darkness ’twixt old systems and the Word; ites tis— 46 LOWELL’S POEMS. Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne, — Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim unknown, Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above his own. 40 IX. We see dimly in the Present what is small and what is great, Slow of faith, how weak an arm may turn the iron helm of fate, But the soul is still oracular; amid the market’s din, List the ominous stern whisper from the Delphic cave within, — “They enslave their children’s children who make com- promise with sin.” xX. Slavery, the earth-born Cyclops, fellest of the giant brood, Sons of brutish Force and Darkness, who have drenched the earth with blood, Famished in his self-made desert, blinded by our purer day, : Gropes in yet unblasted regions for his miserable Poy oe Shall we guide his gory fingers where our helpless chii- dren play ? 50 ety To aTHE PRESENT CRISIS. XI. Then to side with Truth is noble when we share her wretched crust, Ere her cause bring fame and profit, and ’tis prosperous to be just; Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward stands aside, Doubting in his abject spirit, till his Lord is cruci- fed, And the multitude make virtue of the faith they had denied. xo Count me o’er earth’s chosen heroes, — they were souls that stood alone, While the men they agonized for navidad the contume- hous stone, Stood serene, and down the future saw the golden beam incline To the side of perfect justice, mastered by their faith divine, By one man’s plain truth to manhood and to God’s supreme design. 60 XIII. By the hight of burning heretics Christ’s bleeding feet I track, Toiling up new Calvaries ever with the cross that turns not back, BEaa pees : : ae ies ee 5 F a ae Srokeerae tae Bast Sats 48 LOWELL’S POEMS. And these mounts of anguish number how each genera- tion learned One new word of that grand Credo which in prophet- hearts hath burned Since the first man stood God-conquered with his face to heaven upturned. XIV. For Humanity sweeps onward: where to-day the martyr stands, On the morrow crouches Judas with the silver in his hands; Far in front the cross stands ready and the crackling fagots burn, While the hooting mob of yesterday in silent awe re- turn To glean up the scattered ashes into History’s golden urn. 7@ XV. ’Tis as easy to be heroes as to sit the idle slaves Of a legendary virtue carved upon our fathers’ graves, Worshippers of light ancestral make the present light a crime ; — Was the Mayflower launched by cowards, steered «by men behind their time ? Turn those tracks toward Past or Future, that make Plymouth Rock sublime ?THE PRESENT CRISIS. XVI. They were men of present valor, stalwart old icono- clasts, Unconvinced by axe or gibbet that all virtue was the Pastes But we make their truth our falsehood, thinking that hath made us free, Hoarding it in mouldy parchments, while our tender spirits flee The rude grasp of that great Impulse which drove them across the sea. 80 XVII. They have rights who dare maintain them; we are traitors to our sires, Smothering in their holy ashes Freedom’s new-lit altar fires ; Shall we make their creed our jailer? Shall we, in our haste to slay, From the tombs of the old prophets steal the funeral lamps away To light up the martyr-fagots round the prophets of to-day ? XV TIT. New occasions teach new duties; Time makes ancient good uncouth ; They must upward still, and onward, who would keep abreast of Truth ; ae A ‘ SaTSOT aeEasee an retreat e OUSEE SLA Racape abet ee Bose ce seuers eenetateseeauestetsescarabeastacrs tiusresase es; ribases:50 LOWELL’S POEMS. Lo, before us gleam her camp-fires! we ourselves must Pilgrims be, Launch our Mayflower, and steer boldly through the desperate winter sea, Nor attempt the Future’s portal with the Past’s blood- rusted key. 90 December, 1844. THE FATHERLAND. I. ae : a WHERE is the true man’s fatherland ? Is it where he by chance is born ? Doth not the yearning spirit scorn In such scant borders to be spanned ? O yes! his fatherland must be As the blue heaven wide and free! JE Ee - ce Ushi en S| ae : fi ae es Is it alone where freedom is, Where God is God and man is man ? Doth he not claim a broader span For the soul’s love of home than this ? 10 O yes! his fatherland must be As the blue heaven wide and free! Ill. Where’er a human heart doth wear Joy’s myrtle-wreath or sorrow’s gyves,AN INDIAN-SUMMER REVERIE. Where’er a human spirit strives After a life more true and fair, There is the true man’s birthplace grand, His is a world-wide fatherland ! IV. Where’er a single slave doth pine, Where’er one man may help another,— _20 Thank God for such a birthright, brother, — That spot of earth is thine and mine ! There is the true man’s birthplace grand, His is a world-wide fatherland AN INDIAN-SUMMER REVERIE. Hie Wuart visionary tints the year puts on, When falling leaves falter through motionless air Or numbly cling and shiver to be gone ! How shimmer the low flats and pastures bare, As with her nectar Hebe Autumn fills The bowl between me and those distant hills, And smiles and shakes abroad her misty, tremulous hair! 1, No more the landscape holds its wealth apart, Making me poorer in my poverty, But mingles with my senses and my heart; SSG SETESTESSES SEES ATE Seed NG Se eae a eee ELEVES TERS EPI E ST TOUTED aa wt eauatatrateasry ese cengerasguirestesreaeasescast aieustasgecteataatecccattestatt teieat eat pategeoa me | iy eat be a! te Be I 52 LOWELL’S POEMS. My own projected spirit seems to me In her own reverie the world to steep; *Tis she that waves to sympathetic sleep, Moving, as she is moved, each field and hill and tree. III. How fuse and mix, with what unfelt degrees, Clasped by the faint horizon’s languid arms, Each into each, the hazy distances ! The softened season all the landscape charms ; Those hills, my native village that embay, In waves of dreamier purple roll away, 20 And floating in mirage seem all the glimmering farms. IV. Far distant sounds the hidden chickadee Close at my side; far distant sound the leaves ; The fields seem fields of dream, where Memory Wanders like gleaning Ruth; and as the sheaves Of wheat and barley wavered in the eye Of Boaz as the maiden’s glow went by, So tremble and seem remote all things the sense receives. Vv. The cock’s shrill trump that tells of scattered cern, Passed breezily on by all his flapping mates, 30 Faint and more faint, from barn to barn is borne, Southward, perhaps to far Magellan’s Straits ; eae Ey Ea eeEe Shas sea een e! AN INDIAN-SUMMER REVERIE. Dimly I catch the throb of distant flails ; Silently overhead the hen-hawk sails, With watchful, measuring eye, and for his quarry waits. Wit The sobered robin, hunger-silent now, Seeks cedar-berries blue, his autumn cheer; The chipmunk, on the shingly shagbark’s bough, Now saws, now lists with downward eye and ear, Then drops his nut, and, cheeping, with a bound 40 Whisks to his winding fastness underground ; The clouds like swans drift down the streaming atmos- phere. VELL O’er yon bare knoll the pointed cedar shadows Drowse on the crisp, gray moss; the ploughman’s call Creeps faint as smoke from black, fresh-furrowed meadows ; The single crow a single caw lets fall; And all around me every bush and tree Says Autumn’s here, and Winter soon will be, Who snows his soft, white sleep and silence over all. VIII. The birch, most shy and ladylike of trees, 50 Her poverty, as best she may, retrieves, And hints at her foregone gentilities SUPER RSESSE CURE RIESE ST SP ERR ET ESSE ageseeatugsacteusepsPestustucaceasear erten i | i Z ae eh iaaE: 2 os ; coe os | si 20 ae | : eee) ee ok : LF 4 ~ Pee 5 fe b Ga Bi > a) Fi aa FI Ky i A 54 LOWELL’S POEMS. With some saved relics of her wealth of leaves; The swamp-oak, with his royal purple on, Glares red as blood across the sinking sun, As one who proudlier to a falling fortune cleaves. IDG He looks a sachem, in red blanket wrapt, Who, mid some council of the sad-garbed whites, Erect and stern, in his own memories lapt, With distant eye broods over other sights, 60 Sees the hushed wood the city’s flare replace, The wounded turf heal o’er the railway’s trace, And roams the savage Past of his undwindled rights. xX. The red-oak, softer-grained, yields all for lost, And, with his crumpled foliage stiff and dry, After the first betrayal of the frost, Rebuffs the kiss of the relenting sky ; The chestnuts, lavish of their long-hid gold, To the faint Summer, beggared now and old, Pour back the sunshine hoarded ’neath her favoring eye. 70 XI. The ash her purple drops forgivingly And sadly, breaking not the general hush; The maple-swamps glow like a sunset sea,i RE ee 6 SEGLERESESESEC IES: AN INDIAN-SUMMER REVERIE. 55 Each leaf a ripple with its separate flush ; All round the wood’s edge creeps the skirting blaze Of bushes low, as when, on cloudy days, Ere the rain fall, the cautious farmer burns his brush. xe O’er yon low wall, which guards one unkempt zone, Where vines and weeds and scrub-oaks intertwine Safe from the plough, whose rough, discordant stone 80 is massed to one soft gray by lichens fine, The tangled blackberry, crossed and _ recrossed, weaves A prickly network of ensanguined leaves ; Hard by, with coral beads, the prim black-alders shine. | xe. Pillaring with flame this crumbling boundary, Whose loose blocks topple *neath the ploughboy’s foot, Who, with each sense shut fast except the eye, Creeps close and scares the jay he hoped to shoot, The woodbine up the elm’s straight stem aspires, Coiling it, harmless, with autumnal fires ; 90 In the ivy’s paler blaze the martyr oak stands mute. XIV. Below, the Charles —a stripe of nether sky, Now hid by rounded apple-trees between,ie gee i) Aes i ae ie } ere ys rein ern te erent en — e Ji fii hfe. 56 LOWELL’S POEMS. Whose gaps the misplaced sail sweeps bellying by, Now flickering golden through a woodland screen, Then spreading out, at his next turn beyond, A silver circle like an inland pond — Slips seaward silently through marshes purple and green. XaV ie Dear marshes! vain to him the gift of sight Who cannot in their various incomes share, 100 From every season drawn, of shade and light, Who sees in them but levels brown and bare ; Each change of storm or sunshine scatters free On them its largess of variety, For Nature with cheap means still works her wonders rare. XVI. In Spring they he one broad expanse of green, O’er which the light winds run with glimmering feet : Here, yellower stripes track out the creek unseen, There, darker growths o’er hidden ditches meet ; And purpler stains show where the blossoms crowd, As if the silent shadow of a cloud 111 Hung there becalmed, with the next breath to fleet. XVII. All round, upon the river’s slippery edge, | Witching to deeper calm the drowsy tide,AN INDIAN-SUMMER REVERIE. 57 Whispers and leans the brceze-entangling sedge ; Through emerald glooms the lingering waters slide, Or, sometimes wavering, throw back the sun, And the stiff banks in eddies melt and run Of dimpling light, and with the current seem to glide. XV TE. In Summer ’tis a blithesome sight to see, 126 As, step by step, with measured swing, they pass, The wide-ranked mowers wading to the knee, Their sharp scythes panting through the wiry grass; Then, stretched beneath a rick’s shade in a ring, Their nooning take, while one begins to sing A stave that droops and dies “neath the close sky of brass. EXSTOXS Meanwhile that devil-may-care, the bobolink, Remembering duty, in mid-quaver stops Just ere he sweeps o’er rapture’s tremulous brink, And ’twixt the winrows most demurely drops, 130 A decorous bird of business, who provides For his brown mate and fledglings six besides, And looks from right to left, a farmer mid his crops. xX. Another change subdues them in the Fall, But saddens not; they still show merrier tints,58 LOWELL’S POEMS. Though sober russet seems to cover all; When the first sunshine through their dew-drops elints, Look how the yellow clearness, streamed across, Redeems with rarer hues the season’s loss, As Dawn’s feet there had touched and left their rosy prints. 140 XXI. Or come when sunset gives its freshened zest, Lean o’er the bridge and let the ruddy thrill, While the shorn sun swells down the hazy west, Glow opposite ;— the marshes drink their fill And swoon with purple veins, then slowly fade Through pink to brown, as eastward moves the shade, Lengthening with stealthy creep, of Simond’s darken- ing hill. XXIL. Later, and yet ere Winter wholly shuts, Ere through the first dry snow the runner grates, And the loath cart-wheel screams in slippery ruts, 150 While firmer ice the eager boy awaits, Trying each buckle and strap beside the fire, And until bedtime plays with his desire, Twenty times putting on and off his new-bought skates ; —AN INDIAN-SUMMER REVERIE. XOX Then, every morn, the river’s banks shine bright With smooth plate-armor, treacherous and frail, By the frost’s clinking hammers forged at night, ’Gainst which the lances of the sun prevail, Giving a pretty emblem of the day When guiltier arms in light shall melt away, 160 And states shall move free-limbed, loosed from war’s cramping mail. OKC: And now those waterfalls the ebbing river Twice every day creates on either side Tinkle, as through their fresh-sparred grots they shiver In grass-arched channels to the sun denied ; High flaps in sparkling blue the far-heard crow, The silvered flats gleam frostily below, Suddenly drops the gull and breaks the glassy tide. EXOXGVi- But crowned in turn by vying seasons three, Their winter halo hath a fuller ring; 170 This glory seems to rest immovably, — The others were too fleet and vanishing ; When the hid tide is at its highest flow, O’er marsh and stream one breathless trance of snow With brooding fulness awes and hushes everything. ; fi 37 — POLO SS COREL Abah eet ea yen ease eoerunrerewne rol hereot ah TIT r TP SaP ES PERPESE SEES EIGN C astusevetdoenstrasenstestustageceaseae hatesP| See cal, aE | hea) i #3 4 on es a eee Re eae ee Be b i 60 LOWELL'S POEMS. XXXVI. The sunshine seems blown off by the bleak wind, As pale as formal candles lit by day ; Gropes to the sea the river dumb and blind; The brown ricks, snow-thatched by the storm in play, Show pearly breakers combing o’er their lee, 180 White crests as of some just enchanted sea, Checked in their maddest leap and hanging poised- mid- way. XXVII. But when the eastern blow, with rain aslant, From mid-sea’s prairies green and rolling plains Drives in his wallowing herds of billows gaunt, And the roused Charles remembers in his veins Old Ocean’s blood and snaps his gyves of frost, That tyrannous silence on the shores is tost In dreary wreck, and crumbling desolation reigns. XXVIII. Edgewise or flat, in Druid-like device, 190 With leaden pools between or gullies bare, The blocks lie strewn, a bleak Stonehenge of ice; No life, no sound, to break the grim despair, Save sullen plunge, as through the sedges stiff Down crackles riverward some thaw-sapped cliff, Or when the close-wedged fields of ice crunch here and there.ee AN INDIAN-SUMMER REVERIE. XXIX. But let me turn from fancy-pictured scenes To that whose pastoral calm before me lies: Here nothing harsh or rugged intervenes ; The early evening with her misty dyes 200 Smooths off the ravelled edges of the nigh, Relieves the distant with her cooler sky, And tones the landscape down, and soothes the wearied eyes. XXX. There gleams my native village, dear to me, Though higher change’s waves each day are seen, Whelming fields famed in boyhood’s history, Sanding with houses the diminished green ; There, in red brick, which softening time defies, ’ Stand square and stiff the Muses’ factories ; — How with my life knit up is every well-known scene! 210 XXXI. Flow on, dear river! not alone you flow To outward sight, and through your marshes wind ; Fed from the mystic springs of long-ago, Your twin flows silent through my world of mind: Grow dim, dear marshes, in the evening’s gray ! Before my inner sight ye stretch away, And will forever, though these fleshly eyes grow blind. ar TFT eee es eee! Pasta tsuscubsaecuseustes![ . pa of es a. f 5 i a 7 rs Seer Seemeeaer reser 62 LOWELL'S POEMS. XOXOGI. Beyond the hillock’s house-bespotted swell, Where Gothic chapels house the horse and chaise, Where quiet cits in Grecian temples dwell, 220 Where Coptic tombs resound with prayer and praise, Where dust and mud the equal year divide, There gentle Allston lived, and wrought, and died, Transfiguring street and shop with his illumined gaze. XXXIII. Virgilium vidi tantum, —I have seen But as a boy, who looks alike on all, That misty hair, that fine Undine-like mien, Tremulous as down to feeling’s faintest call ; — Ah, dear old homestead! count it to thy fame That thither many times the Painter came;— 230 One elm yet bears his name, a feathery tree and tall. XXXIV. Swiftly the present fades in memory’s glow, — Our only sure possession is the past ; The village blacksmith died a month ago, And dim to me the forge’s roaring blast ; Soon fire-new medizvals we shall see Oust the black smithy from its chestnut-tree, And that hewn down, perhaps, the bee-hive green and vast.AN INDIAN-SUMMER REVERIE. XXXYV. How many times, prouder than king on throne, Loosed from the village school-dame’s A’s and B’s, 240 Panting have I the creaky bellows blown, And watched the pent volcano’s red increase, : Then paused to see the ponderous sledge, brought down By that hard arm voluminous and brown, From the white iron swarm its golden vanishing bees. XXXVI. Dear native town! whose choking elms each year With eddying dust before their time turn gray, Pining for rain, — to me thy dust is dear; It glorifies the eve of summer day, And when the westering sun half sunken burns, 250 The mote-thick air to deepest orange turns, The westward horseman rides through clouds of gold away, XOXEXOVIT So palpable, I’ve seen those unshorn few, The six old willows at the causey’s end (Such trees Paul Potter never dreamed nor drew), Through this dry mist their checkering shadows send, Striped, here and there, with many a long-drawn thread, Where streamed through leafy chinks the trembling : - , Fo nae eres AeEnenwy Lae MOEN TUES Pate eee OkAperretees Parr ep eapemererabneneds TOTES Scat reoA sok ee eek as | BEES TS FEM One EA FNS Fee ek roe Seetuatsbrasessevotdepscetastustestuttipaceas ear heres64 LOWELL'S POEMS. Past which, in one bright trail, the hangbird’s flashes blend. SVU, Yes, dearer far thy dust than all that e’er, 260 Beneath the awarded crown of victory, Gilded the blown Olympic charioteer ; Though lightly prized the ribboned parchments three, Yet collegisse juvat, I am glad ; That here what colleging was mine I had, — It linked another tie, dear native town, with thee! DORI, Nearer art thou than simply native earth, » My dust with thine concedes a deeper tie; A closer claim thy soil may well put forth, Something of kindred more than sympathy ; 270 For in thy bounds I reverently laid away That blinding anguish of forsaken clay, That title I seemed to have in earth and sea and sky, XL. That portion of my life more choice to me (Though brief, yet in itself so round and whole) Than all the imperfect residue can be; — The Artist saw his statue of the soul Was perfect; so, with one regretful stroke, ‘The earthen model into fragments broke, And without her the impoverished seasons roll. 280leer SPeere sia: SONG. i VioLetT! sweet violet! Thine eyes are full of tears ; Are they wet Even yet With the thought of other years ? Or with gladness are they full, For the night so beautiful, And longing for those far-off spheres ? II. Loved one of my youth thou wast, Of my merry youth, 10 And I see, Tearfully, All the fair and sunny past, All its openness and truth, Ever fresh and green in thee As the moss is in the sea. TEE: Thy little heart, that hath with love Grown colored like the sky above, On which thou lookest ever, — SITES TERETE See E aE eTeTEMECRECTE: < SS taseesepctuseneteastustescustacaceaseate:i ay \ : ay : B gaa ‘ ae 8 Bee || ae =: ee oe ) ae — Srremea at araaer tee 66 LOWELL’S POEMS. Can it know All the woe Of hope for what returneth never, All the sorrow and the longing To these hearts of ours belonging ? IV. Out on it! no foolish pining For the sky Dims thine eye, Or for the stars so calmly shining; Like thee let this soul of mine Take hue from that wherefor I long, Self-stayed and high, serene and strong, Not satisfied with hoping — but divine. Vv. Violet! dear violet! Thy blue eyes are only wet With joy and love of Him who sent thee, And for the fulfilling sense Of that glad obedience Which made thee all that Nature meant thee! 1841. 20TO THE DANDELION. TO THE DANDELION. I. DEAR common flower, that grow’st beside the way, Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, First pledge of blithesome May, Which children pluck, and, full of pride uphold, High-hearted buccaneers, o’erjoyed that they An Eldorado in the grass have found, Which not the rich earth’s ample round May match in wealth, thou art more dear to me Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be. Il. Gold such as thine ne’er drew the Spanish prow 10 Through the primeval hush of Indian seas, Nor wrinkled the lean brow Of age, to rob the lover’s heart of ease ; Tis the Spring’s largess, which she scatters now To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, Though most hearts never understand To take it at God’s value, but pass by The offered wealth with unrewarded eye. TL. Thou art my tropics and mine Italy ; To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime; 20 The eyes thou givest me. PPaTESUPyereetatediiredrersctree tapestries SENSE REE WARD aE ESET RTO ET ET ERT EREOT ED eaedbcathases pangs geagdeasusiastest eatasesc ase ascastatere tater teaseystestatpstaceas eat naresea 3 a is 68 LOWELL’S POEMS. Are in the heart, and heed not space or time: Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee Feels a more summer-like warm ravishment In the white lily’s breezy tent, His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first From the dark green thy yellow circles burst. JI. Then think I of deep shadows on the grass, Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze, Where, as the breezes pass, 30 The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways, Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, Or whiten in the wind, of waters blue That from the distance sparkle through Some woodland gap, and of a sky above, Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move. rd 10 Pepe peTREEESEVE OY See eet at s eat eee | ct eae ; iy a et Le a) 4 ri a ie 230 oS Wo My childhood’s earliest thoughts are linked with thee; The sight of thee calls back the robin’s song, Who, from the dark old tree Beside the door, sang clearly all day long, 40 And I, secure in childish piety, Listened as if I heard an angel sing With news from heaven, which he could bring Fresh every day to my untainted ears When birds and flowers and I were happy peers.A CHIPPEWA LEGEND. Wale How like a prodigal doth nature seem, When thou, for all thy gold, so common art! Thou teachest me to deem More sacredly of every human heart, Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret sho Did we but pay the love we owe, And with a child’s undoubting wisdom look On all these living pages of God’s book. OL CA A CHIPPEWA LEGEND? adyerva Mev foe Kal A€yeLv EoTiV TadeE adyos 5€ ovyav. : AESCHYLUS, Prom. Vinct. 197, 198. ie Tuer old Chief, feeling now wellnigh his end, Called his two eldest children to his side, And gave them, in few words, his parting charge! ‘My son and daughter, me ye see no more; The happy hunting-grounds await me, green With change of spring and summer through the year: But, for remembrance, after I am gone, Be kind to little Sheemah for my sake: Weakling he is and young, and knows not yet 1 For the leading incidents in this tale, I am indebted to the very valuable Algic Researches of Henry R. Schoolcraft, Esq. eeaseeeeseSouds ease ees cacnene’70 LOWELL’S POEMS. To set the trap, or draw the seasoned bow ; 10 Therefore of both your loves he hath more need, And he, who needeth love, to love hath right; It is not like our furs and stores of corn, Whereto we claim sole title by our toil, But the Great Spirit plants it in our hearts, And waters it, and gives it sun, to be The common stock and heritage of all: Therefore be kind to Sheemah, that yourselves May not be left deserted in your need.” le Alone, beside a lake, their wigwam stood, 20 Far from the other dwellings of their tribe And, after many moons, the loneliness Wearied the elder brother, and he said, “ Why should I dwell here far from men, shut out From the free, natural joys that fit my age? Lo, I am tall and strong, well skilled to hunt, Patient of toil and hunger, and not yet Have seen the danger which I dared not look Full in the face; what hinders me to be A mighty Brave and Chief among my kin?” 30 So, taking up his arrows and his bow, As if to hunt, he journeyed swiftly on, Until he gained the wigwams of his tribe, Where, choosing out a bride, he soon forgot, In all the fret and bustle of new life, The little Sheemah and his father’s charge.A CHIPPEWA LEGEND. 1d, Now when the sister found her brother gone, And that, for many days, he came not back, She wept for Sheemah more than for herself; For Love bides longest in a woman’s heart, 40 And flutters many times before he flies, And then doth perch so nearly, that a word May lure him back to his accustomed nest; And Duty lingers even when Love is gone, Oft looking out in hope of his return; And, after Duty hath been driven forth, Then Selfishness creeps in the last of all, Warming her lean hands at the lonely hearth, And crouching o’er the embers, to shut out Whatever paltry warmth and light are left, 50 With avaricious greed, from all beside. So, for long months, the sister hunted wide, And cared for httle Sheemah tenderly ; But, daily more and more, the loneliness (grew wearisome, and to herself she sighed, “Am I not fair? at least the glassy pool, That hath no cause to flatter, tells me so; But, O, how flat and meaningless the tale, Unless it tremble on a lover’s tongue! Beauty hath no true glass, except it be 60 In the sweet privacy of loving eyes.” Thus deemed she idly, and forgot the lore Which she had learned of nature and the woods, That beauty’s chief reward is to itself, | Pa er *ecseeseEbesacase karst pha legteres ta SRCSRETROCTITT) ESUYEDS Tea Eee Sabha tats Ue sae eee eee LL REE tacetteeces attest ieieitaneticeddsaaiutdcseer cieadeneattaveaatatatetsataa beat te aieatat ta tateateate2 LOWELL’S POEMS. And that Love’s mirror holds no image long Save of the inward fairness, blurred and lost Unless kept clear and white by Duty’s care. So she went forth and sought the haunts of men, And, being wedded, in her household cares, Soon, like the elder brother, quite forgot 70 The little Sheemah and her father’s charge. vu But Sheemah, left alone within the lodge, Waited and waited, with a shrinking heart, Thinking each rustle was his sister’s step, Till hope grew less and less, and then went out, And every sound was changed from hope to fear. Few sounds there were: — the dropping of a nut, oe ce sean as ae 4k eens re cseesreete eee ete rore a Negsipessatioaeat ey ree = i pa bape pie ia zene) epighebsecedeabdasios nyotets ihrer rag aria em ae) ee e:) here! oS 2 ry The squirrel’s chirrup, and the jay’s harsh scream, Autumn’s sad remnants of blithe Summer’s cheer, Heard at long intervals, seemed but to make 29 The dreadful void of silence silenter. Soon what small store his sister left was gone, And, through the Autumn, he made shift to live On roots and berries, gathered in much fear Of wolves, whose ghastly howl he heard ofttimes, — Hollow and hungry, at the dead of night. But Winter came at last, and, when the snow, Thick-heaped for gleaming leagues o’er hill and plain, Spread its unbroken silence over all, Made bold by hunger, he was fain to glean 90 (More sick at heart than Ruth, and all alone) Pareto heb eek eerie een SESS SON eae e S eget eyA CHIPPEWA LEGEND. After the harvest of the merciless wolf, Grim Boaz, who, sharp-ribbed and gaunt, yet feared A thing more wild and starving than himself; Till, by degrees, the wolf and he grew friends, And shared together all the winter through. We Late in the Spring, when all the ice was gone, The elder brother, fishing in the lake, Upon whose edge his father’s wigwam stood, | Heard a low moaning noise upon the shore: 100 Half like a child it seemed, half like a wolf, And straightway there was something in his heart That said, “It is thy brother Sheemah’s voice.” So, paddling swiftly to the bank, he saw, Within a little thicket close at hand, A child that seemed fast changing to a wolf, From the neck downward, gray with shaggy hair, That still crept on and upward as he looked. The face was turned away, but well he knew That it was Sheemah’s, even his brother’s face. 110 Then with his trembling hands: he hid his eyes, And bowed his head, so that he might not see The first look of his brother’s eyes, and cried, “QO Sheemah! O my brother, speak to me! Dost thou not know me, that I am thy brother? Come to me, little Sheemah, thou shalt dwell With me henceforth, and know no care or want! ” Sheemah was silent for a space, as if Fibietinsidehia patties TESTES ET Ts HE hsee A eee ot Lee ee Teeter cca on 74 LOWELL’S POEMS. ’T were hard to summon up a human voice, And, when he spake, the voice was as a wolf’s: 198 “‘T know thee not, nor art thou what thou say’st ; I have none other brethren than the wolves, And, till thy heart be changed from what it is, Thou art not worthy to be called their kin.” Then groaned the other, with a choking tongue, « Alas! my heart is changed right bitterly ; ’Tis shrunk and parched within me even now!” And, looking upward fearfully, he saw Only a wolf that shrank away and ran, Ugly and fierce, to hide among the woods. 130 AMBROSE. Ie NeEvER, surely, was holier man Than Ambrose, since the world began ; With diet spare and raiment thin He shielded himself from the father of sin ; With bed of iron and scourgings oft, His heart to God’s hand as wax made soft. tie Through earnest prayer and watchings long He sought to know ’tween right and wrong,AMBROSE. Much wrestling with the blessed Word To make it yield the sense of the Lord, 10 That he might build a storm-proof creed To fold the flock in at their need. IIt. At last he builded a perfect faith, Fenced round about with Zhe Lord thus saith ; To himself he fitted the doorway’s size, Meted the hght to the need of his eyes, And knew, by a sure and inward sign, That the work of his fingers was divine. TV. Then Ambrose said, “ All those shall die The eternal death who believe not as I,” 20 And some were boiled, some burned in fire, Some sawn in twain, that his heart’s desire, For the good of men’s souls, might be satisfied By the drawing of all to the righteous side. Vee One day, as Ambrose was seeking the truth In his lonely walk, he saw a youth Resting himself in the shade of a tree; It had never been granted him to see So shining a face, and the good man thought ’T were pity he should not believe as he ought. abeathasrs poutttteaicassatgeatenr citastscstaitxitasisciiieatsases ates cate cpete76 LOWELL'S POEMS. VI. So he set himself by the young man’s side, And the state of his soul with questions tried ; But the heart of the stranger was hardened indeed, Nor received the stamp of the one true creed; And the spirit of Ambrose waxed sore to find Such features the porch of so narrow a mind. WEL «¢ As each beholds in cloud and fire The shape that answers his own desire, So each,” said the youth, “in the Law shall find The figure and fashion of his mind; 40 And to each in his merey hath God allowed His several pillar of fire and cloud.” ae f Baie dea vi eae oF By Bie fees: ws rey ee: Breer = 2 eed me mt eg 2 oe i { aed | ae ; eae b 7 i D | 43 = Fost eae) | id Bec: ee fee ee 6 eae eee a ih Le : ae “ ee if ij rea VIII. The soul of Ambrose burned with zeal And holy wrath for the young man’s weal: “ Believest thou then, most wretched youth,”’ Cried he, “a dividual essence in Truth ? I fear me thy heart is too cramped with sin To take the Lord in his glory in.” Te, Now there bubbled beside them where they stood A fountain of waters sweet and good ; 50 The youth to the streamlet’s brink drew near - Saying, “ Ambrose, thou maker of creeds, look here!”EXTREME UNCTION. Six vases of crystal then he took, And set them along the edge of the brook. Xe “As into these vessels the water I pour, There shall one hold less, another more, And the water unchanged, in every case, Shall put on the figure of the vase ; O thou, who wouldst unity make through strife, Canst thou fit this sign to the Water of Life ?” 60 XI. When Ambrose looked up, he stood alone, The youth and the stream and the vases were ‘gone; But he knew, by a sense of humbled grace, He had talked with an angel face to face, And felt his heart change inwardly, As he fell on his knees beneath the tree. EXTREME UNCTION. I, Go ! leave me, Priest; my soul would be ~ Alone with the consoler, Death; Far sadder eyes than thine will see This crumbling clay yield up its breath;LOWELL'S POEMS. These shrivelled hands have deeper stains Than holy oil can cleanse away, Hands that have plucked the world’s coarse gains As erst they plucked the flowers of May. If. Call, if thou canst, to these gray eyes Some faith from youth’s traditions wrung ; 10 This fruitless husk which dustward dries Hath been a heart once, hath been young; On this bowed head the awful Past Once laid its consecrating hands ; The Future in its purpose vast Paused, waiting my supreme commands. i 1 But look! whose shadows block the door ? Who are those two that stand aloof ? See! on my hands this freshening gore Writes o’er again its crimson proof ! 20 My looked-for death-bed guests are met; There my dead Youth doth wring its hands, And there, with eyes that goad me yet, The ghost of my Ideal stands! 1BVe: God bends from out the deep and says, ‘I gave thee the great gift of life ; Wast thou not called in many ways ? Are not my earth and heaven at strife ?EXTREME UNCTION. I gave thee of my seed to sow, Bringest thou me my hundred-fold ? ” Can I look up with face aglow, And answer, “ Father, here is gold” ? 30 Vv. I have been innocent; God knows When first this wasted life began, Not grape with grape more kindly grows, Than I with every brother-man : Now here I gasp; what lose my kind, When this fast ebbing breath shall part ? What bands of love and service bind This being to a brother heart ? 40 VI. Christ still was wandering o’er the earth Without a place to lay his head ; He found free welcome at my hearth, He shared my cup and broke my bread: Now, when I hear those steps sublime, That bring the other world to this, My snake-turned nature, sunk in slime, Starts sideway with defiant hiss. VII. Upon the hour when I was born, God said, “ Another man shall be,” 50 And the great Maker did not scorn Out of himself to fashion me;pepe obese Ai 2-4 ss Seidenimigenatbetentes 260 bt i LU bak be ol japhihee ans Beye Te CPL SRERT PEST eS NOTES eT TG } 4 > in ecntnd ih bois : ePreat iar ct occ bli Gaede peaeaeteenaerty ret eee ag inetigoeiwensesrtesou sens SPITS yard ai tebhanasenaeprererprs tees! se : pabhpebepesnsvabsuste sey yies title 7 man aa eaten heat Poneee enact reat anon ies ¥+ LOWELL'S POEMS. He sunned me with his ripening looks, And Heaven’s rich instincts in me grew, As effortless as woodland nooks Send violets up and paint them blue. Van: Yes. I who now,-with angry tears, _Am exiled ‘pack to brutish clod, Have borne unquenched for fourscore years A spark of the eternal God ; 60 And to what end? How yield I back The trust for such high uses given ? Heaven’s light hath but revealed a track Whereby to crawl away from heaven. TEXS: Men think it is an awful sight To see a soul just set adrift On that drear voyage from whose night The ominous shadows never lift; But ’tis more awful to behold A helpless infant newly born, 70 Whose little hands unconscious hold The keys of darkness and of morn. x. Mine held them once; I flung away Those keys that might have open set The golden sluices of the day, But clutch the keys of darkness yet;eestor cota as A PARABLE, I hear the reapers singing go Into God’s harvest ; I, that might With them have chosen, here below | Grope shuddering at the gates of night. 80 XSI O glerious Youth, that once wast mine! O high Ideal! all in vain Ye enter at this ruined shrine Whence worship ne’er shall rise again; The bat and owl inhabit here, The snake nests in the altar-stone, The sacred vessels moulder near, The image of the God is gone. A PARABLE. ie Sarp Christ our Lord, “TI will go and see How the men, my brethren, believe in me.” He passed not again through the gate of birth, But made himself known to the children of earth. Tle Then said the chief priests, and rulers, and kings, “ Behold, now, the Giver of all good things ; Go to, let us welcome with pomp and state Him who alone is mighty and great,”82 LOWELL’S POEMS. III. With carpets of gold the ground they spread Wherever the Son of Man should tread, 10 And in palace-chambers lofty and rare They lodged him, and served him with kingly fare. IV. Great organs surged through arches dim Their jubilant floods in praise of him ; And in church, and palace, and judgment-hall, He saw his own image high over all. WV. But still, wherever his steps they led, The Lord in sorrow bent down his head, And from under the heavy foundation-stones, The son of Mary heard bitter groans. 20 Sele ; id : ys) eee. BH Aan | a oS 2 aoe | 5 Pag Pear brea A a A a wet > eT et i Rs Sy Ree Sy ea p eed ie ae 3 : oe 3 a F lant ; oa Vea) oe beat ay ; $58 A H ‘ : | SSae ii . , 3 F H 2 eau ; ae ee.) a : thts F oe boa ees « oa os i oe toe 4 Vi. And in church, and palace, and judgment-hall, He marked great fissures that rent the wall, And opened wider and yet more wide As the living foundation heaved and sighed. nV elele ‘Have ye founded your thrones and altars, then, On the bodies and souls of living men ? And think ye that building shall endure, Which shelters the noble and crushes the poor ?aes ews bu hee A PARABLE. VIII. ‘With gates of silver and bars of gold Ye have fenced my sheep from their Father’s fold; 30 I have heard the dropping of their tears In heaven these eighteen hundred years.” IX. “QO Lord and Master, not ours the guilt, We build but as our fathers built ; Behold thine images, how they stand, Sovereign and sole, through all our land. XxX. ‘Our task is hard, — with sword and flame To hold thine earth forever the same, And with sharp crooks of steel to keep Still, as thou leftest them, thy sheep.” 40 nai Then Christ sought out an artisan, A low-browed, stunted, haggard man, And a motherless girl, whose fingers thin Pushed from her faintly want and sin. xy These set he in the midst of them, And as they drew back their garment-hem, For fear of defilement, “Lo, here,” said he, «The images ye have made of me!” BORE!84 LOWELL’S POEMS. SONNETS. Ie TO! Ala(@ 1, TuRouGH suffering and sorrow thou hast passed To show us what a woman true may be: They have not taken sympathy from thee, Nor made thee any other than thou wast, Save as some tree, which, in a sudden blast, Sheddeth those blossoms, that are weakly grown, Upon the air, but keepeth every one Whose strength gives warrant of good fruit at last: So thou hast shed some blooms of gayety, But never one of steadfast cheerfulness ; 10 Nor hath thy knowledge of adversity Robbed thee of any faith in happiness, But rather cleared thine inner eyes to see How many simple ways there are to bless. 1840. Ie: Wuart were I, Love, if I were stripped of thee, If thine eyes shut me out whereby I live, Thou, who unto my calmer soul dost give Knowledge, and Truth, and holy Mystery, Wherein Truth mainly lies for those who see Beyond the earthly and the fugitive, 20 Who in the grandeur of the soul believe,SONNETS. And only in the Infinite are free ? Without thee I were naked, bleak, and bare As yon dead cedar on the sea-cliff’s brow ; And Nature’s teachings, which come to me now, Common and beautiful as light and air, Would be as fruitless as a stream which still Slips through the wheel of some old ruined mill. 1841, PIL. I wovuxp not have this perfect love of ours Grow from a single root, a single stem, 30 Bearing no goodly fruit, but only flowers That idly hide lfe’s iron diadem: It should grow alway like that Eastern tree Whose limbs take root and spread forth constantly ; That love for one, from which there doth not spring Wide love for all, is but a worthless thing. Not in another world, as poets prate, Dwell we apart above the tide of things, High floating o’er earth’s clouds on faery wings; But our pure love doth ever elevate 40 Into a holy bond of brotherhood All earthly things, making them pure and good. 1840. IV. ‘For this true nobleness I seek in vain, In woman and in man I find it not; I almost weary of my earthly lot, RESA 4 ee ie ie eS = ny # BPs 4 Peat s i nt yi ee eee aay oe i ‘ ‘ gilt ; ie ey es ne e eae een) ie a pee PTT Leases vc: 86 LOWELL’S POEMS. My life-springs are dried up with burning pain.” Thou find’st it not? I pray thee look again, Look inward through the depths of thine own soul. How is it with thee? Art thou sound and whole ? Doth narrow search show thee no earthly stain ? 5a BE nose! and the nobleness that lies In other men, sleeping, but never dead, Will rise in majesty to meet thine own; Then wilt thou see it gleam in many eyes, Then will pure light around thy path be shed, | And thou wilt nevermore be sad and lone. 1840. Wis TO THE SPIRIT OF KEATS. GREAT soul, thou sittest with me in my room, Uplifting me with thy vast, quiet eyes, On whose full orbs, with kindly lustre, lies The twilight warmth of ruddy ember-gloom: 60 Thy clear, strong tones will oft bring sudden bloom Of hope secure, to him who lonely cries, Wrestling with the young poet’s agonies, Neglect and scorn, which seem a certain doom: Yes! the few words which, like great thunder-drops, Thy large heart down to earth shook doubtfully, Thrilled by the inward lightning of its might, Serene and pure, like gushing joy of light, Shall track the eternal chords of Destiny, After the moon-led pulse of ocean stops. 70 1841.SONNETS. Vi. GREAT Truths are portions of the soul of man; Great souls are portions of Eternity ; Each drop of blood that e’er through true heart ran With lofty message, ran for thee and me; For God’s law, since the starry song began, Hath been, and still forevermore must be, That every deed which shall outlast Time’s span Must spur the soul to be erect and free ; Slave is no word of deathless lineage sprung; Too many noble souls have thought and died, 80 Too many mighty poets lived and sung, And our good Saxon, from lips purified With martyr-fire, throughout the world hath run Too long to have God’s holy cause denied. 1841. VALI. I Ask not for those thoughts, that sudden leap From being’s sea, like the isle-seeming Kraken, With whose great rise the ocean all is shaken And a heart-tremble quivers through the deep; Give me that growth which some perchance deem sleep, Wherewith the steadfast coral-stems uprise, 90 Which, by the toil of gathering energies, Their upward way into clear sunshine keep, Until, by Heaven’s sweetest influences, Slowly and slowly spreads a speck of green Into a pleasant island in the seas,88 LOWELL’S POEMS. Where, mid tall palms, the cane-roofed home is seen, And wearied men shall sit at sunset’s hour, Hearing the leaves and loving God’s dear power. 1841. iva TO M. W. ON HER BIRTHDAY. Marpen, when such a soul as thine is born, The morning-stars their ancient music make 100 And, joyful, once again their song awake, Long silent now with melancholy scorn; And thou, not mindless of so blest a morn, By no least deed its harmony shalt break, But shalt to that high chime thy footsteps take, Through life’s most darksome passes unforlorn ; Therefore from thy pure faith thou shalt not fall, Therefore shalt thou be ever fair and free, And in thine every motion musical As summer air, majestic as the sea, 110 A mystery to those who creep and crawl Through Time, and part it from Eternity. 1841. IX. My Love, I have no fear that thou shouldst die; Albeit I ask no fairer life than this Whose numbering-clock is still thy gentle kiss, While Time and Peace with hands enlockéd fly, — Yet care I not where in Eternity We live and love, well knowing that there isSONNETS. No backward step for those who feel the bliss Of Faith as their most lofty yearnings high: 120 Love hath so purified my being’s core, Meseems I scarcely should be startled, even, To find, som2 morn, that thou hadst gone before ; Since, with thy love, this knowledge too was given, Which each calm day doth strengthen more and more, That they who love are but one step from Heaven. 1841, sa i cANNoT think that thou shouldst pass away, Whose hfe to mine is an eternal law, A piece of nature that can have no flaw, A new and certain sunrise every day; £30 But, if thou art to be another ray About the Sun of Life, and art to live Free from what part of thee was fugitive, The debt of Love I will more fully pay, Not downcast with the thought of thee so high, But rather raised to be a nobler man, And more divine in my humanity, As knowing that the waiting eyes which scan My life are hghted by a purer being, And ask high, calm-browed deeds, with it agreeing. 140 1841. el THERE never yet was flower fair in vain, Let classic poets rhyme it as they will; The seasons tou that it may blow again, Sibi Nararnrenaa TNTa ee ie _ Secs 8 | ; eee eae! ee a os i 90 LOWELL'S POEMS. And summer’s heart doth feel its every ill; Nor is a true soul ever born for naught; Wherever any such hath lived and died, There hath been something for true freedom wrought, Some bulwark levelled on the evil side: Toil on, then, Greatness! thou art in the right, However narrow souls may call thee wrong; 150 Be as thou wouldst be in thine own clear sight, And so thou shalt be in the world’s erelong; For worldlings cannot, struggle as they may, From man’s great soul one great thought hide away. 1841. Sal, SUB PONDERE CRESCIT. Tue hope of Truth grows stronger, day by day; I hear the soul of Man around me waking, Like a great sea, its frozen fetters breaking, And flinging up to heaven its sunlit spray, Tossing huge continents in scornful play, And crushing them, with din of grinding thunder, 160 That makes old emptinesses stare in wonder ; The memory of a glory passed away Lingers in every heart, as, in the shell, Resounds the bygone freedom of the sea, And every hour new signs of promise tell, That the great soul shall once again be free, For high, and yet more high, the murmurs swell Of inward strife for truth and liberty. 1941.Tost eee soe aes: SONNETS. RTE. BELOVED, in the noisy city here, The thought of thee can make all turmoil cease; 170 Around my spirit, folds thy spirit clear Its still, soft arms, and circles it with peace; There is no room for any doubt or fear In souls so overfilled with love’s increase, There is no memory of the bygone year But growth in heart’s and spirit’s perfect ease: How hath our love, half nebulous at first, Rounded itself into a full-orbed sun! How have our lives and wills (as haply erst They were, ere this forgetfulness begun) 180 Through all their earthly distances outburst, And melted, like two rays of light, in one! 1842. XIV. ON READING WORDSWORTH’S SONNETS IN DEFENCE OF CAPITAL PUNISHMENT. As the broad ocean endlessly upheaveth, With the majestic beating of his heart, The mighty tides, whereof its rightful part Each sea-wide bay and little weed receiveth, So, through his soul who earnestly believeth, Life from the universal Heart doth flow, Whereby some conquest of the eternal Woe, By instinct of God’s nature, he achieveth: 190 A fuller pulse of this all-powerful beauty92 LOWELL’S POEMS. Into the poet’s gulf-like heart doth tide, And he more keenly feels the glorious duty Of serving Truth, despised and crucified, — Happy, unknowing sect or creed, to rest And feel God flow forever through his breast. 1842, XY. THE SAME CONTINUED. Once hardly in a cycle blossometh A flower-like soul ripe with the seeds of song, A spirit foreordained to cope with wrong, Whose divine thoughts are natural as breath, 200 Who the old Darkness thickly scattereth With starry words, that shoot prevailing light Into the deeps, and wither, with the blight Of serene Truth, the coward heart of Death: Woe, if such spirit thwart its errand high, And mock with lies the longing soul of man! Yet one age longer must true Culture lie, Soothing her bitter fetters as she can, Until new messages of love outstart At the next beating of the infinite Heart. 210 XVI. THE SAME CONTINUED. Tue love of all things springs from love of one; Wider the soul’s horizon hourly grows, _And over it with fuller glory flowsSONNETS. The sky-like spirit of God; a hope begun In doubt and darkness ‘neath a fairer sun Cometh to fruitage, if it be of Truth : And to the law of meekness, faith, and ruth, By inward sympathy, shall all be won: This thou shouldst know, who, from the painted feature Of shifting Fashion, couldst thy brethren turn 220 Unto the love of ever-youthful Nature, And of a beauty fadeless and eterne ; And always ’tis the saddest sight to see An old man faithless in Humanity. XOV ET, THE SAME CONTINUED. A POET cannot strive for despotism ; His harp falls shattered; for it still must be The instinct of great spirits to be free, And the sworn foes of cunning barbarism: He who has deepest searched the wide abysm Of that life-giving Soul which men cal] fate, 230 Knows that*to put more faith in lies and hate Than truth and love is the true atheism: Upward the soul forever turns her eyes: The next hour always shames the hour before: One beauty, at its highest, prophesies That by whose side it shall seem mean and poor No Godlike thing knows aught of less and less, But widens to the boundless Perfectness.94 LOWELL’S POEMS. QW IDO. THE SAME CONTINUED. THEREFORE think not the Past is wise alone, For Yesterday knows nothing of the Best, 240 And thou shalt love it only as the nest Whence glory-wingéd things to Heaven have flown: To the great Soul only are all things known ; Present and future are to her as past, While she in glorious madness doth forecast That perfect bud, which seems a flower full-blown To each new Prophet, and yet always opes Fuller and fuller with each day and hour, Heartening the soul with odor of fresh hopes, And longings high, and gushings of wide power, 250 Yet never is or shall be fully blown Save in the forethought of the Eternal One. xox, THE SAME CONCLUDED. Far ’yond this narrow parapet of Time, With eyes uplift, the poet’s soul should look Into the Endless Promise, nor should brook One prying doubt to shake his faith sublime ; To him the earth is ever in her prime And dewiness of morning; he can see Good lying hid, from all eternity, Within the teeming womb of sin and crime ; 260 His soul should not be cramped by any bar, Beeeerees eer ae SONNETS. His nobleness should be so Godlike high, That his least deed is perfect as a star, His common look majestic as the sky, And all o’erflooded with a light from far, Undimmed by clouds of weak mortality. XEXe LOM. OO: Ss. Mary, since first I knew thee, to this hour, My love hath deepened, with my wiser sense Of what in Woman is to reverence; Thy clear heart, fresh as e’er was forest-flower, 270 Still opens more to me its beauteous dower; — But let praise hush, — Love asks no evidence To prove itself well-placed; we know not whence It gleans the straws that thatch its humble bower: We can but say we found it in the heart, Spring of all sweetest thoughts, arch foe of blame, Sower of flowers in the dusty mart, Pure vestal of the poet’s holy flame, — This is enough, and we have done our part If we but keep it spotless as it came. 230 1842, XXI. Our love is not a fading, earthly flower: Its wingéd seed dropped down from Paradise, And, nursed by day and night, by sun and shower, Doth momently to fresher beauty rise:|. ae z: . ae ae tte $8 ane are? } et eh ii - et ce test, Sy3h4 ri 8 ‘ , é : Hy ss a] T ee 4 ; We ers B yrs By ek ee ce heer fe oe 4 sf 7 i 96 LOWELL’S POEMS. To us the leafless autumn is not bare, Nor winter’s rattling boughs lack lusty green. Our summer hearts make summer’s fulness, where No leaf, or bud, or blossom may be seen: For nature’s life in love’s deep life doth lie, Love, — whose forgetfulness is beauty’s death, 290 Whose mystic key these cells of Thou and I Into the infinite freedom openeth, And makes the body’s dark and narrow grate The wide-flung leaves of Heaven’s own palace-gate. 1842, XOxeITe IN ABSENCE. THESE rugged, wintry days I scarce could bear, Did I not know, that, in the early spring, When wild March winds upon their errands sing, Thou wouldst return, bursting on this still air, Like those same winds, when, startled from their lair, They hunt up violets, and free swift brooks 300 From icy cares, even as thy clear looks Bid my heart bloom, and sing, and break all care : When drops with welcome rain the April day, My flowers shall find their April in thine eyes, Save there the rain in dreamy clouds doth stay, As loath to fall out of those happy skies; Yet sure, my love, thou art most like to May, That comes with steady sun when April dies. 1843. ers oat: > ereee rent Pacceus ce kee SONNETS. XXIII. WENDELL PHILLIPS. He stood upon the world’s broad threshold ; wide The din of battle and of slaughter rose ; 316 He saw God stand upon the weaker side, That sank in seeming loss before its foes: Many there were who made great haste and sold Unto the cunning enemy their swords, He scorned their gifts of fame, and power, and gold, And, underneath their soft and flowery words, Heard the cold serpent hiss; therefore he went And humbly joined him to the weaker part, Fanatic named, and fool, yet well content So he could be the nearer to God’s heart, 320 And feel its solemn pulses sending blood Through all the wide-spread veins of endless good. XGXGVi THE STREET. THEY pass me by like shadows, crowds on crowds, Dim ghosts of men, that hover to and fro, Hugging their bodies round them like thin shrouds Wherein their souls were buried long ago: They trampled on their youth, and faith, and love, They cast their hope of human-kind away, With Heaven’s clear messages they madly strove, And conquered, — and their spirits turned to clay: 330 Lo! how they wander round the world, their grave,, au i .° Seah bY a - 98 LOWELL’S POEMS. Whose ever-gaping maw by such is fed, Gibbering at living men, and idly rave, “We, only, truly live, but ye are dead.” Alas! poor fools, the anointed eye may trace A dead soul’s epitaph in every face! XXYV. I GRIEVE not that ripe Knowledge takes away The charm that Nature to my childhood wore, For, with that insight, cometh, day by day, A greater bliss than wonder was before; 340 The real doth not clip the poet’s wings, — To win the secret of a weed’s plain heart Reveals some clew to spiritual things, And stumbling guess becomes firm-footed art: Flowers are not flowers unto the poet’s eyes, Their beauty thrills him by an inward sense; He knows that outward seemings are but lies, Or, at the most, but earthly shadows, whence The soul that looks within for truth may guess The presence of some wondrous heavenliness. 350 RCV TO J. R. GIDDINGS. Gippine@s, far rougher names than thine have grown Smoother than honey on the lps of men; And thou shalt aye be honorably known, As one who bravely used his tongue and pen, As best befits a freeman, — even for those SOT poo ot aSONNETS. To whom our Law’s unblushing front denies A right to plead against the lifelong woes Which are the Negro’s glimpse of Freedom’s skies Fear nothing, and hope all things, as the Right Alone may do securely ; every hour 360 The thrones of Ignorance and ancient Night Lose somewhat of their long usurpéd power, And Freedom’s lightest word can make them shiver With a base dread that clings to them forever. XXVITI. I rHovent our love at full, but I did err; Joy’s wreath drooped o’er mine eyes; I could not see That sorrow in our happy world must be Love’s deepest spokesman and interpreter: But, as a mother feels her child first stir Under her heart, so felt I instantly 370 Deep in my soul another bond to thee Thrill with that life we saw depart from her; O mother of our angel child! twice dear! Death knits as well as parts, and still, I wis, Her tender radiance shall infold us here, Even as the light, borne up by inward bliss, Threads the void glooms of space without a fear, To print on farthest stars her pitying kiss. L’ENVOI. WHETHER my neart hath wiser grown or not, In these three years, since I to thee inscribed,aoe: Byron—The Prisoner of Chillon, Mazeppa, and other _ selections . : : : : : : : : «3,620 Carlyle — Essay on Burns Burns — The Cotter’s Saturday Night POA NOWSS One volume ; wr 62D: To a Mountain Daisy Coleridge —The Ancient Mariner Lowell — The Vision of Sir Launfal One volume, o 20 Burns — The Cotter’s Saturday Night “ De Quincey — Joan of Arc, and other selections. 5 4620 / Kliot —Silas Marner ., : ; ;: : io 2D S Goldsmith — The Vicar of Wakefield : ; . : 20 * Irving — Isaac Thomas’s Selections from 5 so Locke — The Conduct of the Understanding ; s ee 0 | Longfellow —Evangeline . : : 25 ° ° e © sal > Macaulay — Essays on Milton and Addison ; 3 A 20 Milton — Minor Poems One volume on ~\ Arnold — Sohrab and Rustum . s re Pope — Iliad, Books I., VI. ; Ret and XXL. 5 s 6 Zo » Ruskin — Sesame and ‘Lilies i : : : : 2 << 2b » Scott — The Lady of the Lake 5 A € © 28 Shakespeare — The Merchant of Venice : RB SLO Macbeth . : ; ; ‘ ‘ 6 sar 020 As You Like It . 3 : O20) A Midsummer Night’ Ss rear : : 20 Julius Cesar. LD Tennyson— Gareth & Lynette, Lancelot & Elaine, ‘and Passing of Arthur ‘ 3 - eD The Princess : ; : e eo SIBLEY & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS. BOSTON. CHICAGO; CSE a2: ago asthe ate ae Hii ctasesTHE students’ Series of English Classics. LIBRARY EDITION. LIST Addison — The Sir Roger de Benes oe : : Arnold — Sohrab and Rustum ; Bates — Ballad Book Burke — Speech on Conciliation with America Carlyle—The Diamond Necklace . 5 : Essay on Burns : : Coleridge — The Ancient Mariner Cooper — The Last of the Mohicans De Quincey — The Revolt of the Tartars Dryden, Burns, Wordsworth, and Browning — Selections Dryden — Palamon and Arcite : Eliot — Silas Marner Goldsmith — The Traveller and the Deserted Village The Vicar of Wakefield : Irving —Isaac Thomas’s Selections from Johnson — Rasselas ; : Lamb — The Essays of Elia, ‘Selections Longfellow — Evangeline Lowell— The Vision of Sir Launfal, and ‘other selections Macaulay —Essay on Lord Clive . ; Hssays on Milton and Addison j Second Hssay on the Harl of Chatham Life of Samuel Johnson ; 5 Milton— Minor Poems . Paradise Lost, Books i and ie Ruskin — Introduction to the eee or (Scudder) Scott — The Lady of the Lake : Marmion : Shakespeare — A Midsummer Night? S Dream Macbeth : : : . ‘ As You Like It. A ; ; The Merchant of Venice . Tennyson — Elaine : i : : - The Princess . A . Webster— First Bunker Hili Oration A ; SIBLEY & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS. BOSTON. CHICAGO. ° ° e © ° ° e PRICE » $0.35 25 50 25 00 20 25 .50 OD 00 00 35 20 OO 50 oO oD 0D .20 00 3D OD 20 25 00 OO oo 00 00 3D 00 OO 25 200 20re ! ny bes dase sot | ee aids aia ph ab the aad ce Serato retire } : f Ly 4 i Fi : 5 Pe Ue ek oePTET leis : : eee