A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's dream! Ye storms, that round the dawning east assembled, The Sun was rising, though ye hid his light!" And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled, The dissonance ceased, and all seemed calm and bright; When France her front deep-scarr'd and gory Her arm made mockery of the warrior's While timid looks of fury glancing, Domestic treason, crushed beneath her fatal stamp, Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore; Then I reproached my fears that would not flee; And soon," I said, "shall Wisdom teach her lore In the low huts of them that toil and groan! Shall France compel the nations to be free, Till Love and Joy look round, and call the earth their own." Forgive me, Freedom! O forgive those I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament, 63 I hear thy groans upon her blood-stained streams! Heroes, that for your peaceful country perished, And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain snows With bleeding wounds; forgive me, that I cherished One thought that ever blessed your cruel foes! Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear; To taint the bloodless freedom of the moun taineer O France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind, And patriot only in pernicious toils! Are these thy boasts, Champion of human kind? To mix with Kings in the low lust of sway, Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey; To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils betray? The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain, Slaves by their own compulsion! In mad game 84 They burst their manacles and wear the name Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain! O Liberty! with profitless endeavour Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour; But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain nor ever Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power. The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the waves! And then I felt thee!on that sea-cliff's verge. Whose pines, scarce travelled by the breeze above, Had made one murmur with the distant surge! 1798. Samuel Taylor Coleridge. DEJECTION: AN ODE Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon, And I fear, I fear, my master dear! 105 Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, WELL! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade Than those which mould you cloud in lazy flakes, Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes Upon the strings of this Æolian lute, Which better far were mute. For lo! the New-moon winter-bright! And overspread with phantom light, (With swimming phantom light o'erspread But rimmed and circled by a silver thread) I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling The coming-on of rain and squally blast. And oh! that even now the gust were swelling, And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast! Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed. And sent my soul abroad, Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live! 20 A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood, And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars, That give away their motion to the stars; Those stars, that glide behind them or between, In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue; I see, not feel, how beautiful they are! My genial spirits fail; And what can these avail To lift the smothering weight from off my: breast? It were a vain endeavor, Though I should gaze for ever On that green light that lingers in the west: O Lady! we receive but what we give, 38 46 Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud! 58 |