The Complete Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge (Illustrated Edition). Samuel Taylor Coleridge

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The Complete Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge (Illustrated Edition) - Samuel Taylor Coleridge

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I hear the whisper’d ‘No!’

      The whispered ‘No’ — how little meant!

      Sweet Falsehood that endears Consent!

      For on those lovely lips the while 25

      Dawns the soft relenting smile,

      And tempts with feign’d dissuasion coy

      The gentle violence of Joy.

      TO A YOUNG LADY WITH A POEM ON THE FRENCH REVOLUTION

      Much on my early youth I love to dwell,

      Ere yet I bade that friendly dome farewell,

      Where first, beneath the echoing cloisters pale,

      I heard of guilt and wonder’d at the tale!

      Yet though the hours flew by on careless wing, 5

      Full heavily of Sorrow would I sing.

      Aye as the Star of Evening flung its beam

      In broken radiance on the wavy stream,

      My soul amid the pensive twilight gloom

      Mourn’d with the breeze, O Lee Boo! o’er thy tomb. 10

      Where’er I wander’d, Pity still was near,

      Breath’d from the heart and glisten’d in the tear:

      No knell that toll’d but fill’d my anxious eye,

      And suffering Nature wept that one should die!

      Thus to sad sympathies I sooth’d my breast, 15

      Calm, as the rainbow in the weeping West:

      When slumbering Freedom roused by high Disdain

      With giant Fury burst her triple chain!

      Fierce on her front the blasting Dog-star glow’d;

      Her banners, like a midnight meteor, flow’d; 20

      Amid the yelling of the storm-rent skies!

      She came, and scatter’d battles from her eyes!

      Then Exultation waked the patriot fire

      And swept with wild hand the Tyrtaean lyre:

      Red from the Tyrant’s wound I shook the lance, 25

      And strode in joy the reeking plains of France!

      Fallen is the Oppressor, friendless, ghastly, low,

      And my heart aches, though Mercy struck the blow.

      With wearied thought once more I seek the shade,

      Where peaceful Virtue weaves the Myrtle braid. 30

      And O! if Eyes whose holy glances roll,

      Swift messengers, and eloquent of soul;

      If Smiles more winning, and a gentler Mien

      Than the love-wilder’d Maniac’s brain hath seen

      Shaping celestial forms in vacant air, 35

      If these demand the empassion’d Poet’s care —

      If Mirth and soften’d Sense and Wit refined,

      The blameless features of a lovely mind;

      Then haply shall my trembling hand assign

      No fading wreath to Beauty’s saintly shrine. 40

      Nor, Sara! thou these early flowers refuse —

      Ne’er lurk’d the snake beneath their simple hues;

      No purple bloom the Child of Nature brings

      From Flattery’s nightshade: as he feels he sings.

      TRANSLATION OF WRANGHAM’S ‘HENDECASYLLABI AD BRUNTONAM

      E GRANTA EXITURAM’ [KAL. OCT.MDCCXC]

      Maid of unboastful charms! whom white-robed Truth

      Right onward guiding through the maze of youth,

      Forbade the Circe Praise to witch thy soul,

      And dash’d to earth th’ intoxicating bowl:

      Thee meek-eyed Pity, eloquently fair, 5

      Clasp’d to her bosom with a mother’s care;

      And, as she lov’d thy kindred form to trace,

      The slow smile wander’d o’er her pallid face.

      For never yet did mortal voice impart

      Tones more congenial to the sadden’d heart: 10

      Whether, to rouse the sympathetic glow,

      Thou pourest lone Monimia’s tale of woe;

      Or haply clothest with funereal vest

      The bridal loves that wept in Juliet’s breast.

      O’er our chill limbs the thrilling Terrors creep, 15

      Th’ entrancéd Passions their still vigil keep;

      While the deep sighs, responsive to the song,

      Sound through the silence of the trembling throng.

      But purer raptures lighten’d from thy face,

      And spread o’er all thy form an holier grace, 20

      When from the daughter’s breasts the father drew

      The life he gave, and mix’d the big tear’s dew.

      Nor was it thine th’ heroic strain to roll

      With mimic feelings foreign from the soul:

      Bright in thy parent’s eye we mark’d the tear; 25

      Methought he said, ‘Thou art no Actress here!

      A semblance of thyself the Grecian dame,

      And Brunton and Euphrasia still the same!’

      O soon to seek the city’s busier scene,

      Pause thee awhile, thou chaste-eyed maid serene, 30

      Till Granta’s sons from all her sacred bowers

      With grateful hand shall weave Pierian flowers

      To twine a fragrant chaplet round

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