 | Poems (1797) |  |
179
LINES Addressed to S. T. COLERIDGE.
My Coleridge! oft I muse upon the cot
To which our footsteps bend; I envy not
The enrobed son of wealth, the heir of fame,
Or the more happy youth whose ardent flame
The yielding maid returns, when I can dwell
On the pure pleasures of our simple cell!
For tho' mine eye with no keen rapture swim,
Nor fervent Passion thrill each nerveless limb,
Yet I shall love where love alone can bless,
And learn to steep mine heart in quietness;
Shall taste the sweetness of a temperate choice,
And list, Oh Conscience! thy most healing voice,
Which steals to him who sanctifies his lot,
Whispering meek comforts that the earth owns not!
Where from the beaten pathway to recede
Reason had taught, Folly's fantastic weed
To rend indignant, and the impassion'd swell
Of Pleasure's voice (bidding the bosom dwell
On softest themes) to scorn with deafen'd ear—
Where I this perform'd—yet dropt a tear!
I now shall gird me cheerily to part
From these disarmed tempters of the heart!
For Truth might e'en the coldest breast surprise
Wafted in Friendship's gentle melodies.
To which our footsteps bend; I envy not
The enrobed son of wealth, the heir of fame,
Or the more happy youth whose ardent flame
The yielding maid returns, when I can dwell
On the pure pleasures of our simple cell!
For tho' mine eye with no keen rapture swim,
Nor fervent Passion thrill each nerveless limb,
Yet I shall love where love alone can bless,
And learn to steep mine heart in quietness;
Shall taste the sweetness of a temperate choice,
And list, Oh Conscience! thy most healing voice,
180
Whispering meek comforts that the earth owns not!
Where from the beaten pathway to recede
Reason had taught, Folly's fantastic weed
To rend indignant, and the impassion'd swell
Of Pleasure's voice (bidding the bosom dwell
On softest themes) to scorn with deafen'd ear—
Where I this perform'd—yet dropt a tear!
I now shall gird me cheerily to part
From these disarmed tempters of the heart!
For Truth might e'en the coldest breast surprise
Wafted in Friendship's gentle melodies.
I well remember when (on life afar
Seen like the radiance of a trembling star
Thro' eve's grey dimness) I was wont to fly
To weak similitudes of extasy!
When I did bring howe'er the scene were bleak
The deep-wrought burnings to mine eager cheek
Dwelling on Passion's most convulsed thrill;
And shap'd each object with a wayward skill,
Till I had given strange potency to bless
E'en to the dismal uncouth wilderness!
I found a tongue in every passing wind:
The mist that swept along to my full mind
Was dimly character'd, and seem'd to bring
Mysterious portents on its silent wing.
But all is fled! My dreams have had their scope!
I seek for Comfort on the grave of Hope!
Seen like the radiance of a trembling star
Thro' eve's grey dimness) I was wont to fly
To weak similitudes of extasy!
When I did bring howe'er the scene were bleak
181
Dwelling on Passion's most convulsed thrill;
And shap'd each object with a wayward skill,
Till I had given strange potency to bless
E'en to the dismal uncouth wilderness!
I found a tongue in every passing wind:
The mist that swept along to my full mind
Was dimly character'd, and seem'd to bring
Mysterious portents on its silent wing.
But all is fled! My dreams have had their scope!
I seek for Comfort on the grave of Hope!
My Coleridge! take the wanderer to thy breast,
The youth who loves thee, and who faint would rest
(Oft rack'd by hopes that frensy and expire)
In the long sabbath of subdued desire!
The youth who loves thee, and who faint would rest
(Oft rack'd by hopes that frensy and expire)
In the long sabbath of subdued desire!
| Poems (1797) | |