 | Poems by Hartley Coleridge |  |
85
[Who would have thought, upon this icy cliff]
“When Messrs. Hawes and Fellowes ascended Mont Blanc in July,
1827, they observed a butterfly near the summit. Mr. C. Shewell
saw two crimson moths at nearly the same elevation.”
Who would have thought, upon this icy cliff,
Where never ibex bounded,
Nor foot of chamois sounded,
Where scarce the soaring hippogriff
Would venture, unless truly,
To this exalted Thule,
He carried the thought of a metaphysician,
Or theory of an electrician;—
Who would have dream'd of seeing thee,
Softest of summer's progeny?
What art thou seeking? What hast thou lost?
That before the throne of eternal frost
Thou comest to spread the crimson wing,
Thou pretty fluttering thing?
Art thou too fine for the world below?
Or hast thou lived out thy joy and thy spring?
And hast thou sworn
To live forlorn
An anchorite in a cave of snow,
Or Palmer lonely wandering?
Where never ibex bounded,
Nor foot of chamois sounded,
Where scarce the soaring hippogriff
Would venture, unless truly,
To this exalted Thule,
He carried the thought of a metaphysician,
Or theory of an electrician;—
Who would have dream'd of seeing thee,
Softest of summer's progeny?
What art thou seeking? What hast thou lost?
That before the throne of eternal frost
Thou comest to spread the crimson wing,
Thou pretty fluttering thing?
86
Or hast thou lived out thy joy and thy spring?
And hast thou sworn
To live forlorn
An anchorite in a cave of snow,
Or Palmer lonely wandering?
Or dost thou fancy, as many have done,
That, because the hill-top is nearest the sun,
The sun loves better the unthawed ice,
That does nothing but say that he is bright,
And dissect, like a prism, his braided light—
Than the gardens of bloom and the fields of spice?
Didst thou think that the bright orb his mystery shrouds
In a comfortless mantle of sleet-driving clouds?
Alas! he never loved this place;
It bears no token of his grace;
But many a mark of the tempest's lash,
And many a brand of the sulphurous flash.
'Tis better to dwell among corn-fields and flowers,
Or even the weeds of this world of ours,
Than to leave the green vale and the sunny slope,
To seek the cold cliff with a desperate hope.
Flutter he, flutter he, high as he will,
A butterfly is but a butterfly still.
And 'tis better for us to remain where we are,
In the lowly valley of duty and care,
Than lonely to stray to the heights above,
Where there 's nothing to do, and nothing to love.
That, because the hill-top is nearest the sun,
The sun loves better the unthawed ice,
That does nothing but say that he is bright,
And dissect, like a prism, his braided light—
Than the gardens of bloom and the fields of spice?
Didst thou think that the bright orb his mystery shrouds
In a comfortless mantle of sleet-driving clouds?
Alas! he never loved this place;
It bears no token of his grace;
But many a mark of the tempest's lash,
And many a brand of the sulphurous flash.
'Tis better to dwell among corn-fields and flowers,
Or even the weeds of this world of ours,
Than to leave the green vale and the sunny slope,
To seek the cold cliff with a desperate hope.
Flutter he, flutter he, high as he will,
A butterfly is but a butterfly still.
87
In the lowly valley of duty and care,
Than lonely to stray to the heights above,
Where there 's nothing to do, and nothing to love.
| Poems by Hartley Coleridge | |