Poems by Hartley Coleridge With a Memoir of his Life by his Brother. In Two Volumes |
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TO GOODY TWOSHOES. |
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 | Poems by Hartley Coleridge |  |
260
TO GOODY TWOSHOES.
Ah, little Goody! I have known thee long,
And feel it strange to call thee Lady Jones.
Art thou as happy mid the bowing throng
As when thou hadst thy two shoes on the stones?
Sole sound of comfort that could reach thy heart,
When thy companion child must needs depart.
And feel it strange to call thee Lady Jones.
Art thou as happy mid the bowing throng
As when thou hadst thy two shoes on the stones?
Sole sound of comfort that could reach thy heart,
When thy companion child must needs depart.
Thy lamb, thy raven, and thy box of letters,
Thy love for all the tribes of earth and air,
Thy shrewd odd sayings, apt to make thy betters,
Or folks so called, look round with wondrous stare,
And deeper minds reflect on wisdom given
To fortune's waifs by compensating Heaven;—
Thy love for all the tribes of earth and air,
Thy shrewd odd sayings, apt to make thy betters,
Or folks so called, look round with wondrous stare,
And deeper minds reflect on wisdom given
To fortune's waifs by compensating Heaven;—
All these, to curious childhood dear, as new,
Retain a value to the satiate age,
And press full oft before the inward view
Of souls long strangers to the brief square page,
The tinselled covers, and the strange old pictures
That served our ancestors instead of lectures.
Retain a value to the satiate age,
261
Of souls long strangers to the brief square page,
The tinselled covers, and the strange old pictures
That served our ancestors instead of lectures.
I've trembled with thee in the church so cold,
And fearful in its soundless solitude.
What place so weary as deserted fold,
Where few hours past the shepherd wise and good
Had spoke the words that take the sting from death,
And change our human tears to wells of faith?
And fearful in its soundless solitude.
What place so weary as deserted fold,
Where few hours past the shepherd wise and good
Had spoke the words that take the sting from death,
And change our human tears to wells of faith?
But more of fear and more of pain was thine,
And short and smothered was thy sweet breath, when
A little musty hay, a narrow line
Of darkness, parted thee from evil men,
With horrid whisper plotting crime and plunder,
Mocking with muttered oaths the awful thunder.
And short and smothered was thy sweet breath, when
A little musty hay, a narrow line
Of darkness, parted thee from evil men,
With horrid whisper plotting crime and plunder,
Mocking with muttered oaths the awful thunder.
A neighbourhood unmeet for one like thee;
Yet out of evil, maids whose minds are right,
As thine was in its sweet simplicity,
Draw blessings for themselves; celestial light
Beams on the weakest in extreme distresses—
Assurance, where proud prudence hardly guesses.
Yet out of evil, maids whose minds are right,
As thine was in its sweet simplicity,
Draw blessings for themselves; celestial light
Beams on the weakest in extreme distresses—
Assurance, where proud prudence hardly guesses.
262
Such wert thou, Goody, in thy childish days,
And though, no doubt, thou didst grow old in time,
And wert a spinster much deserving praise,
That praise I will not speak in prose or rhyme;
For rather I'd believe thee tripping still
With Ralph the Raven, and with Baa-Lamb Bill.
And though, no doubt, thou didst grow old in time,
And wert a spinster much deserving praise,
That praise I will not speak in prose or rhyme;
For rather I'd believe thee tripping still
With Ralph the Raven, and with Baa-Lamb Bill.
| Poems by Hartley Coleridge | |