Poems by Hartley Coleridge :: :: University of Virginia Library

There is an angel that abides
Within the budding rose;
That is his home, and there he hides
His head in calm repose.
The rose-bud is his humble bower,
And yet he often loves to roam;
And wending through the path of Heaven,
Empurples all the track of even.

If e'er he sees a maiden meek,
He hovers nigh, and flings
Upon the modest maiden's cheek
The shadow of his wings.
Oh, lovely maiden, dost thou know
Why thy cheeks so warmly glow?
'Tis the Angel of the Rose,
That salutes thee as he goes.

270

FROM CATULLUS.

PASSER, DELICIÆ MEÆ PUELLÆ.

Little sparrow, pretty sparrow,
Darling of my “winsome marrow,”
Plaything, playmate, what you will,
Tiny love, or naughty Phil,
Tempted, teased, to peck and hop
On her slender finger top,
Free to nuzzle and to rest
In the sweet valley of her breast;
Her wee, wee comfort in her sorrow's wane,
When sinks to sleep the fever of her pain.

Little sparrow, come to me,
I can play as well as she,
And like her I would be fain
Thou could'st sport away my pain,
Dear to me as fruit of gold,
Which by crafty lover roll'd,
In that fleet maiden's path, untwisted all
The quaint knots of her cincture virginal.

271

FROM CATULLUS.

LUGETE, O VENERES CUPIDINESQUE.

Weep and wail, ye Cupids all,
That are pretty and but small;
Weep, ye pretty winged brothers,
Weep, ye pretty goddess mothers;
Every soul on earth that's pretty,
Weep and wail for very pity.
He is dead, the pretty sparrow,
Darling of my “winsome marrow,”
Dearer than her own eyes to her;
For so well the creature knew her,
She did not know her mother better;
Not a moment would he quit her,
Hopping hither, flitting thither,
Ever blest while he was with her;
Piping shrill and twittering clearly,
To her alone whom he loved dearly.
Now the dark way he is wending,
Whence they say is no ascending.

272

Ill luck be with thee, gloomy hollow,
That every pretty thing dost swallow,
To steal away my pretty sparrow!
Alas! poor bird—oh, deed of sorrow!
My sweet one's eyes, with tears so salt,
Are red and swollen; 'tis all thy fault.

273

SCHILLER'S TRANSLATION OF MACBETH.

[_]

In Schiller's translation of Macbeth, in the 3rd Scene of the 1st Act, lines, of which the following are a free version, are substituted for the original Conference of the Weird Women, previous to the entrance of Macbeth and Banquo. It was manifestly the purpose of Schiller to discard the witch element altogether out of his “Weird Sisters,” and to raise them to a level with the Eumenides and Parcæ. As a modern poet, writing for time present, and probably for the time to come, he might be right in omitting the killing swine, the sailor's thumb, the chestnut munching; but his idea is not in the spirit of ancient or modern demonology. If Schiller showed a more refined taste, Shakspeare exhibits a wider knowledge and a deeper philosophy.

First Witch.
Sister, let's hear: what hast thou been doing?

Second.
On the sea I 've been busy at wrecking and ruin.

Third.
Sister, what thou?

First.
I saw a fisherman all in rags—
A very heap of rags was he,—
Yet he mended his nets and sang merrily,
And cared no more how the old world wags,
Than if he 'd the wealth of the sea in his bags.
At his work late and early,
The light-hearted churl, he

274

Sang merrily, greeting the eve and the morn.
I hated his mirth—'twas too much to be borne
To see him so merry both early and late.
I had sworn the deadly oath of hate,
And his note must be changed or I forsworn.
So the next time that his net he dragg'd,
With a golden burden the full net swagg'd.
'Tis down on the nail the yellow ones glimmer;
He gloats till his peepers wax dimmer and dimmer.
He hugg'd the bright devil, he lugg'd it along,
And there was an end of his mirth and his song;
And then he lived like the Prodigal Son,
And he gave to his lust dominion.
But Mammon, the rogue, he soon was gone,—
He fled with a lusty pinion.
'Twas faery gold, and he thought “All 's well;”
He knew not—the fool!—'twas the loan of hell.
And all was spent, and grim Want came;
Away slunk the lads of the revel.
Grace cast off him, and he cast off shame,
And he gave himself up to the Devil.
And he served the fiend with hand and will,
And he went to and fro to pillage and kill.
I chanced to pass this very day
Where on the gold he lighted:

275

On the bare beach I found him howling away,
With wan looks scathed and blighted.
And hark what said the hope-lorn elf:—
“False witch, false ocean's daughter,
Thou gavest me gold,—thou shalt have myself!”
So plunged in the salt water.

276

STATIUS, LIB. I.493.

His chilly lips hard closing at the sight,
His every member grueing with delight,
At once by tokens manifest he spies
That they are here, whom quaintly twisted plies

277

And knots and labyrinths of oracular saw,
Inspired by Phœbus, named his sons-in-law,
In form of beasts foreshown. With palms outspread
Towards the sky, in awful accent said
The king illumined: Thou, whose compass dread
And universal empire dost contain
Both heaven and earth and all their woe and pain;
Night, that transmittest stellar influence
With manifold illapse to heal the sense
Of weary mortals by a kind renewing,
Till Titan bid them to be up and doing:
At last in happy hour thou bring'st to me
The truth long sought in sore perplexity,—
Reveal'st the principles of Destiny.
Aid but the work, and make the omen sure,
From age to age thy rites shall still endure.
Yon house shall honour thee, O reverend Night!
With sable victims and drink-offerings white
Of purest milk. The hallow'd flame shall sup
The liquid gifts and eat the entrails up.
Hail secret place, all hail thou seat divine,
Mysterious symbol of the dreadful Trine!

278

PÆAN OF ARIPHOON THE SICYONIAN.

Υλιεια πρεσβιστη Μακαρον

Holiest and first of all the happy powers,
Sacred Hygeia! let me dwell with thee—
For all the remnant of my living hours,
Come thou, benign, and share my home with me;
For if there be or good or grace
In riches, offering, or high place
Of godlike empery or delight,
Which, in the hidden nets of Aphrodite,
We would inveigle—aught at all
That from the gods poor man obtains
To soothe him in his toils and pains,—
Blest Hygeia! at thy call
Blossoms every pleasant thing:
With thee the Graces spend their spring;
But without thee
No living thing can happy be.