Page images
PDF
EPUB

In shore their passage tribes of sea-gulls urge,
And drop for prey within the sweeping surge;
Oft in the rough opposing blast they fly

Far back, then turn, and all their force apply,
While to the storm they give their weak complaining cry;
Or clap the sleek white pinion to the breast,
And in the restless ocean dip for rest.

Darkness begins to reign; the louder wind
Appals the weak and awes the firmer mind;
But frights not him, whom evening and the spray
In part conceal-yon prowler on his way:
Lo! he has something seen; he runs apace,
As if he fear'd companion in the chace;
He sees his prize, and now he turns again,
Slowly and sorrowing-"Was your search in vain?"
Gruffly he answers, "T is a sorry sight!

A seaman's body: there 'll be more to-night!"

Hark! to those sounds! they're from distress at sea: How quick they come! What terrors may there be ! Yes, 't is a driven vessel: I discern

Lights, signs of terror, gleaming from the stern;
Others behold them too, and from the town,
In various parties seamen hurry down;

Their wives pursue, and damsels urg'd by dread,
Lest men so dear be into danger led;

Their head the gown has hooded, and their call
In this sad night is piercing like the squall;
They feel their kinds of power, and when they meet,
Chide, fondle, weep, dare, threaten, or intreat.

See one poor girl, all terror and alarm,
Has fondly seiz❜d upon her lover's arm;

"Thou shalt not venture;" and he answers "No! I will not "-still she cries, "Thou shalt not go."

No need of this; not here the stoutest boat
Can through such breakers, o'er such billows float;
Yet may they view these lights upon the beach,
Which yield them hope, whom help can never reach.

From parted clouds the moon her radiance throws
On the wild waves, and all the danger shows;
But shows them beaming in their shining vest,
Terrific splendour! gloom in glory drest!
This for a moment, and then clouds again
Hide every beam, and fear and darkness reign.

24

But hear we now those sounds? Do lights appear?

I see them not! the storm alone I hear:

And lo! the sailors homeward take their way;
Man must endure-let us submit and pray.

[ocr errors]

THE FRENZIED CHILD OF GRACE."
SUCH were the evils, man of sin,
That I was fated to sustain ;
And add to all, without-within,
A soul defil'd with every stain,
That man's reflecting mind can pain;

That pride, wrong, rage, despair can make;
In fact, they'd nearly touch'd my brain,
And reason on her throne would shake.

But pity will the vilest seek,

If punish'd guilt will not repine,—
I heard a heavenly teacher speak,
And felt the sun of mercy shine:
I hail'd the light! the birth divine!
And then was seal'd among the few;
Those angry fiends beheld the sign,
And from me in an instant flew.

Come hear how thus the charmers cry
To wandering sheep, the strays of sin;
While some the wicket-gate pass by,
And some will knock and enter in :
Full joyful 't is a soul to win,

For he that winneth souls is wise;
Now hark! the holy strains begin,

And thus the sainted preacher cries:

"Pilgrim, burthen'd with thy sin, Come the way to Zion's gate, There, till mercy let thee in,

Knock and weep and watch and wait.

Knock! He knows the sinner's cry:
Weep! He loves the mourner's tears:
Watch!--for saving grace is nigh:
Wait,-till heavenly light appears.

Hark! it is the bridegroom's voice;
Welcome, pilgrim, to thy rest;
Now within the gate rejoice,
Safe and seal'd and bought and blest!
Safe-from all the lures of vice,
Seal'd-by signs the chosen know,

Bought by love, and life the price,
Blest-the mighty debt to owe.

Holy Pilgrim! what for thee,
In a world like this remain?
From thy guarded breast shall flee,
Fear and shame and doubt and pain.
Fear-the hope of Heaven shall fly,
Shame-from glory's view retire,
Doubt-in certain rapture die,
Pain-in endless bliss expire."

But though my day of grace was come,
Yet still my days of grief I find;
The former clouds' collected gloom}
Still sadden the reflecting mind;
The soul, to evil things consign'd,
Will of their evil some retain ;
The man will seem to earth inclin❜d,
And will not look erect again.

Thus, though elect, I feel it hard,
To lose what I possess'd before,
To be from all my wealth debarr'd,-
The brave Sir Eustace is no more :
But old I wax and passing poor,

Stern, rugged men my conduct view,
They chide my wish, they bar my door,
"T is hard-I weep-you see I do.—

Must you, my friends, no longer stay?
Thus quickly all my pleasures end!
But I'll remember, when I pray,

My kind physician and his friend;
And those sad hours, you deign to spend
With me, I shall requite them all;
Sir Eustace for his friends shall send,
And thank their love at Greyling Hall.

S. T. COLERIDGE.

COLERIDGE has published comparatively but little poetry, yet many of his pieces exhibit a poetical genius not inferior even to Milton's. The intense vividness of his fancy is oftentimes astonishing; and there is an eloquent majesty of thought and a lofty elevation of moral feeling in all his productions, which imparts to them a noble mein of intellectual

[ocr errors]

grandeur. There is no piece in the English language which is so truly sublime as his hymn before sunrise in the vale of Chamouny. When he speaks of the torrents that rush down the sides of the mountain, his sentences are so strong that they seem to the mind like something material, as if they were hewn out from the eternal adamant itself. But it is not his language, it is the spirit with which he has transfused it, the stupendous conceptions he has made it convey, which thrill through, and dilate the soul of the reader.

Besides this unrivalled power of sublimity, he has exhibited the qualities of tenderness and pathos in an almost equal degree. He is also unsurpassed in his descriptions of the loveliness of nature, especially in some of her most striking scenes.

He looks upon the universe with the enthusiastic fondness of a poet, but likewise with the eye of a philosopher and a Christian; and the thoughts with which he connects its appearances are of that eloquence which seems almost too deep and sacred for utterance. It is ennobling to the mind to converse with his exalted conceptions.

The rhyme of the Ancient Mariner combines in an extraordinary degree great wildness of fancy, richness of imagery and description, and gentleness of feeling; and the moral of that beautiful piece, though simple, is rendered truly sublime. Coleridge's writings, both prose and poetry, are peculiarly refined and elevated in their moral character, and rich in philosophy which seems to have been "baptised"

"In the pure fountain of eternal love."

Besides all this, the thoughts of domestic affection and intimate friendship-home, the husband, father, companion— have never been expressed with more endearing tenderness and delicious imagery than in some of his productions. His language is chaste, rich, and beautiful beyond description; and he adapts its character with remarkable facility to all the varieties of his subjects, be they pathetic, fanciful, or sublime.

FROM FEARS IN SOLItude.

BUT, O dear Britain! O my mother isle!
Needs must thou prove a name most dear and holy
To me, a son, a brother, and a friend,

A husband, and a father! who revere

All bonds of natural love, and find them all

Within the limits of thy rocky shores.

O native Britain! O my mother isle!

How shouldst thou prove aught else but dear and holy

To me, who from thy lakes and mountain hills,

Thy clouds, thy quiet dales, thy rocks and seas,
Have drunk in all my intellectual life,

All sweet sensations, all ennobling thoughts,

All adoration of the God in nature,
All lovely and all honorable things,
Whatever makes this mortal spirit feel
The joy and greatness of its future being?
There lives nor form nor feeling in my soul
Unborrow'd from my country. O divine
And beauteous island! thou hast been my sole
And most magnificent temple, in the which
I walk with awe, and sing my stately songs,
Loving the God that made me!

May my fears,
My filial fears, be vain! and may the vaunts
And menace of the vengeful enemy

Pass like the gust, that roar'd and died away
In the distant tree: which heard, and only heard
In this low dell, bow'd not the delicate grass.

But now the gentle dew-fall sends abroad
The fruit-like perfume of the golden furze;
The light has left the summit of the hill,
Though still a sunny gleam lies beautiful
Aslant the ivied beacon. Now farewell,
Farewell, awhile, O soft and silent spot!
On the green sheep-track, up the heathy hill,
Homeward I wind my way; and, lo! recall'd
From bodings that have well nigh wearied me,
I find myself upon the brow, and pause
Startled! And after lonely sojourning
In such a quiet and surrounded nook,
This burst of prospect, here the shadowy main,
Dim tinted, there the mighty majesty
Of that huge amphitheatre of rich
And elmy fields, seems like society-
Conversing with the mind, and giving it
A livelier impulse and a dance of thought!
And now, beloved Stowey! I behold

Thy church-tower, and, methinks, the four huge elms
Clustering, which mark the mansion of my friend ;
And close behind them, hidden from my view,
Is my own lowly cottage, where my babe

And my babe's mother dwell in peace! With light
And quicken'd footsteps thitherward I tend,
Remembering thee, O green and silent dell!
And grateful, that by nature's quietness
And solitary musings, all my heart

Is soften'd, and made worthy to indulge
Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human kind.

« PreviousContinue »