She will mix these pleasures up Like three fit wines in a cup,
And thou shalt quaff it,-thou shalt hear Distant harvest-carols clear- Rustle of the reaped corn; Sweet birds antheming the morn; And, in the same moment-hark! 'Tis the early April lark,- Or the rooks, with busy caw, Foraging for sticks and straw. Thou shalt, at one glance, behold The daisy and the marigold; White-plumed lilies, and the first Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst; Shaded hyacinth, alway
Sapphire queen of the mid-May;
And every leaf, and every flower Pearled with the self-same shower. Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep Meagre from its celled sleep;
Through the thought still spread beyond her; And the snake, all winter-thin,
Open wide the mind's cage-door-
She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.
O sweet Fancy! let her loose! Summer's joys are spoilt by use, And the enjoying of the Spring Fades as does its blossoming. Autumn's red-lipped fruitage too, Blushing through the mist and dew, Cloys with tasting. What do then? Sit thee by the ingle, when The sear faggot blazes bright, Spirit of a winter's night; When the soundless earth is muffled, And the caked snow is shuffled From the ploughboy's heavy shoon; When the Night doth meet the Noon In a dark conspiracy
To banish Even from her sky. Sit thee there, and send abroad, With a mind self-overawed, Fancy, high-commissioned:-send her! She has vassals to attend her; She will bring, in spite of frost, Beauties that the earth hath lost;- She will bring thee, all together, All delights of summer weather; All the buds and bells of May, From dewy sward or thorny spray; All the heaped Autumn's wealth ;— With a still, mysterious stealth;
Cast on sunny bank its skin; Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see Hatching in the hawthorn-tree, When the hen-bird's wing doth rest Quiet on her mossy nest; Then the hurry and alarm When the bee-hive casts its swarm; Acorns ripe down-pattering While the autumn breezes sing.
Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose! Every thing is spoilt by use; Where's the cheek that doth not fade, Too much gazed at? Where's the maid Whose lip mature is ever new? Where's the eye, however blue, Doth not weary? Where's the face One would meet in every place? Where's the voice, however soft, One would hear so very oft? At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth Like to bubbles when rain pelteth. Let, then, winged Fancy find Thee a mistress to thy mind: Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter Ere the god of Torment taught her How to frown and how to chide; With a waist and with a side White as Hebe's when her zone Slipt its golden clasp, and down
THE frost performs its secret ministry, Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry Came loud-and hark again! loud as before. The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, Have left me to that solitude which suits Abstruser musings: save that at my side My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 'Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs And vexes meditation with its strange And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood, This populous village!--sea, and hill, and wood, With all the numberless goings on of life Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame Lies on my low burnt fire, and quivers not; Only that film, which fluttered on the grate, Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. Methinks its motion in this hush of Nature Gives it dim sympathies with me who live, Making it a companionable form, Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit By its own moods interprets, everywhere Echo or mirror seeking of itself, And makes a toy of thought.
How oft, at school, with most believing mind, Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars To watch that fluttering stranger! and as oft, With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt Of my sweet birthplace, and the old church- tower,
Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day, So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear Most like articulate sounds of things to come! So gazed I, till the soothing things I dreamt Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my
And so I brooded all the following morn, Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye Fixed with mocked study on my swimming book
Save if the door half opened, and I snatched A hasty glance; and still my heart leaped up, For still I hoped to see the stranger's face, Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved,
Dear babe, that sleepest cradled by my side, Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,
Fill up the interspersed vacancies And momentary pauses of the thought! My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart With tender gladness, thus to look at thee, And think that thou shalt learn far other lore And in far other scenes! For I was reared In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim, And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars. But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags Of ancient mountains, and beneath the clouds, Which image in their bulk both lakes and
And mountain crags. So shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible Of that eternal language which thy God Utters, who from eternity doth teach Himself in all, and all things in himself. Great universal Teacher! he shall mould Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.
Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee: Whether the Summer clothe the general earth With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eve
Heard only in the trances of the blast, Or if the secret ministry of frost Shall hang them up in silent icicles, Quietly shining to the quiet moon.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND.
BLOW, blow, thou winter wind- Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude; Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen, Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:
My playmate when we both were clothed Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere
I love to view these things with curious eyes, Thy heart with the terror is gladdened;
And in this wisdom of the holly tree
Thou forebodest the dread avalanches When whole mountains swoop
Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant In the calm thou o'erstretchest the valleys
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