Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 102

He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small; For the dear G.o.d who loveth us, He made and loveth all.'

The Mariner, whose eye is bright, Whose beard with age is h.o.a.r, Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest Turn'd from the bridegroom's door.

He went like one that hath been stunn'd, And is of sense forlorn: A sadder and a wiser man He rose the morrow morn.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 1772-1834

550. Kubla Khan

IN Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round: And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills Where blossom'd many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But O, that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!

A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover!

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced; Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river.

Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reach'd the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves.

It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she play'd, Singing of Mount Abora.

Could I revive within me, Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight 'twould win me, That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice!

And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware!

His flas.h.i.+ng eyes, his floating hair!

Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 1772-1834

551. Love

ALL thoughts, all pa.s.sions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruin'd tower.

The moons.h.i.+ne, stealing o'er the scene, Had blended with the lights of eve; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve!

She lean'd against the armed man, The statue of the armed Knight; She stood and listen'd to my lay, Amid the lingering light.

Few sorrows hath she of her own, My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!

She loves me best whene'er I sing The songs that make her grieve.

I play'd a soft and doleful air; I sang an old and moving story-- An old rude song, that suited well That ruin wild and h.o.a.ry.

She listen'd with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes and modest grace; For well she knew I could not choose But gaze upon her face.

I told her of the Knight that wore Upon his s.h.i.+eld a burning brand; And that for ten long years he woo'd The Lady of the Land.

I told her how he pined: and ah!

The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another's love, Interpreted my own.

She listen'd with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes, and modest grace; And she forgave me, that I gazed Too fondly on her face!

But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, And that he cross'd the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night;

That sometimes from the savage den, And sometimes from the darksome shade, And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade--

There came and look'd him in the face An angel beautiful and bright; And that he knew it was a Fiend, This miserable Knight!

And that, unknowing what he did, He leap'd amid a murderous band, And saved from outrage worse than death The Lady of the Land;--

And how she wept and clasp'd his knees; And how she tended him in vain-- And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain;--

And that she nursed him in a cave; And how his madness went away, When on the yellow forest leaves A dying man he lay;--

His dying words--but when I reach'd That tenderest strain of all the ditty, My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturb'd her soul with pity!

All impulses of soul and sense Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve; The music and the doleful tale, The rich and balmy eve;

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, An undistinguishable throng, And gentle wishes long subdued, Subdued and cherish'd long!

She wept with pity and delight, She blush'd with love and virgin shame; And like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name.

Her bosom heaved--she stepp'd aside, As conscious of my look she stept-- Then suddenly, with timorous eye She fled to me and wept.

She half enclosed me with her arms, She press'd me with a meek embrace; And bending back her head, look'd up, And gazed upon my face.

'Twas partly love, and partly fear, And partly 'twas a bashful art, That I might rather feel, than see.

The swelling of her heart.

I calm'd her fears, and she was calm, And told her love with virgin pride; And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous Bride.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 1772-1834

552. Youth and Age

VERSE, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying, Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee-- Both were mine! Life went a-maying With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, When I was young!

When I was young?--Ah, woful When!

Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then!

This breathing house not built with hands, This body that does me grievous wrong, O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands, How lightly then it flash'd along-- Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, On winding lakes and rivers wide, That ask no aid of sail or oar, That fear no spite of wind or tide!

Naught cared this body for wind or weather When Youth and I lived in 't together.

Flowers are lovely! Love is flower-like; Friends.h.i.+p is a sheltering tree; O the joys, that came down shower-like, Of Friends.h.i.+p, Love, and Liberty, Ere I was old!

Ere I was old? Ah, woful Ere, Which tells me, Youth 's no longer here!

O Youth! for years so many and sweet, 'Tis known that thou and I were one; I'll think it but a fond conceit-- It cannot be that thou art gone!

Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd-- And thou wert aye a masker bold!