The Complete Poetical Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Chapter 49 : Up the fine fibres thro' the sentient brain Pa.s.s in fine surges. Pressing on his

Up the fine fibres thro' the sentient brain Pa.s.s in fine surges. Pressing on his steps _Lo! Priestley there_

1803.

[378-80]

Sweeping before the rapt prophetic Gaze Bright as what glories of the jasper throne Stream from the gorgeous and face-veiling plumes Of Spirits adoring! Ye blest years! must end

1796.

[380] they bend] he bends 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.

[387] May image in his wildly-working thought 1796: May image, how the red-eyed Fiend outstretcht 1803.

[390] feverous] feverish 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.

[Between 391, 392] DESTRUCTION! when the Sons of Morning shout, The Angels shout, DESTRUCTION 1803.

[393] The Mighty Spirit 1796.

[400] om. 1803.

[401] blaze] Light 1803.

[411] and novice] noviciate 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF CHATTERTON[125:1]

O what a wonder seems the fear of death, Seeing how gladly we all sink to sleep, Babes, Children, Youths, and Men, Night following night for threescore years and ten!

But doubly strange, where life is but a breath 5 To sigh and pant with, up Want's rugged steep.

Away, Grim Phantom! Scorpion King, away!

Reserve thy terrors and thy stings display For coward Wealth and Guilt in robes of State!

Lo! by the grave I stand of one, for whom 10 A prodigal Nature and a n.i.g.g.ard Doom (_That_ all bestowing, _this_ withholding all) Made each chance knell from distant spire or dome Sound like a seeking Mother's anxious call, Return, poor Child! Home, weary Truant, home! 15

Thee, Chatterton! these unblest stones protect From want, and the bleak freezings of neglect.

Too long before the vexing Storm-blast driven Here hast thou found repose! beneath this sod!

Thou! O vain word! _thou_ dwell'st not with the clod! 20 Amid the s.h.i.+ning Host of the Forgiven Thou at the throne of mercy and thy G.o.d The triumph of redeeming Love dost hymn (Believe it, O my Soul!) to harps of Seraphim.

Yet oft, perforce ('tis suffering Nature's call), 25 I weep that heaven-born Genius _so_ should fall; And oft, in Fancy's saddest hour, my soul Averted shudders at the poison'd bowl.

Now groans my sickening heart, as still I view Thy corse of livid hue; 30 Now Indignation checks the feeble sigh, Or flashes through the tear that glistens in mine eye!

Is this the land of song-enn.o.bled line?

Is this the land, where Genius ne'er in vain Pour'd forth his lofty strain? 35 Ah me! yet Spenser, gentlest bard divine, Beneath chill Disappointment's shade, His weary limbs in lonely anguish lay'd.

And o'er her darling dead Pity hopeless hung her head, 40 While 'mid the pelting of that merciless storm,'

Sunk to the cold earth Otway's famish'd form!

Sublime of thought, and confident of fame, From vales where Avon[127:1] winds the Minstrel came.

Light-hearted youth! aye, as he hastes along, 45 He meditates the future song, How dauntless aella fray'd the Dacyan foe; And while the numbers flowing strong In eddies whirl, in surges throng, Exulting in the spirits' genial throe 50 In tides of power his life-blood seems to flow.

And now his cheeks with deeper ardors flame, His eyes have glorious meanings, that declare More than the light of outward day s.h.i.+nes there, A holier triumph and a sterner aim! 55 Wings grow within him; and he soars above Or Bard's or Minstrel's lay of war or love.

Friend to the friendless, to the sufferer health, He hears the widow's prayer, the good man's praise; To scenes of bliss trans.m.u.tes his fancied wealth, 60 And young and old shall now see happy days.

On many a waste he bids trim gardens rise, Gives the blue sky to many a prisoner's eyes; And now in wrath he grasps the patriot steel, And her own iron rod he makes Oppression feel. 65 Sweet Flower of Hope! free Nature's genial child!

That didst so fair disclose thy early bloom, Filling the wide air with a rich perfume!

For thee in vain all heavenly aspects smil'd; From the hard world brief respite could they win-- 70 The frost nipp'd sharp without, the canker prey'd within!

Ah! where are fled the charms of vernal Grace, And Joy's wild gleams that lighten'd o'er thy face?

Youth of tumultuous soul, and haggard eye!

Thy wasted form, thy hurried steps I view, 75 On thy wan forehead starts the lethal dew, And oh! the anguish of that shuddering sigh!

Such were the struggles of the gloomy hour, When Care, of wither'd brow, Prepar'd the poison's death-cold power: 80 Already to thy lips was rais'd the bowl, When near thee stood Affection meek (Her bosom bare, and wildly pale her cheek) Thy sullen gaze she bade thee roll On scenes that well might melt thy soul; 85 Thy native cot she flash'd upon thy view, Thy native cot, where still, at close of day, Peace smiling sate, and listen'd to thy lay; Thy Sister's shrieks she bade thee hear, And mark thy Mother's thrilling tear; 90 See, see her breast's convulsive throe, Her silent agony of woe!

Ah! dash the poison'd chalice from thy hand!

And thou hadst dashed it, at her soft command, But that Despair and Indignation rose, 95 And told again the story of thy woes; Told the keen insult of the unfeeling heart, The dread dependence on the low-born mind; Told every pang, with which thy soul must smart, Neglect, and grinning Scorn, and Want combined! 100 Recoiling quick, thou badest the friend of pain Roll the black tide of Death through every freezing vein!

O spirit blest!

Whether the Eternal's throne around, Amidst the blaze of Seraphim, 105 Thou pourest forth the grateful hymn, Or soaring thro' the blest domain Enrapturest Angels with thy strain,-- Grant me, like thee, the lyre to sound, Like thee with fire divine to glow;-- 110 But ah! when rage the waves of woe, Grant me with firmer breast to meet their hate, And soar beyond the storm with upright eye elate!

Ye woods! that wave o'er Avon's rocky steep, To Fancy's ear sweet is your murmuring deep! 115 For here she loves the cypress wreath to weave; Watching with wistful eye, the saddening tints of eve.

Here, far from men, amid this pathless grove, In solemn thought the Minstrel wont to rove, Like star-beam on the slow sequester'd tide 120 Lone-glittering, through the high tree branching wide.

And here, in Inspiration's eager hour, When most the big soul feels the mastering power, These wilds, these caverns roaming o'er, Round which the screaming sea-gulls soar, 125 With wild unequal steps he pa.s.s'd along, Oft pouring on the winds a broken song: Anon, upon some rough rock's fearful brow Would pause abrupt--and gaze upon the waves below.

Poor Chatterton! _he_ sorrows for thy fate 130 Who would have prais'd and lov'd thee, ere too late.

Poor Chatterton! farewell! of darkest hues This chaplet cast I on thy unshaped tomb; But dare no longer on the sad theme muse, Lest kindred woes persuade a kindred doom: 135 For oh! big gall-drops, shook from Folly's wing, Have blacken'd the fair promise of my spring; And the stern Fate transpierc'd with viewless dart The last pale Hope that s.h.i.+ver'd at my heart!

Hence, gloomy thoughts! no more my soul shall dwell 140 On joys that were! no more endure to weigh The shame and anguish of the evil day, Wisely forgetful! O'er the ocean swell Sublime of Hope I seek the cottag'd dell Where Virtue calm with careless step may stray; 145 And, dancing to the moon-light roundelay, The wizard Pa.s.sions weave an holy spell!

O Chatterton! that thou wert yet alive!

Sure thou would'st spread the canva.s.s to the gale, And love with us the tinkling team to drive 150 O'er peaceful Freedom's undivided dale; And we, at sober eve, would round thee throng, Would hang, enraptur'd, on thy stately song, And greet with smiles the young-eyed Poesy All deftly mask'd as h.o.a.r Antiquity. 155

Alas, vain Phantasies! the fleeting brood Of Woe self-solac'd in her dreamy mood!

Yet will I love to follow the sweet dream, Where Susquehannah pours his untamed stream; And on some hill, whose forest-frowning side 160 Waves o'er the murmurs of his calmer tide, Will raise a solemn Cenotaph to thee, Sweet Harper of time-shrouded Minstrelsy!

And there, sooth'd sadly by the dirgeful wind, Muse on the sore ills I had left behind. 165

1790-1834.

FOOTNOTES:

[125:1] The 'Monody', &c., dated in eds. 1796, 1797, 1803, 'October, 1794,' was first published at Cambridge in 1794, in _Poems_, By Thomas Rowley [i. e. Chatterton] and others edited by Lancelot Sharpe (pp.

xxv-xxviii). An _Introductory Note_ was prefixed:--'The Editor thinks himself happy in the permission of an ingenious friend to insert the following Monody.' The variants marked 1794 are derived from that work.

The 'Monody' was not included in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817. For MS.

variants _vide ante_, 'Monody', &c., Christ's Hospital Version.

Coleridge told Cottle, May 27, 1814 that lines 1-4 were written when he was 'a mere boy' (_Reminiscences_, 1847, p. 348); and, again, April 22, 1819, he told William Wors.h.i.+p that they were written 'in his thirteenth year as a school exercise'. The Monody numbered 107 lines in 1794, 143 in 1796, 135 in 1797, 119 in 1803, 143 in 1828, 154 in 1829, and 165 lines in 1834.

[127:1] Avon, a river near Bristol, the birth-place of Chatterton.