A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's

dream!

Ye storms, that round the dawning east

assembled,

The Sun was rising, though ye hid his light!" And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled,

The dissonance ceased, and all seemed calm

and bright;

When France her front deep-scarr'd and gory
Concealed with clustering wreaths of glory;
When, insupportably advancing,

Her arm made mockery of the warrior's
ramp;

While timid looks of fury glancing,

Domestic treason, crushed beneath her fatal stamp,

Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore; Then I reproached my fears that would not flee;

And soon," I said, "shall Wisdom teach her

lore

In the low huts of them that toil and groan!
And, conquering by her happiness alone,

Shall France compel the nations to be free, Till Love and Joy look round, and call the earth their own."

Forgive me, Freedom! O forgive those
dreams!

I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament,
From bleak Helvetia's icy caverns sent-

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I hear thy groans upon her blood-stained

streams!

Heroes, that for your peaceful country

perished,

And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain snows With bleeding wounds; forgive me, that I

cherished

One thought that ever blessed your cruel foes!
To scatter rage and traitorous guilt
Where Peace her jealous home had built;
A patriot-race to disinherit

Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear;
And with inexpiable spirit

To taint the bloodless freedom of the moun

taineer

O France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind,

And patriot only in pernicious toils! Are these thy boasts, Champion of human

kind?

To mix with Kings in the low lust of sway, Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous

prey;

To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils
From freemen torn; to tempt and to

betray?

The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain, Slaves by their own compulsion! In mad

game

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They burst their manacles and wear the name Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain!

O Liberty! with profitless endeavour Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour; But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain nor

ever

Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power.
Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee,
(Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee)
Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions,
And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves,
Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions,

The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the waves!

And then I felt thee!on that sea-cliff's verge. Whose pines, scarce travelled by the breeze

above,

Had made one murmur with the distant surge!
Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare,
And shot my being through earth, sea and air,
Possessing all things with intensest love,
O Liberty! my spirit felt thee there.

1798.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

DEJECTION: AN ODE

Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon,
With the old Moon in her arms;

And I fear, I fear, my master dear!
We shall have a deadly storm.

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Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,

WELL! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade

Than those which mould you cloud in lazy

flakes,

Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes Upon the strings of this Æolian lute, Which better far were mute.

For lo! the New-moon winter-bright! And overspread with phantom light, (With swimming phantom light o'erspread But rimmed and circled by a silver thread) I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling

The coming-on of rain and squally blast. And oh! that even now the gust were swelling, And the slant night-shower driving loud and

fast!

Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed.

And sent my soul abroad,

Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live!

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A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief,
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,
In word, or sigh, or tear-

O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood,
To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd,
All this long eve, so balmy and serene,
Have I been gazing on the western sky,
And its peculiar tint of yellow green:
And still I gaze-and with how blank an eye!

And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars, That give away their motion to the stars;

Those stars, that glide behind them or between,
Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen?" i
Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it grew

In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue;
I see them all so excellently fair,

I see, not feel, how beautiful they are!

My genial spirits fail;

And what can these avail

To lift the smothering weight from off my: breast?

It were a vain endeavor,

Though I should gaze for ever

On that green light that lingers in the west:
I may not hope from outward forms to win
The passion and the life, whose fountains are
within.

O Lady! we receive but what we give,
And in our life alone does Nature live:

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Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud!
And would we aught behold, of higher worth,
Than that inanimate cold world allowed
To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,
Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud
Enveloping the Earth'
And from the soul itself must there be sent
A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,
Of all sweet sounds the life and element !

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