IV.

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

V.

O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me
What this strong music in the soul may be!
What, and wherein it doth exist,

This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,
This beautiful, and beauty-making power.

Joy, virtuous lady! Joy that ne'er was given,
Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,

Life, and life's effluence, cloud at once and shower, Joy, lady! is the spirit and the power,

Which wedding nature to us gives in dower,

A new earth and new heaven,

Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud;

Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud-
We in ourselves rejoice!

And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,
All melodies the echoes of that voice,

All colors a suffusion from that light.

VI.

There was a time when, though my path was rough, This joy within me dallied with distress,

And all misfortunes were but as the stuff

Whence fancy made me dreams of happiness:

For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,
And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine.
But now afflictions bow me down to earth;

Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth.

But O! each visitation

Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,
My shaping spirit of imagination.

For not to think of what I needs must feel,
But to be still and patient, all I can ;
And haply by abstruse research to steal

From my own nature all the natural man—
This was my sole resource, my only plan;
Till that which suits a part infects the whole,
And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.

VII.

Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,
Reality's dark dream!

I turn from you, and listen to the wind,

Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream
Of agony by torture lengthened out

That lute sent forth! Thou wind, that rav'st without,
Bare crag, or mountain tairn, or blasted tree,

Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,
Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,
Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,
Mad lutanist! who in this month of showers,
Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers,
Mak'st devils' yule, with worse than wintry song,
The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among.
Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds!
Thou mighty Poet, e'en to frenzy bold!
What tell'st thou now about?

'Tis of the rushing of a host in rout,

With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds— At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold! But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence! And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,

With groans, and tremulous shudderings—all is over— It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud! A tale of less affright,

And tempered with delight,

As Otway's self had framed the tender lay, 'Tis of a little child

Upon a lonesome wild,

Not far from home, but she hath lost her way,

And now moans low in bitter grief and fear,

And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear.

VIII.

'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep:

Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!
Visit her, gentle sleep! with wings of healing,

And may this storm be but a mountain-birth!
May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,
Silent as though they watched the sleeping earth!
With light heart may she rise,

Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,

Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice:

To her may all things live, from pole to pole,
Their life the eddying of her living soul!

O simple spirit, guided from above,
Dear lady!. friend devoutest of my choice,
Thus may'st thou ever, evermore rejoice.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

From the Piccolomini.

OUNTESS. Well, Princess, and what found you in this

COUNT

tower?

My highest privilege has been to snatch

A side glance and away !

THEKLA.

It was a strange

Sensation that came o'er me, when at first

From the broal sunshine I stept in; and now

The narrowing line of daylight that ran after
The closing door, was gone; and all about me
'Twas pale and dusky night, with many shadows
Fantastically cast. Here six or seven

Colossal statues, and all kings, stood round me
In a half-circle. Each one in his hand

A sceptre bore, and on his head a star ;
And in the tower no other light was there

But from these stars; all seemed to come from them.
"These are the planets," said that low old man;
“They govern worldly fates, and for that cause
Are imaged here as kings. He, farthest from you,
Spiteful and cold, an old man melancholy,
With bent and yellow forehead, he is Saturn.
He opposite, the king with the red light,
An armed man for the battle, that is Mars;
And both these bring but little luck to man.”
But at his side a lovely lady stood,

The star upon her head was soft and bright,
And that was Venus, the bright star of joy.
On the left hand, lo! Mercury with wings.
Quite in the middle glittered, silver bright,
A cheerful man, and with a monarch's mien ;
And this was Jupiter, my father's star;
And at his side I saw the Sun and Moon.

MAX. O never rudely will I blame his faith
In the might of stars and angels! 'Tis not merely
The human being's Pride that peoples space
With life and mystical predominance;
Since likewise for the stricken heart of Love
This visible nature, and this common world
Is all too narrow; yea, a deeper import
Lurks in the legend told my infant years
Than lies upon that truth we live to learn ;

For fable is Love's world, his home, his birth-place; Delightedly dwells he 'mong fays and talismans,

And spirits; and delightedly believes.

Divinities, being himself divine.

The intelligible forms of ancient poets,

The fair humanities of old religion,

The power, the beauty, and the majesty,

That had their haunts in dale or piny mountain,
Or forest, by slow stream or pebbly spring,

Or chasms, and watery depths; all these have vanished;
They live no longer in the faith of reason!
But still the heart doth need a language, still
Doth the old instinct bring back the old names,
And to yon starry world they now are gone,
Spirits or gods, that used to share this earth
With man as with their friend, and to the lover
Yonder they move, from yonder visible sky
Shoot influence down; and even at this day
'Tis Jupiter who brings whate'er is great,
And Venus who brings everything that's fair.
SCHILLER.

Translation of SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

"

O'Connor's Child;

OR, THE

'FLOWER OF LOVE LIES BLEEDING."

OH

I.

once the harp of Innisfail

Was strung full high to notes of gladness:

But yet it often told a tale

Of more prevailing sadness.

Sad was the note, and wild its fall,
As winds that moan at night forlorn
Along the isles of Fion-Gael,

When for O'Connor's child to mourn,
The harper told, how lone, how far
From any mansion's twinkling star,
From any path of social men,
Or voice, but from the fox's den,