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    The Best Poetry of Samuel Taylor Coleridge
    The Best Poetry of Samuel Taylor Coleridge
    The Best Poetry of Samuel Taylor Coleridge
    Ebook195 pages1 hour

    The Best Poetry of Samuel Taylor Coleridge

    By Samuel Taylor Coleridge

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    Between the years of 1797-1798 Samuel Taylor Coleridge wrote what are considered his most important poetic works. Among them are the famous "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner", "Kubla Khan", and "Christabel". Also during this period he wrote his much-heralded 'conversation poems' of which includes "This Lime-Tree Bower My Prison", "Frost at Midnight", and "The Nightingale". These great poems can all be found in this volume along with many others. Forty-one poems in all written between 1794 and 1833 make up this representative selection of Coleridge's best poetic works.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDigireads.com Publishing
    Release dateJan 1, 2010
    ISBN9781420936209
    The Best Poetry of Samuel Taylor Coleridge
    Author

    Samuel Taylor Coleridge

    Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834), English lyrical poet, critic, and philosopher, whose Lyrical Ballads (1798), written with William Wordsworth, started the English Romantic movement. He was born in Ottery St Mary where his father was the vicar, and he was at school with Charles Lamb and Leigh Hunt, and spent two years at Jesus College, Cambridge. He is best known for his poems The Rime of the Ancient Mariner and Kubla Khan, but his critical work, especially on Shakespeare was highly influential, and he helped introduce German idealist philosophy to English-speaking culture. He also suffered from poor physical health that may have stemmed from a bout of rheumatic fever and other childhood illnesses. He was treated for these concerns with laudanum, which fostered a lifelong opium addiction.

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      The Best Poetry of Samuel Taylor Coleridge - Samuel Taylor Coleridge

      THE BEST POETRY OF

      SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

      A Digireads.com Book

      Digireads.com Publishing

      Print ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-3130-3

      Ebook ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-3620-9

      This edition copyright © 2011

      Please visit www.digireads.com

      CONTENTS

      TO THE AUTHOR OF 'THE ROBBERS' [sonnet; 1794?]

      THE EOLIAN HARP [1795]

      REFLECTIONS ON HAVING LEFT A PLACE OF RETIREMENT [1795]

      SONNET: TO A FRIEND WHO ASKED, HOW I FELT WHEN THE NURSE FIRST PRESENTED MY INFANT TO ME [1796]

      THE RAVEN [1797]

      TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN AT THE THEATRE [1797]

      THIS LIME-TREE BOWER MY PRISON [1797]

      THE FOSTER-MOTHER'S TALE [1797]

      THE DUNGEON [1797]

      THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER [1797-98, revised later; marginal glosses added 1815-16]

      SONNETS ATTEMPTED IN THE MANNER OF CONTEMPORARY WRITERS [1797]

      CHRISTABEL [PART 1, 1797; PART II, 1800; 'THE CONCLUSION TO PART II,' 1801]

      FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER [1798]

      FROST AT MIDNIGHT [1798]

      FRANCE: AN ODE [1798]

      THE OLD MAN OF THE ALPS [1798]

      LEWTI; OR, THE CIRCASSIAN LOVE-CHAUNT [1798]

      FEARS IN SOLITUDE [1798]

      THE NIGHTINGALE [1798]

      THE THREE GRAVES [1798]

      THE BALLAD OF THE DARK LADIÉ [1798]

      KUBLA KHAN [1798]

      THE OVIDIAN ELEGIAC METRE [1799]

      SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY NATURAL [1799]

      LINES WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM AT ELBINGERODE, IN THE HARTZ FOREST [1799]

      LOVE [1799]

      DEJECTION: AN ODE [1802]

      THE PAINS OF SLEEP [1803]

      TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH [1807]

      TIME, REAL AND IMAGINARY [1812]

      SONGS: FROM ZAPOLYA [1815]

      LIMBO [1817]

      THE KNIGHT'S TOMB [1817?]

      ON DONNE'S POETRY [1818?]

      YOUTH AND AGE [1823, WITH ADDITIONS IN 1832]

      WORK WITHOUT HOPE [1825]

      THE PANG MORE SHARP THAN ALL [1825-26?]

      CONSTANCY TO AN IDEAL OBJECT [1826?]

      COLOGNE [1828]

      ALICE DU CLOS OR, THE FORKED TONGUE [1828?]

      LOVE'S APPARITION AND EVANISHMENT [1833]

      TO THE AUTHOR OF 'THE ROBBERS' [sonnet; 1794?]

      Schiller! That hour I would have wish'd to die.

      If thro' the shuddering midnight I had sent

      From the dark dungeon of the Tower time-rent

      That fearful voice, a famish'd Father's cry—

      Lest in some after moment aught more mean

      Might stamp me mortal! A triumphant shout

      Black Horror scream'd, and all her goblin rout

      Diminish'd shrunk from the more withering scene!

      Ah! Bard tremendous in sublimity!

      Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood

      Wandering at eve with finely-frenzied eye

      Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood!

      Awhile with mute awe gazing I would brood:

      Then weep aloud in a wild ecstacy!

      THE EOLIAN HARP [1795]

      My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclined

      Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is

      To sit beside our Cot, our Cot o'ergrown

      With white-flower'd Jasmin, and the broad-leav'd Myrtle,

      (Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love!)

      And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light,

      Slow saddenning round, and mark the star of eve

      Serenely brilliant (such should Wisdom be)

      Shine opposite! How exquisite the scents

      Snatch'd from yon bean-field! and the world so hush'd!

      The stilly murmur of the distant Sea

      Tells us of silence.

      And that simplest Lute,

      Placed length-ways in the clasping casement, hark!

      How by the desultory breeze caress'd,

      Like some coy maid half-yielding to her lover,

      It pours such sweet upbraiding, as must needs

      Tempt to repeat the wrong! And now, its strings

      Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes

      Over delicious surges sink and rise,

      Such a soft floating witchery of sound

      As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve

      Voyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land,

      Where Melodies round honey-dropping flowers,

      Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise,

      Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untam'd wing!

      O! the one Life within us and abroad,

      Which meets all motion and becomes its soul,

      A light in sound, a sound-like power in light,

      Rhythm in all thought, and joyance every where—

      Methinks, it should have been impossible

      Not to love all things in a world so fill'd;

      Where the breeze warbles, and the mute still air

      Is Music slumbering on her instrument.

      And thus, my Love! as on the midway slope

      Of yonder hill I stretch my limbs at noon,

      Whilst thro' my half-clos'd eye-lids I behold

      The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main,

      And tranquil muse upon tranquility;

      Full many a thought uncall'd and undetain'd,

      And many idle flitting phantasies,

      Traverse my indolent and passive brain,

      As wild and various, as the random gales

      That swell and flutter on this subject Lute!

      And what if all of animated nature

      Be but organic Harps diversly fram'd,

      That tremble into thought, as o'er them sweeps

      Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze,

      At once the Soul of each, and God of all?

      But thy more serious eye a mild reproof

      Darts, O belovéd Woman! nor such thoughts

      Dim and unhallow'd dost thou not reject,

      And biddest me walk humbly with my God.

      Meek Daughter in the Family of Christ!

      Well hast thou said and holily disprais'd

      These shapings of the unregenerate mind;

      Bubbles that glitter as they rise and break

      On vain Philosophy's aye-babbling spring.

      For never guiltless may I speak of him,

      The Incomprehensible! save when with awe

      I praise him, and with Faith that inly feels;

      Who with his saving mercies healéd me,

      A sinful and most miserable man,

      Wilder'd and dark, and gave me to possess

      Peace, and this Cot, and thee, heart-honour'd Maid!

      REFLECTIONS ON HAVING LEFT A PLACE OF RETIREMENT [1795]

      Sermoni propriora.—HORACE

      Low was our pretty Cot: our tallest Rose

      Peep'd at the chamber-window. We could hear

      At silent noon, and eve, and early morn,

      The Sea's faint murmur. In the open air

      Our Myrtles blossom'd; and across the porch

      Thick Jasmins twined: the little landscape round

      Was green and woody, and refresh'd the eye.

      It was a spot which you might aptly call

      The Valley of Seclusion! Once I saw

      (Hallowing his Sabbath-day by quiteness)

      A wealthy son of Commerce saunter by,

      Bristowa's citizen: methought, it calm'd

      His thirst of idle gold, and made him muse

      With wiser feelings: for he paus'd, and look'd

      With a pleas'd sadness, and gaz'd all around,

      Then eyed our Cottage, and gaz'd round again,

      And sigh'd, and said, it was a Blesséd Place.

      And we were bless'd. Oft with patient ear

      Long-listening to the viewless sky-lark's note

      (Viewless, or haply for a moment seen

      Gleaming on sunny wings) in whisper'd tones

      I said to my Belovéd, 'Such, sweet Girl!

      The inobtrusive song of Happiness,

      Unearthly minstrelsy! then only heard

      When the Soul seeks to hear; when all is hush'd,

      And the Heart listens!'

      But the time, when first

      From that low Dell, steep up the stony Mount

      I climb'd with perilous toil and reach'd the top,

      Oh! what a goodly scene! Here the bleak mount,

      The bare bleak mountain speckled thin with sheep;

      Grey clouds, that shadowing spot the sunny fields;

      And river, now with bushy rocks o'er-brow'd,

      Now winding bright and full, with naked banks;

      And seats, and lawns, the Abbey and the wood,

      And cots, and hamlets, and faint city-spire;

      The Channel there, the Islands and white sails,

      Dim coasts, and cloud-like hills, and shoreless Ocean—

      It seem'd like Omnipresence! God, methought,

      Had build him there a Temple: the whole World

      Seem'd imag'd in its vast circumference:

      No wish profan'd my overwhelméd heart.

      Blest hour! It was a luxury,—to be!

      Ah! quiet Dell! dear Cot, and Mount sublime!

      I was constrain'd to quit you. Was it right,

      While my unnumber'd brethren toil'd and bled,

      That I should dream away the entrusted hours

      On rose-leaf beds, pampering the coward heart

      With feelings all too delicate for use?

      Sweet is the tear that from some Howard's eye

      Drops on the cheek of one he lifts from earth:

      And he that works me good with unmov'd face,

      Does it but half: he chills me while he aids,

      My benefactor, not my brother man!

      Yet even this, this cold beneficience

      Praise, praise it, O my Soul! oft as thou scann'st

      The sluggard Pity's vision-weaving tribe!

      Who sigh for Wretchedness, yet shun the Wretched,

      Nursing in some delicious solitude

      Their slothful loves and dainty sympathies!

      I therefore go, and join head, heart, and hand,

      Active and firm, to fight the bloodless fight

      Of Science, Freedom, and the Truth in Christ.

      Yet oft when after honourable toil

      Rests the tir'd mind, and waking loves to dream,

      My spirit shall revisit thee, dear Cot!

      Thy Jasmin and thy window-peeping Rose,

      And Myrtles fearless of the mild sea-air.

      And I shall sigh fond wishes—sweet Abode!

      Ah!—had none greater! And that all had such!

      It might be so—but the time is not yet.

      Speed it, O Father! Let thy Kingdom come!

      SONNET: TO A FRIEND WHO ASKED, HOW I FELT WHEN THE NURSE FIRST PRESENTED MY INFANT TO ME [1796]

      Charles! my slow heart was only sad, when first

      I scann'd that face of feeble infancy:

      For dimly on my thoughtful spirit burst

      All I had been, and all my child might be!

      But when I saw it on its mother's arm,

      And hanging at her bosom (she the while

      Bent o'er its features with a tearful smile)

      Then I was thrill'd and melted, and most warm

      Impress'd a father's kiss: and all beguil'd

      Of dark remembrance and presageful fear,

      I seem'd to see an angel-form appear—

      'Twas even thine, belovéd woman mild!

      So for the mother's sake the child was dear,

      And dearer was the mother for the child.

      THE RAVEN [1797]

      A CHRISTMAS TALE, TOLD BY A SCHOOL-BOY TO HIS LITTLE BROTHERS AND SISTERS

      Underneath an old oak tree

      There was of swine a huge company

      That grunted as they crunched the mast:

      For that

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