Delphi Complete Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge (Illustrated) E-Book

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

• Herausgeber: Delphi Classics
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Serie: Delphi Poets Series
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Seitenzahl: 7410

Beschreibung

A leading poet, literary critic and philosopher who helped found the Romantic Movement in England, Samuel Taylor Coleridge has had an immense impact on world literature. This volume of the bestselling Delphi Poets Series presents the complete works of Coleridge, with beautiful illustrations, informative introductions and the usual Delphi bonus material. (4MB Version 1)

* Beautifully illustrated with images relating to Coleridge's life and works
* Concise introductions to the poetry and other works
* Excellent formatting of the poems
* THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER appears with Gustave DorÈís celebrated illustrations, vividly bringing the famous poem to life
* Special chronological and alphabetical contents tables for the poetry
* Easily locate the poems you want to read
* The poetry features line numbers and page breaks for each poem ñ ideal for students
* The complete plays, with individual contents tables
* Includes Coleridge's prose works - spend hours exploring the poet's theoretical and literary studies
* Features two bonus biographies - discover Coleridge's literary life
* Scholarly ordering of texts into chronological order and literary genres

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CONTENTS:

Major Works
THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER
CHRISTABEL
KUBLA KHAN
FRANCE AN ODE
LYRICAL BALLADS, WITH A FEW OTHER POEMS
LYRICAL BALLADS, WITH OTHER POEMS
THE CONVERSATION POEMS

The Complete Poems
LIST OF POEMS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER
LIST OF POEMS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER

The Plays
THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE
OSORIO
THE PICCOLOMINI
THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN
REMORSE
ZAPOLYA: A CHRISTMAS TALE IN TWO PARTS

The Prose
LIST OF PROSE WORKS

The Biographies
THE LIFE OF Samuel Taylor Coleridge by James Gillman
COLERIDGE by S. L. Bensusan

Please visit www.delphiclassics.com to browse through our range of exciting titles

Leseprobe

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

(1772-1834)

Contents

Major Works

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER

CHRISTABEL

KUBLA KHAN

FRANCE AN ODE

LYRICAL BALLADS, WITH A FEW OTHER POEMS

LYRICAL BALLADS, WITH OTHER POEMS

THE CONVERSATION POEMS

The Complete Poems

LIST OF POEMS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER

LIST OF POEMS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER

The Plays

THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE

OSORIO

THE PICCOLOMINI

THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN

REMORSE

ZAPOLYA: A CHRISTMAS TALE IN TWO PARTS

The Prose

LIST OF PROSE WORKS

The Biographies

THE LIFE OF SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE by James Gillman

COLERIDGE by S. L. Bensusan

© Delphi Classics 2013

Version 1

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

By Delphi Classics, 2013

NOTE

When reading poetry on an eReader, it is advisable to use a small font size, which will allow the lines of poetry to display correctly.

Major Works

Ottery St Mary, Devon — Coleridge’s birthplace. He was born in 1772 in the old school house, which was demolished in 1884.

The plaque that commemorates the site of the birthplace

The poet in his teenage years

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER

Illustrated by Gustave Doré

Composed in 1797–98 and published in 1798 in the first edition of Lyrical Ballads, this ballad is Coleridge’s longest and most celebrated poem. Now recognised as one of the leading works of the Romantic Movement in literature, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner narrates the experiences of a sailor, who has returned from a long sea voyage. In the poem, the Mariner stops a man who is on the way to a wedding ceremony and begins to narrate a story. The Wedding-Guest’s reaction turns from bemusement to impatience and fear to fascination as the Mariner’s story progresses.

The Mariner’s tale begins with his ship departing on its journey. Despite initial good fortune, the ship is driven south off course by a storm and eventually reaches Antarctica. An albatross appears and leads them out of the Antarctic, but even as the albatross is praised by the ship’s crew, the Mariner shoots and kills the bird, bringing about a life-long curse.

It is believed by some that the poem was inspired by James Cook’s second voyage of exploration (1772–1775) of the South Seas and the Pacific Ocean. Interestingly, Coleridge’s tutor, William Wales, was the astronomer on Cook’s flagship and knew the Captain well. On this second voyage Cook crossed three times into the Antarctic Circle to determine whether the fabled great southern continent existed.

According to William Wordsworth, the poem was inspired while he, Coleridge and his sister Dorothy were on a walking tour through the Quantock Hills in Somerset in the spring of 1798.  The discussion had turned to a book that Wordsworth was reading, A Voyage Round The World by Way of the Great South Sea (1726) by Captain George Shelvocke. In the book, a melancholy sailor, Simon Hatley, shoots a black albatross:

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner received mixed reviews from critics, and Coleridge was once told by the publisher that most of the book’s sales were to sailors who thought it was a naval songbook. Upon its release, the poem was criticised for being obscure and difficult to read. It was also criticised for using archaic words, not in keeping with Romanticism. Coleridge made several modifications to the poem over the years. In the second edition of Lyrical Ballads, published in 1800, he replaced many of the archaic words.

The poem concerns the theme of the violation of nature and its resulting psychological effects on the Mariner, who interprets the fates of his crew to be a direct result of his having killed the albatross. The poem is often read as a Christian allegory, with reference to the albatross signifying Christ’s death.  Other critics have suggested that the Ancient Mariner is a portrait of Coleridge himself, comparing the Mariner’s loneliness with Coleridge’s own feelings of solitude expressed in his letters and journals at the time.

Coleridge, close to the time of publication

Coleridge’s close friend William Wordsworth, aged 28

CONTENTS

PART THE FIRST.

PART THE SECOND.

PART THE THIRD.

PART THE FOURTH.

PART THE FIFTH.

PART THE SIXTH.

PART THE SEVENTH.

James Cook (1728-1779) was a British explorer, navigator, cartographer and Captain in the Royal Navy. His second journey to Antarctica was very likely a source of inspiration to Coleridge.

Albatrosses are large seabirds that range widely in the Southern Ocean and the North Pacific. It is from Coleridge’s poem that the usage of albatross as a metaphor is derived: someone with a burden or obstacle is said to have ‘an albatross around their neck’, the punishment given to the mariner that killed the albatross.

PART THE FIRST.

It is an ancient Mariner,And he stoppeth one of three.“By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?

“The Bridegroom’s doors are opened wide,And I am next of kin;The guests are met, the feast is set:May’st hear the merry din.”

He holds him with his skinny hand,“There was a ship,” quoth he.“Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!”Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

He holds him with his glittering eye — The Wedding-Guest stood still,And listens like a three years child:The Mariner hath his will.

The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:He cannot chuse but hear;And thus spake on that ancient man,The bright-eyed Mariner.

The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,Merrily did we dropBelow the kirk, below the hill,Below the light-house top.

The Sun came up upon the left,Out of the sea came he!And he shone bright, and on the rightWent down into the sea.

Higher and higher every day,Till over the mast at noon — The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast,For he heard the loud bassoon.

The bride hath paced into the hall,Red as a rose is she;Nodding their heads before her goesThe merry minstrelsy.

The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast,Yet he cannot chuse but hear;And thus spake on that ancient man,The bright-eyed Mariner.

And now the STORM-BLAST came, and heWas tyrannous and strong:He struck with his o’ertaking wings,And chased south along.

With sloping masts and dipping prow,As who pursued with yell and blowStill treads the shadow of his foeAnd forward bends his head,The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,And southward aye we fled.

And now there came both mist and snow,And it grew wondrous cold:And ice, mast-high, came floating by,As green as emerald.

And through the drifts the snowy cliftsDid send a dismal sheen:Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken — The ice was all between.

The ice was here, the ice was there,The ice was all around:It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,Like noises in a swound!

At length did cross an Albatross:Thorough the fog it came;As if it had been a Christian soul,We hailed it in God’s name.

It ate the food it ne’er had eat,And round and round it flew.The ice did split with a thunder-fit;The helmsman steered us through!

And a good south wind sprung up behind;The Albatross did follow,And every day, for food or play,Came to the mariners’ hollo!

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,It perched for vespers nine;Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,Glimmered the white Moon-shine.

“God save thee, ancient Mariner!From the fiends, that plague thee thus! — Why look’st thou so?” — With my cross-bowI shot the ALBATROSS.

PART THE SECOND.

The Sun now rose upon the right:Out of the sea came he,Still hid in mist, and on the leftWent down into the sea.

And the good south wind still blew behindBut no sweet bird did follow,Nor any day for food or playCame to the mariners’ hollo!

And I had done an hellish thing,And it would work ‘em woe:For all averred, I had killed the birdThat made the breeze to blow.Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slayThat made the breeze to blow!

Nor dim nor red, like God’s own head,The glorious Sun uprist:Then all averred, I had killed the birdThat brought the fog and mist.‘Twas right, said they, such birds to slay,That bring the fog and mist.

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,The furrow followed free:We were the first that ever burstInto that silent sea.

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,‘Twas sad as sad could be;And we did speak only to breakThe silence of the sea!

All in a hot and copper sky,The bloody Sun, at noon,Right up above the mast did stand,No bigger than the Moon.

Day after day, day after day,We stuck, nor breath nor motion;As idle as a painted shipUpon a painted ocean.

Water, water, every where,And all the boards did shrink;Water, water, every where,Nor any drop to drink.

The very deep did rot: O Christ!That ever this should be!Yea, slimy things did crawl with legsUpon the slimy sea.

About, about, in reel and routThe death-fires danced at night;The water, like a witch’s oils,Burnt green, and blue and white.

And some in dreams assured wereOf the spirit that plagued us so:Nine fathom deep he had followed usFrom the land of mist and snow.

And every tongue, through utter drought,Was withered at the root;We could not speak, no more than ifWe had been choked with soot.

Ah! well a-day! what evil looksHad I from old and young!Instead of the cross, the AlbatrossAbout my neck was hung.

PART THE THIRD.

There passed a weary time.  Each throatWas parched, and glazed each eye.A weary time! a weary time!How glazed each weary eye,When looking westward, I beheldA something in the sky.

At first it seemed a little speck,And then it seemed a mist:It moved and moved, and took at lastA certain shape, I wist.

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!And still it neared and neared:As if it dodged a water-sprite,It plunged and tacked and veered.

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,We could not laugh nor wail;Through utter drought all dumb we stood!I bit my arm, I sucked the blood,And cried, A sail! a sail!

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,Agape they heard me call:Gramercy! they for joy did grin,And all at once their breath drew in,As they were drinking all.

See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more!Hither to work us weal;Without a breeze, without a tide,She steadies with upright keel!

The western wave was all a-flameThe day was well nigh done!Almost upon the western waveRested the broad bright Sun;When that strange shape drove suddenlyBetwixt us and the Sun.

And straight the Sun was flecked with bars,(Heaven’s Mother send us grace!)As if through a dungeon-grate he peered,With broad and burning face.

Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)How fast she nears and nears!Are those her sails that glance in the Sun,Like restless gossameres!

Are those her ribs through which the SunDid peer, as through a grate?And is that Woman all her crew?Is that a DEATH? and are there two?Is DEATH that woman’s mate?

Her lips were red, her looks were free,Her locks were yellow as gold:Her skin was as white as leprosy,The Night-Mare LIFE-IN-DEATH was she,Who thicks man’s blood with cold.

The naked hulk alongside came,And the twain were casting dice;“The game is done!  I’ve won!  I’ve won!”Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

The Sun’s rim dips; the stars rush out:At one stride comes the dark;With far-heard whisper, o’er the sea.Off shot the spectre-bark.

We listened and looked sideways up!Fear at my heart, as at a cup,My life-blood seemed to sip!

The stars were dim, and thick the night,The steersman’s face by his lamp gleamed white;From the sails the dew did drip — Till clombe above the eastern barThe horned Moon, with one bright starWithin the nether tip.

One after one, by the star-dogged MoonToo quick for groan or sigh,Each turned his face with a ghastly pang,And cursed me with his eye.

Four times fifty living men,(And I heard nor sigh nor groan)With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,They dropped down one by one.

The souls did from their bodies fly, — They fled to bliss or woe!And every soul, it passed me by,Like the whizz of my CROSS-BOW!

PART THE FOURTH.

“I fear thee, ancient Mariner!I fear thy skinny hand!And thou art long, and lank, and brown,As is the ribbed sea-sand.

“I fear thee and thy glittering eye,And thy skinny hand, so brown.” — Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest!This body dropt not down.

Alone, alone, all, all alone,Alone on a wide wide sea!And never a saint took pity onMy soul in agony.

The many men, so beautiful!And they all dead did lie:And a thousand thousand slimy thingsLived on; and so did I.

I looked upon the rotting sea,And drew my eyes away;I looked upon the rotting deck,And there the dead men lay.

I looked to Heaven, and tried to pray:But or ever a prayer had gusht,A wicked whisper came, and mademy heart as dry as dust.

I closed my lids, and kept them close,And the balls like pulses beat;For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the skyLay like a load on my weary eye,And the dead were at my feet.

The cold sweat melted from their limbs,Nor rot nor reek did they:The look with which they looked on meHad never passed away.

An orphan’s curse would drag to HellA spirit from on high;But oh! more horrible than thatIs a curse in a dead man’s eye!Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse,And yet I could not die.

The moving Moon went up the sky,And no where did abide:Softly she was going up,And a star or two beside.

Her beams bemocked the sultry main,Like April hoar-frost spread;But where the ship’s huge shadow lay,The charmed water burnt alwayA still and awful red.

Beyond the shadow of the ship,I watched the water-snakes:They moved in tracks of shining white,And when they reared, the elfish lightFell off in hoary flakes.

Within the shadow of the shipI watched their rich attire:Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,They coiled and swam; and every trackWas a flash of golden fire.

O happy living things! no tongueTheir beauty might declare:A spring of love gushed from my heart,And I blessed them unaware:Sure my kind saint took pity on me,And I blessed them unaware.

The self same moment I could pray;And from my neck so freeThe Albatross fell off, and sankLike lead into the sea.

PART THE FIFTH.

Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing,Beloved from pole to pole!To Mary Queen the praise be given!She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven,That slid into my soul.

The silly buckets on the deck,That had so long remained,I dreamt that they were filled with dew;And when I awoke, it rained.

My lips were wet, my throat was cold,My garments all were dank;Sure I had drunken in my dreams,And still my body drank.

I moved, and could not feel my limbs:I was so light — almostI thought that I had died in sleep,And was a blessed ghost.

And soon I heard a roaring wind:It did not come anear;But with its sound it shook the sails,That were so thin and sere.

The upper air burst into life!And a hundred fire-flags sheen,To and fro they were hurried about!And to and fro, and in and out,The wan stars danced between.

And the coming wind did roar more loud,And the sails did sigh like sedge;And the rain poured down from one black cloud;The Moon was at its edge.

The thick black cloud was cleft, and stillThe Moon was at its side:Like waters shot from some high crag,The lightning fell with never a jag,A river steep and wide.

The loud wind never reached the ship,Yet now the ship moved on!Beneath the lightning and the MoonThe dead men gave a groan.

They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose,Nor spake, nor moved their eyes;It had been strange, even in a dream,To have seen those dead men rise.

The helmsman steered, the ship moved on;Yet never a breeze up blew;The mariners all ‘gan work the ropes,Where they were wont to do:They raised their limbs like lifeless tools — We were a ghastly crew.

The body of my brother’s son,Stood by me, knee to knee:The body and I pulled at one rope,But he said nought to me.

“I fear thee, ancient Mariner!”Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest!‘Twas not those souls that fled in pain,Which to their corses came again,But a troop of spirits blest:

For when it dawned — they dropped their arms,And clustered round the mast;Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths,And from their bodies passed.

Around, around, flew each sweet sound,Then darted to the Sun;Slowly the sounds came back again,Now mixed, now one by one.

Sometimes a-dropping from the skyI heard the sky-lark sing;Sometimes all little birds that are,How they seemed to fill the sea and airWith their sweet jargoning!

And now ‘twas like all instruments,Now like a lonely flute;And now it is an angel’s song,That makes the Heavens be mute.

It ceased; yet still the sails made onA pleasant noise till noon,A noise like of a hidden brookIn the leafy month of June,That to the sleeping woods all nightSingeth a quiet tune.

Till noon we quietly sailed on,Yet never a breeze did breathe:Slowly and smoothly went the ship,Moved onward from beneath.

Under the keel nine fathom deep,From the land of mist and snow,The spirit slid: and it was heThat made the ship to go.The sails at noon left off their tune,And the ship stood still also.

The Sun, right up above the mast,Had fixed her to the ocean:But in a minute she ‘gan stir,With a short uneasy motion — Backwards and forwards half her lengthWith a short uneasy motion.

Then like a pawing horse let go,She made a sudden bound:It flung the blood into my head,And I fell down in a swound.

How long in that same fit I lay,I have not to declare;But ere my living life returned,I heard and in my soul discernedTwo VOICES in the air.

“Is it he?” quoth one, “Is this the man?By him who died on cross,With his cruel bow he laid full low,The harmless Albatross.

“The spirit who bideth by himselfIn the land of mist and snow,He loved the bird that loved the manWho shot him with his bow.”

The other was a softer voice,As soft as honey-dew:Quoth he, “The man hath penance done,And penance more will do.”

PART THE SIXTH.

FIRST VOICE.

But tell me, tell me! speak again,Thy soft response renewing — What makes that ship drive on so fast?What is the OCEAN doing?SECOND VOICE.

Still as a slave before his lord,The OCEAN hath no blast;His great bright eye most silentlyUp to the Moon is cast —

If he may know which way to go;For she guides him smooth or grimSee, brother, see! how graciouslyShe looketh down on him.FIRST VOICE.

But why drives on that ship so fast,Without or wave or wind?SECOND VOICE.

The air is cut away before,And closes from behind.

Fly, brother, fly! more high, more highOr we shall be belated:For slow and slow that ship will go,When the Mariner’s trance is abated.

I woke, and we were sailing onAs in a gentle weather:‘Twas night, calm night, the Moon was high;The dead men stood together.

All stood together on the deck,For a charnel-dungeon fitter:All fixed on me their stony eyes,That in the Moon did glitter.

The pang, the curse, with which they died,Had never passed away:I could not draw my eyes from theirs,Nor turn them up to pray.

And now this spell was snapt: once moreI viewed the ocean green.And looked far forth, yet little sawOf what had else been seen —

Like one that on a lonesome roadDoth walk in fear and dread,And having once turned round walks on,And turns no more his head;Because he knows, a frightful fiendDoth close behind him tread.

But soon there breathed a wind on me,Nor sound nor motion made:Its path was not upon the sea,In ripple or in shade.

It raised my hair, it fanned my cheekLike a meadow-gale of spring — It mingled strangely with my fears,Yet it felt like a welcoming.

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,Yet she sailed softly too:Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — On me alone it blew.

Oh! dream of joy! is this indeedThe light-house top I see?Is this the hill? is this the kirk?Is this mine own countree!

We drifted o’er the harbour-bar,And I with sobs did pray — O let me be awake, my God!Or let me sleep alway.

The harbour-bay was clear as glass,So smoothly it was strewn!And on the bay the moonlight lay,And the shadow of the moon.

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less,That stands above the rock:The moonlight steeped in silentnessThe steady weathercock.

And the bay was white with silent light,Till rising from the same,Full many shapes, that shadows were,In crimson colours came.

A little distance from the prowThose crimson shadows were:I turned my eyes upon the deck — Oh, Christ! what saw I there!

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat,And, by the holy rood!A man all light, a seraph-man,On every corse there stood.

This seraph band, each waved his hand:It was a heavenly sight!They stood as signals to the land,Each one a lovely light:

This seraph-band, each waved his hand,No voice did they impart — No voice; but oh! the silence sankLike music on my heart.

But soon I heard the dash of oars;I heard the Pilot’s cheer;My head was turned perforce away,And I saw a boat appear.

The Pilot, and the Pilot’s boy,I heard them coming fast:Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joyThe dead men could not blast.

I saw a third — I heard his voice:It is the Hermit good!He singeth loud his godly hymnsThat he makes in the wood.He’ll shrieve my soul, he’ll wash awayThe Albatross’s blood.

PART THE SEVENTH.

This Hermit good lives in that woodWhich slopes down to the sea.How loudly his sweet voice he rears!He loves to talk with marineresThat come from a far countree.

He kneels at morn and noon and eve — He hath a cushion plump:It is the moss that wholly hidesThe rotted old oak-stump.

The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk,“Why this is strange, I trow!Where are those lights so many and fair,That signal made but now?”

“Strange, by my faith!” the Hermit said — “And they answered not our cheer!The planks looked warped! and see those sails,How thin they are and sere!I never saw aught like to them,Unless perchance it were

“Brown skeletons of leaves that lagMy forest-brook along;When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow,And the owlet whoops to the wolf below,That eats the she-wolf’s young.”

“Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look — (The Pilot made reply)I am a-feared”—”Push on, push on!”Said the Hermit cheerily.

The boat came closer to the ship,But I nor spake nor stirred;The boat came close beneath the ship,And straight a sound was heard.

Under the water it rumbled on,Still louder and more dread:It reached the ship, it split the bay;The ship went down like lead.

Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound,Which sky and ocean smote,Like one that hath been seven days drownedMy body lay afloat;But swift as dreams, myself I foundWithin the Pilot’s boat.

Upon the whirl, where sank the ship,The boat spun round and round;And all was still, save that the hillWas telling of the sound.

I moved my lips — the Pilot shriekedAnd fell down in a fit;The holy Hermit raised his eyes,And prayed where he did sit.

I took the oars: the Pilot’s boy,Who now doth crazy go,Laughed loud and long, and all the whileHis eyes went to and fro.“Ha! ha!” quoth he, “full plain I see,The Devil knows how to row.”

And now, all in my own countree,I stood on the firm land!The Hermit stepped forth from the boat,And scarcely he could stand.

“O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!”The Hermit crossed his brow.“Say quick,” quoth he, “I bid thee say — What manner of man art thou?”

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenchedWith a woeful agony,Which forced me to begin my tale;And then it left me free.

Since then, at an uncertain hour,That agony returns;And till my ghastly tale is told,This heart within me burns.

I pass, like night, from land to land;I have strange power of speech;That moment that his face I see,I know the man that must hear me:To him my tale I teach.

What loud uproar bursts from that door!The wedding-guests are there:But in the garden-bower the brideAnd bride-maids singing are:And hark the little vesper bell,Which biddeth me to prayer!

O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath beenAlone on a wide wide sea:So lonely ‘twas, that God himselfScarce seemed there to be.

O sweeter than the marriage-feast,‘Tis sweeter far to me,To walk together to the kirkWith a goodly company! —

To walk together to the kirk,And all together pray,While each to his great Father bends,Old men, and babes, and loving friends,And youths and maidens gay!

Farewell, farewell! but this I tellTo thee, thou Wedding-Guest!He prayeth well, who loveth wellBoth man and bird and beast.

He prayeth best, who loveth bestAll things both great and small;For the dear God who loveth usHe made and loveth all.

The Mariner, whose eye is bright,Whose beard with age is hoar,Is gone: and now the Wedding-GuestTurned from the bridegroom’s door.

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

CHRISTABEL

This long narrative poem was originally written in two parts, with the first composed in 1797 and the second in 1800. Coleridge planned three additional parts, but they were never completed. The poet had intended for the first two parts to be published in the 1800 edition of Lyrical Ballads, but on the advice of Wordsworth it was left out, resulting in Coleridge doubting his poetical abilities. The poem remained unpublished for several years. On his birthday in 1803, he wrote in his notebook that he intended “to finish Christabel” before the end of the year, though he would not meet this goal. Christabel was first published in a pamphlet in 1816, accompanying Kubla Khan and The Pains of Sleep.

The poem was composed using an accentual metrical system, based on the count of only accents: even though the number of syllables in each verse can vary from four to twelve, the number of accents per line never deviates from four, giving the poem its unusual melodic quality.

The poem concerns the eponymous character and her encounter with a stranger called Geraldine, who claims to have been abducted from her home by a band of rough men. The poem narrates how Christabel went into the woods to pray to the large oak tree, where she hears a strange noise. Upon looking behind the tree, she discovers Geraldine, who claims that she had been abducted from her home by men on horseback. Christabel pities her and takes her home with her, though various omens and supernatural portents indicate that not all is well.

Christabel has influenced many other writers, including Edgar Allan Poe’s poem The Sleeper (1831) and Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu’s 1872 novel Carmilla.

The first edition

CONTENTS

Preface

Part I

The Conclusion to Part I

Part II

Conclusion to Part II

Coleridge, 1795

Preface

The first part of the following poem was written in the year 1797, at Stowey, in the county of Somerset. The second part after my return from Germany, in the year 1800, at Keswick, Cumberland. It is probable that if the poem had been finished at either of the former periods, or if even the first and second part had been published in the year 1800, the impression of its originality would have been much greater than I dare at present expect. But for this, I have only my own indolence to blame. The dates are mentioned for the exclusive purpose of precluding charges of plagiarism or servile imitation from myself. For there is amongst us a set of critics, who seem to hold, that every possible thought and image is traditional; who have no notion that there are such things as fountains in the world, small as well as great and who would therefore charitably derive every rill they behold flowing, from a perforation made in some other man’s tank. I am confident however, that as far as the present poem is concerned, the celebrated poets whose writings I might be suspected of having imitated, either in particular passages, or in the tone and the spirit of the whole, would be among the first to vindicate me from the charge, and who, on any striking coincidence, would permit me to address them in this doggerel version of two monkish Latin hexameters.

Yes mine and it is likewise yours;But an if this will not do;Let it be mine, good friend for I Am the poorer of the two.

I have only to add, that the metre of the Christabel is not, properly speaking, irregular, though it may seem so from its being founded on a new principle: namely, that of counting in each line the accents, not the syllables. Though the latter may vary from seven to twelve, yet in each line the accents will be found to be only four. Nevertheless this occasional variation in number of syllables is not introduced wantonly, or for the mere ends of convenience, but in correspondence with some transition, in the nature of the imagery or passion.

Part I

‘Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,And the owls have awakened the crowing cock;Tu — whit! — Tu — whoo!And hark, again! the crowing cock,How drowsily it crew.

Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,Hath a toothless mastiff bitch;From her kennel beneath the rockShe maketh answer to the clock,Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour;   10Ever and aye, by shine and shower,Sixteen short howls, not over loud;Some say, she sees my lady’s shroud.

Is the night chilly and dark?The night is chilly, but not dark.The thin gray cloud is spread on high,It covers but not hides the sky.The moon is behind, and at the full;And yet she looks both small and dull.The night is chill, the cloud is gray:   20‘Tis a month before the month of MayAnd the Spring comes slowly up this way.

The lovely lady, Christabel,Whom her father loves so well,What makes her in the wood so late,A furlong from the castle gate?She had dreams all yesternightOf her own betrothe’d knight;And she in the midnight wood will prayFor the weal of her lover that’s far away.   30

She stole along, she nothing spoke,The sighs she heaved were soft and low,And naught was green upon the oakBut moss and rarest misletoe:She kneels beneath the huge oak tree,And in silence prayeth she.

The lady sprang up suddenly,The lovely lady, Christabel!It moaned as near, as near can be,But what it is she cannot tell. — 40On the other side it seems to be,Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree.

The night is chill; the forest bare;Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?There is not wind enough in the airTo move away the ringlet curlFrom the lovely lady’s cheek — There is not wind enough to twirlThe one red leaf, the last of its clan,That dances as often as dance it can,   50Hanging so light, and hanging so high,On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.

Hush, beating heart of Christabel!Jesu, Maria, shield her well!She folded her arms beneath her cloak,And stole to the other side of the oak.What sees she there?

There she sees a damsel bright,Drest in a silken robe of white,That shadowy in the moonlight shone:   60The neck that made that white robe wan,Her stately neck, and arms were bare;Her blue-veined feet unsandal’d were,And wildly glittered here and thereThe gems entangled in her hair.I guess, ‘twas frightful there to seeA lady so richly clad as she — Beautiful exceedingly!

Mary mother, save me now!(Said Christabel,) And who art thou?   70

The lady strange made answer meet,And her voice was faint and sweet: — Have pity on my sore distress,I scarce can speak for weariness:Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear!Said Christabel, How camest thou here?And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet,Did thus pursue her answer meet: —

My sire is of a noble line,And my name is Geraldine:   80Five warriors seized me yestermorn,Me, even me, a maid forlorn:They choked my cries with force and fright,And tied me on a palfrey white.The palfrey was as fleet as wind,And they rode furiously behind.

They spurred amain, their steeds were white:And once we crossed the shade of night.As sure as Heaven shall rescue me,I have no thought what men they be;   90Nor do I know how long it is(For I have lain entranced I wis)Since one, the tallest of the five,Took me from the palfrey’s back,A weary woman, scarce alive.Some muttered words his comrades spoke:He placed me underneath this oak;He swore they would return with haste;Whither they went — I cannot tell — I thought I heard, some minutes past,   100Sounds as of a castle bell.Stretch forth thy hand (thus ended she).And help a wretched maid to flee.

Then Christabel stretched forth her hand,And comforted fair Geraldine:O well, bright dame! may you commandThe service of Sir Leoline;And gladly our stout chivalryWill he send forth and friends withalTo guide and guard you safe and free   110Home to your noble father’s hall.

She rose: and forth with steps they passedThat strove to be, and were not, fast.Her gracious stars the lady blest,And thus spake on sweet Christabel:All our household are at rest,The hall as silent as the cell;Sir Leoline is weak in health,And may not well awakened be,But we will move as if in stealth,   120And I beseech your courtesy,This night, to share your couch with me.

They crossed the moat, and ChristabelTook the key that fitted well;A little door she opened straight,All in the middle of the gate;The gate that was ironed within and without,Where an army in battle array had marched out.The lady sank, belike through pain,And Christabel with might and main   130Lifted her up, a weary weight,Over the threshold of the gate:Then the lady rose again,And moved, as she were not in pain.

So free from danger, free from fear,They crossed the court: right glad they were.And Christabel devoutly criedTo the lady by her side,Praise we the Virgin all divineWho hath rescued thee from thy distress!   140Alas, alas! said Geraldine,I cannot speak for weariness.So free from danger, free from fear,They crossed the court: right glad they were.

Outside her kennel, the mastiff oldLay fast asleep, in moonshine cold.The mastiff old did not awake,Yet she an angry moan did make!And what can ail the mastiff bitch?Never till now she uttered yell   150Beneath the eye of Christabel.Perhaps it is the owlet’s scritch:For what can ail the mastiff bitch?

They passed the hall, that echoes still,Pass as lightly as you will!The brands were flat, the brands were dying,Amid their own white ashes lying;But when the lady passed, there cameA tongue of light, a fit of flame;And Christabel saw the lady’s eye,   160And nothing else saw she thereby,Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall,Which hung in a murky old niche in the wall.O softly tread, said Christabel,My father seldom sleepeth well.

Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare,And jealous of the listening airThey steal their way from stair to stair,Now in glimmer, and now in gloom,And now they pass the Baron’s room,   170As still as death, with stifled breath!And now have reached her chamber door;And now doth Geraldine press downThe rushes of the chamber floor.

The moon shines dim in the open air,And not a moonbeam enters here.But they without its light can seeThe chamber carved so curiously,Carved with figures strange and sweet,All made out of the carver’s brain,   180For a lady’s chamber meet:The lamp with twofold silver chainIs fastened to an angel’s feet.

The silver lamp burns dead and dim;But Christabel the lamp will trim.She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright,And left it swinging to and fro,While Geraldine, in wretched plight,Sank down upon the floor below.

O weary lady, Geraldine,   190I pray you, drink this cordial wine!It is a wine of virtuous powers;My mother made it of wild flowers.

And will your mother pity me,Who am a maiden most forlorn?Christabel answered — Woe is me!She died the hour that I was born.I have heard the grey-haired friar tellHow on her death-bed she did say,That she should hear the castle-bell   200Strike twelve upon my wedding-day.O mother dear! that thou wert here!I would, said Geraldine, she were!

But soon with altered voice, said she — ‘Off, wandering mother! Peak and pine!I have power to bid thee flee.”Alas! what ails poor Geraldine?Why stares she with unsettled eye?Can she the bodiless dead espy?And why with hollow voice cries she,“Off, woman, off! this hour is mine — 210Though thou her guardian spirit be,Off, woman, off! ‘tis given to me.”

Then Christabel knelt by the lady’s side,And raised to heaven her eyes so blue — Alas! said she, this ghastly ride — Dear lady! it hath wildered you!The lady wiped her moist cold brow,And faintly said, “‘tis over now!”

Again the wild-flower wine she drank:   220Her fair large eyes ‘gan glitter bright,And from the floor whereon she sank,The lofty lady stood upright:She was most beautiful to see,Like a lady of a far countre’e.

And thus the lofty lady spake — “All they who live in the upper sky,Do love you, holy Christabel!And you love them, and for their sakeAnd for the good which me befel,   230Even I in my degree will try,Fair maiden, to requite you well.But now unrobe yourself; for IMust pray, ere yet in bed I lie.”

Quoth Christabel, So let it be!And as the lady bade, did she.Her gentle limbs did she undress,And lay down in her loveliness.

But through her brain of weal and woeSo many thoughts moved to and fro,   240That vain it were her lids to close;So half-way from the bed she rose,And on her elbow did reclineTo look at the lady Geraldine.

Beneath the lamp the lady bowed,And slowly rolled her eyes around;Then drawing in her breath aloud,Like one that shuddered, she unboundThe cincture from beneath her breast:Her silken robe, and inner vest,   250Dropt to her feet, and full in view,Behold! her bosom and half her side — A sight to dream of, not to tell!O shield her! shield sweet Christabel!

Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs;Ah! what a stricken look was hers!Deep from within she seems half-wayTo lift some weight with sick assay,And eyes the maid and seeks delay;Then suddenly, as one defied   260Collects herself in scorn and pride,And lay down by the Maiden’s side! — And in her arms the maid she took,Ah wel-a-day!And with low voice and doleful lookThese words did say:“In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell,Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel!Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow,This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow;   270But vainly thou warrest,  For this is alone inThy power to declare,  That in the dim forestThou heard’st a low moaning,And found’st a bright lady, surpassingly fair;And didst bring her home with thee in love and in charity,To shield her and shelter her from the damp air.”

The Conclusion to Part I

It was a lovely sight to seeThe lady Christabel, when she   280Was praying at the old oak tree.Amid the jagged shadowsOf mossy leafless boughs,Kneeling in the moonlight,To make her gentle vows;Her slender palms together prest,Heaving sometimes on her breast;Her face resigned to bliss or bale — Her face, oh call it fair not pale,And both blue eyes more bright than clear,   290Each about to have a tear.

With open eyes (ah woe is me!)Asleep, and dreaming fearfully,Fearfully dreaming, yet, I wis,Dreaming that alone, which is — O sorrow and shame! Can this be she,The lady, who knelt at the old oak tree?And lo! the worker of these harms,That holds the maiden in her arms,Seems to slumber still and mild,As a mother with her child.   300

A star hath set, a star hath risen,O Geraldine! since arms of thineHave been the lovely lady’s prison.O Geraldine! one hour was thine — Thou’st had thy will! By tairn and rill,The night-birds all that hour were still.But now they are jubilant anew,From cliff and tower, tu — whoo! to — whoo!Tu — whoo! tu — whoo! from wood and fell!   310

And see! the lady ChristabelGathers herself from out her trance;Her limbs relax, her countenanceGrows sad and soft; the smooth thin lidsClose o’er her eyes; and tears she sheds — Large tears that leave the lashes bright!And oft the while she seems to smileAs infants at a sudden light!

Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep,Like a youthful hermitess,   320Beauteous in a wilderness,Who, praying always, prays in sleep.And, if she move unquietly,Perchance, ‘tis but the blood so freeComes back and tingles in her feet.No doubt, she hath a vision sweet.What if her guardian spirit ‘twere,What if she knew her mother near;But this she knows, in joys and woes,That saints will aid if men will call:   330For the blue sky bends over all!

Part II

Each matin bell, the Baron saith,Knells us back to a world of death.These words Sir Leoline first said,When he rose and found his lady dead:These words Sir Leoline will sayMany a morn to his dying day!

And hence the custom and law beganThat still at dawn the sacristan,Who duly pulls the heavy bell,   340Five and forty beads must tellBetween each stroke — a warning knell,Which not a soul can choose but hearFrom Bratha Head to Wyndermere.

Saith Bracy the bard, So let it knell!And let the drowsy sacristanStill count as slowly as he can!There is no lack of such, I ween,As well fill up the space between.In Langdale Pike and Witch’s Lair,And Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent,   350With ropes of rock and bells of airThree sinful sextons’ ghosts are pent,Who all give back, one after t’other,The death-note to their living brother;And oft too, by the knell offended,Just as their one! two! three! is ended,The devil mocks the doleful taleWith a merry peal from Borodale.

The air is still! through mist and cloud   360That merry peal comes ringing loud;And Geraldine shakes off her dread,And rises lightly from the bed;Puts on her silken vestments white,And tricks her hair in lovely plight,And nothing doubting of her spellAwakens the lady Christabel.“Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel?I trust that you have rested well.”

And Christabel awoke and spied   370The same who lay down by her side — O rather say, the same whom sheRaised up beneath the old oak tree!Nay, fairer yet! and yet more fair!For she belike hath drunken deepOf all the blessedness of sleep!And while she spake, her looks, her airSuch gentle thankfulness declare,That so it seemed’ her girded vestsGrew tight beneath her heaving breasts.   380“Sure I have sinn’d!” said Christabel,“Now heaven be praised if all be well!”And in low faltering tones, yet sweet,Did she the lofty lady greetWith such perplexity of mindAs dreams too lively leave behind.

So quickly she rose, and quickly arrayedHer maiden limbs, and having prayedThat He, who on the cross did groan,Might wash away her sins unknown,   390She forthwith led fair GeraldineTo meet her sire, Sir Leoline.

The lovely maid and the lady tallAre pacing both into the hall,And pacing on through page and groom,Enter the Baron’s presence-room.

The Baron rose, and while he prestHis gentle daughter to his breast,With cheerful wonder in his eyesThe lady Geraldine espies,   400And gave such welcome to the same,As might beseem so bright a dame!

But when he heard the lady’s tale,And when she told her father’s name,Why waxed Sir Leoline so pale,Murmuring o’er the name again,Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine?Alas! they had been friends in youth;

But whispering tongues can poison truth;And constancy lives in realms above;   410And life is thorny; and youth is vain;And to be wroth with one we loveDoth work like madness in the brain.And thus it chanced, as I divine,With Roland and Sir Leoline.Each spake words of high disdainAnd insult to his heart’s best brother:They parted — ne’er to meet again!But never either found anotherTo free the hollow heart from paining — 420They stood aloof, the scars remaining,Like cliffs which had been rent asunder;A dreary sea now flows between; — But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,Shall wholly do away, I ween,The marks of that which once hath been.

Sir Leoline, a moment’s space,Stood gazing on the damsel’s face:And the youthful Lord of TryermaineCame back upon his heart again.   430

O then the Baron forgot his age,His noble heart swelled high with rage;He swore by the wounds in Jesu’s sideHe would proclaim it far and wide,With trump and solemn heraldry,That they, who thus had wronged the dame,Were base as spotted infamy!“And if they dare deny the same,My herald shall appoint a week,And let the recreant traitors seek   440My tourney court — that there and thenI may dislodge their reptile soulsFrom the bodies and forms of men!”He spake: his eye in lighning rolls!For the lady was ruthlessly seized; and he kennedIn the beautiful lady the child of his friend!

And now the tears were on his face,And fondly in his arms he tookFair Geraldine, who met the embrace,Prolonging it with joyous look.   450Which when she viewed, a vision fellUpon the soul of Christabel,The vision of fear, the touch and pain!She shrunk and shuddered, and saw again — (Ah, woe is me!  Was it for thee,Thou gentle maid! such sights to see?)Again she saw that bosom old,Again she felt that bosom cold,And drew in her breath with a hissing sound:Whereat the Knight turned wildly round,   460And nothing saw, but his own sweet maidWith eyes upraised, as one that prayed.

The touch, the sight, had passed away,And in its stead that vision blest,Which comforted her after-restWhile in the lady’s arms she lay,Had put a rapture in her breast,And on her lips and o’er her eyesSpread smiles like light! With new surprise,“What ails then my belove’d child?”   470The Baron said — His daughter mildMade answer, “All will yet be well!”I ween, she had no power to tellAught else: so mighty was the spell.

Yet he, who saw this Geraldine,Had deemed her sure a thing divine:Such sorrow with such grace she blended,As if she feared she had offendedSweet Christabel, that gentle maid!And with such lowly tones she prayed   480She might be sent without delayHome to her father’s mansion.       “Nay!Nay, by my soul!” said Leoline.“Ho!  Bracy the bard, the charge be thine!Go thou, with music sweet and loud,And take two steeds with trappings proud,And take the youth whom thou lov’st bestTo bear thy harp, and learn thy song,And clothe you both in solemn vest,And over the mountains haste along,   490Lest wandering folk, that are abroad,Detain you on the valley road.And when he has crossed the Irthing flood,My merry bard! he hastes, he hastesUp Knorren Moor, through Halegarth Wood,And reaches soon that castle goodWhich stands and threatens Scotland’s wastes.”

“Bard Bracy! bard Bracy! your horses are fleet,Ye must ride up the hall, your music so sweet,More loud than your horses’ echoing feet!   500And loud and loud to Lord Roland call,Thy daughter is safe in Langdale hall!Thy beautiful daughter is safe and free — Sir Leoline greets thee thus through me!He bids thee come without delayWith all thy numerous arrayAnd take thy lovely daughter home:And he will meet thee on the wayWith all his numerous arrayWhite with their panting palfreys’ foam:   510And, by mine honour! I will say,That I repent me of the dayWhen I spake words of fierce disdainTo Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine! —  — For since that evil hour hath flown,Many a summer’s sun hath shone;Yet ne’er found I a friend againLike Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine.”

The lady fell, and clasped his knees,Her face upraised, her eyes o’erflowing;   520And Bracy replied, with faltering voice,His gracious Hail on all bestowing! — “Thy words, thou sire of Christabel,Are sweeter than my harp can tell;Yet might I gain a boon of thee,This day my journey should not be,So strange a dream hath come to me,That I had vowed with music loudTo clear yon wood from thing unblest,Warned by a vision in my rest!   530For in my sleep I saw that dove,That gentle bird, whom thou dost love,And call’st by thy own daughter’s name — Sir Leoline! I saw the sameFluttering, and uttering fearful moan,Among the green herbs in the forest alone.Which when I saw and when I heard,I wonder’d what might ail the bird;For nothing near it could I see,Save the grass and green herbs underneath the old tree.”    540

“And in my dream methought I wentTo search out what might there be found;And what the sweet bird’s trouble meant,That thus lay fluttering on the ground.I went and peered, and could descryNo cause for her distressful cry;But yet for her dear lady’s sakeI stooped, methought, the dove to take,When lo!  I saw a bright green snakeCoiled around its wings and neck.   550Green as the herbs on which it couched,Close by the dove’s its head it crouched;And with the dove it heaves and stirs,Swelling its neck as she swelled hers!I woke; it was the midnight hour,The clock was echoing in the tower;But though my slumber was gone by,This dream it would not pass away — It seems to live upon my eye!And thence I vowed this self-same day   560With music strong and saintly songTo wander through the forest bare,Lest aught unholy loiter there.”

Thus Bracy said: the Baron, the while,Half-listening heard him with a smile;Then turned to Lady Geraldine,His eyes made up of wonder and love;And said in courtly accents fine,“Sweet maid, Lord Roland’s beauteous dove,With arms more strong than harp or song,   570Thy sire and I will crush the snake!”He kissed her forehead as he spake,And Geraldine in maiden wiseCasting down her large bright eyes,With blushing cheek and courtesy fineShe turned her from Sir Leoline;Softly gathering up her train,That o’er her right arm fell again;And folded her arms across her chest,And couched her head upon her breast,   580And looked askance at Christabel — Jesu, Maria, shield her well!

A snake’s small eye blinks dull and shy;And the lady’s eyes they shrunk in her head,Each shrunk up to a serpent’s eye,And with somewhat of malice, and more of dread,At Christabel she looked askance! — One moment — and the sight was fled!But Christabel in dizzy tranceStumbling on the unsteady groundShuddered aloud, with a hissing sound;   590And Geraldine again turned round,And like a thing, that sought relief,Full of wonder and full of grief,She rolled her large bright eyes divineWildly on Sir Leoline.

The maid, alas! her thoughts are gone,She nothing sees — no sight but one!The maid, devoid of guile and sin,I know not how, in fearful wise,   600So deeply had she drunken inThat look, those shrunken serpent eyes,That all her features were resignedTo this sole image in her mind:And passively did imitateThat look of dull and treacherous hate!And thus she stood, in dizzy trance,Still picturing that look askanceWith forced unconscious sympathyFull before her father’s view — 610As far as such a look could beIn eyes so innocent and blue!

And when the trance was o’er, the maidPaused awhile, and inly prayed:Then falling at the Baron’s feet,“By my mother’s soul do I entreatThat thou this woman send away!”She said: and more she could not say:For what she knew she could not tell,O’er-mastered by the mighty spell.   620

Why is thy cheek so wan and wild,Sir Leoline? Thy only childLies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride,So fair, so innocent, so mild;The same, for whom thy lady died!O by the pangs of her dear motherThink thou no evil of thy child!For her, and thee, and for no other,She prayed the moment ere she died:   630Prayed that the babe for whom she died,Might prove her dear lord’s joy and pride! That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled,Sir Leoline! And wouldst thou wrong thy only child,Her child and thine;

Within the Baron’s heart and brainIf thoughts, like these, had any share,They only swelled his rage and pain,And did but work confusion there.His heart was cleft with pain and rage,   640His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were wild,Dishonoured thus in his old age;Dishonoured by his only child,And all his hospitalityTo the wronged daughter of his friendBy more than woman’s jealousyBrought thus to a disgraceful end — He rolled his eye with stern regardUpon the gentle minstrel bard,And said in tones abrupt, austere — 650“Why, Bracy! dost thou loiter here?I bade thee hence!”  The bard obeyed;And turning from his own sweet maid,The age’d knight, Sir Leoline,Led forth the lady Geraldine!

Conclusion to Part II

A little child, a limber elf,Singing, dancing to itself,A fairy thing with red round cheeks,That always finds, and never seeks,Makes such a vision to the sight   660As fills a father’s eyes with light;And pleasures flow in so thick and fastUpon his heart, that he at lastMust needs express his love’s excessWith words of unmeant bitterness.Perhaps ‘tis pretty to force togetherThoughts so all unlike each other;To mutter and mock a broken charm,To dally with wrong that does no harm.Perhaps ‘tis tender too and pretty   670At each wild word to feel withinA sweet recoil of love and pity.And what, if in a world of sin(O sorrow and shame should this be true!)Such giddiness of heart and brainComes seldom save from rage and pain,So talks as it’s most used to do.

KUBLA KHAN

Completed in 1797, though not published until 1816, Kubla Khan was composed one night after Coleridge experienced an opium influenced dream, after reading a work describing Xanadu, the summer palace of the Mongol ruler and Emperor of China Kublai Khan, as the poet explains in his Preface