Samuel Taylor Coleridge (सैमुअल टेलर कोलरिज)

Beneath the blaze of a tropical sun the mountain peaks are the Thrones of,Frost, through the absence of objects to reflect the rays. `What no one.

with us shares, seems scarce our own.' The presence of a ONE,The best belov'd, who loveth me the best.

is for the heart, what the supporting air from within is for the hollow,globe with its suspended car. Deprive it of this, and all without, that.

would have buoyed it aloft even to the seat of the gods, becomes a burthen,and crushes it into flatness.

II,The finer the sense for the beautiful and the lovely, and the fairer and.

lovelier the object presented to the sense ; the more exquisite the,individual's capacity of joy, and the more ample his means and.

opportunities of enjoyment, the more heavily will he feel the ache of,solitariness, the more unsubstantial becomes the feast spread around him.

What matters it, whether in fact the viands and the ministering graces are,shadowy or real, to him who has not hand to grasp nor arms to embrace them.

Hope, Imagination, honourable Aims,Free Commune with the choir that cannot die.

Science and Song, delight in little things,The buoyant child surviving in the man.

Fields, forests, ancient mountains, ocean, sky,With all their voices--O dare I accuse.

My earthly lot as guilty of my spleen,Or call my destiny niggard ! O no ! no !.

It is her largeness, and her overflow,Which being incomplete, disquieteth me so !.

IV,For never touch of gladness stirs my heart.

But tim'rously beginning to rejoice,Like a blind Arab, that from sleep doth start.

In lonesome tent, I listen for thy voice,Belovйd ! 'tis not thine ; thou art not there !.

Then melts the bubble into idle air,And wishing without hope I restlessly despair.

V,The mother with anticipated glee.

Smiles o'er the child, that, standing by her chair,And flatt'ning its round cheek upon her knee.

Looks up, and doth its rosy lips prepare,To mock the coming sounds. At that sweet sight.

She hears her own voice with a new delight,And if the babe perchance should lisp the notes aright.

VI,Then is she tenfold gladder than before !.

But should disease or chance the darling take,What then avail those songs, which sweet of yore.

Were only sweet for their sweet echo's sake ?,Dear maid ! no prattler at a mother's knee.

Was e'er so dearly prized as I prize thee,Why was I made for Love and Love denied to me ?.

Ere the birth of my life, if I wished it or no,No question was asked me--it could not be so !.

If the life was the question, a thing sent to try,And to live on be YES; what can NO be ? to die.

NATURE'S ANSWER,Is't returned, as 'twas sent ? Is't no worse for the wear ?.

Think first, what you ARE ! Call to mind what you WERE !,I gave you innocence, I gave you hope.

Gave health, and genius, and an ample scope,Return you me guilt, lethargy, despair ?.

Make out the invent'ry ; inspect, compare !,Then die--if die you dare !.

I,THERE is one Mind, one omnipresent Mind.

Omnific. His most holy name is Love,Truth of subliming import! with the which.

Who feeds and saturates his constant soul,He from his small particular orbit flies.

With blest outstarting! From himself he flies,Stands in the sun, and with no partial gaze.

Views all creation; and he loves it all,And blesses it, and calls it very good!.

This is indeed to dwell with the Most High!,Cherubs and rapture-trembling Seraphim.

Can press no nearer to the Almighty’s throne,But that we roam unconscious, or with hearts.

Unfeeling of our universal Sire,And that in His vast family no Cain.

Injures uninjured (in her best-aimed blow,Victorious Murder a blind Suicide).

Haply for this some younger Angel now,Looks down on Human Nature: and, behold!.

A sea of blood bestrewed with wrecks, where mad,Embattling Interests on each other rush.

With unhelmed rage!,’Tis the sublime of man.

Our noontide Majesty, to know ourselves,Parts and proportions of one wondrous whole!.

This fraternizes man, this constitutes,Our charities and bearings. But ’tis God.

Diffused through all, that doth make all one whole,This the worst superstition, him except.

Aught to desire, Supreme Reality!,The plenitude and permanence of bliss!.

Made blind by lusts, disherited of soul,No common centre Man, no common sire.

Knoweth! A sordid solitary thing,Mid countless brethren with a lonely heart.

Through courts and cities the smooth savage roams,Feeling himself, his own low self the whole.

When he by sacred sympathy might make,The whole one Self! Self, that no alien knows!.

Self, far diffused as Fancy’s wing can travel!,Self, spreading still! Oblivious of its own.

Yet all of all possessing! This is Faith!,This the Messiah’s destined victory!.

A green and silent spot, amid the hills,A small and silent dell ! O'er stiller place.

No singing sky-lark ever poised himself,The hills are heathy, save that swelling slope.

Which hath a gay and gorgeous covering on,All golden with the never-bloomless furze.

Which now blooms most profusely : but the dell,Bathed by the mist, is fresh and delicate.

As vernal corn-field, or the unripe flax,When, through its half-transparent stalks, at eve.

The level sunshine glimmers with green light,Oh ! 'tis a quiet spirit-healing nook !.

Which all, methinks, would love ; but chiefly he,The humble man, who, in his youthful years.

Knew just so much of folly, as had made,His early manhood more securely wise !.

Here he might lie on fern or withered heath,While from the singing lark (that sings unseen.

The minstrelsy that solitude loves best),And from the sun, and from the breezy air.

Sweet influences trembled o'er his frame,And he, with many feelings, many thoughts.

Made up a meditative joy, and found,Religious meanings in the forms of Nature !.

And so, his senses gradually wrapt,In a half sleep, he dreams of better worlds.

And dreaming hears thee still, O singing lark,That singest like an angel in the clouds !.

My God ! it is a melancholy thing,For such a man, who would full fain preserve.

His soul in calmness, yet perforce must feel,For all his human brethren--O my God !.

It weighs upon the heart, that he must think,What uproar and what strife may now be stirring.

This way or that way o'er these silent hills--,Invasion, and the thunder and the shout.

And all the crash of onset ; fear and rage,And undetermined conflict--even now.

Even now, perchance, and in his native isle,Carnage and groans beneath this blessed sun !.

We have offended, Oh ! my countrymen !,We have offended very grievously.

And been most tyrannous. From east to west,A groan of accusation pierces Heaven !.

The wretched plead against us ; multitudes,Countless and vehement, the sons of God.

Our brethren ! Like a cloud that travels on,Steamed up from Cairo's swamps of pestilence.

Even so, my countrymen ! have we gone forth,And borne to distant tribes slavery and pangs.

And, deadlier far, our vices, whose deep taint,With slow perdition murders the whole man.

His body and his soul ! Meanwhile, at home,All individual dignity and power.

Engulfed in Courts, Committees, Institutions,Associations and Societies.

A vain, speach-mouthing, speech-reporting Guild,One Benefit-Club for mutual flattery.

We have drunk up, demure as at a grace,Pollutions from the brimming cup of wealth.

Contemptuous of all honourable rule,Yet bartering freedom and the poor man's life.

For gold, as at a market ! The sweet words,Of Christian promise, words that even yet.

Might stem destruction, were they wisely preached,Are muttered o'er by men, whose tones proclaim.

How flat and wearisome they feel their trade,Rank scoffers some, but most too indolent.

To deem them falsehoods or to know their truth,Oh ! blasphemous ! the Book of Life is made.

A superstitious instrument, on which,We gabble o'er the oaths we mean to break.

For all must swear--all and in every place,College and wharf, council and justice-court.

All, all must swear, the briber and the bribed,Merchant and lawyer, senator and priest.

The rich, the poor, the old man and the young,All, all make up one scheme of perjury.

That faith doth reel ; the very name of God,Sounds like a juggler's charm ; and, bold with joy.

Forth from his dark and lonely hiding-place,(Portentious sight !) the owlet Atheism.

Sailing on obscene wings athwart the noon,Drops his blue-fringйd lids, and holds them close.

And hooting at the glorious sun in Heaven,Cries out, `Where is it ?'.

[Image][Image][Image] Thankless too for peace,(Peace long preserved by fleets and perilous seas).

Secure from actual warfare, we have loved,To swell the war-whoop, passionate for war !.

Alas ! for ages ignorant of all,Its ghastlier workings, (famine or blue plague.

Battle, or siege, or flight through wintry snows,),We, this whole people, have been clamorous.

For war and bloodshed ; animating sports,The which we pay for as a thing to talk of.