The Complete Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge: Poems, Plays, Essays, Lectures, Autobiography & Personal Letters (Illustrated). Samuel Taylor Coleridge

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">       Enclosed when he was stronger;

       But what avails the land to them,

       Which they can till no longer?

      Few months of life has he in store,

       As he to you will tell,

       For still, the more he works, the more

       His poor old ancles swell.

       My gentle reader, I perceive

       How patiently you’ve waited,

       And I’m afraid that you expect

       Some tale will be related.

      O reader! had you in your mind

       Such stores as silent thought can bring,

       O gentle reader! you would find

       A tale in every thing.

       What more I have to say is short,

       I hope you’ll kindly take it;

       It is no tale; but should you think,

       Perhaps a tale you’ll make it.

      One summer-day I chanced to see

       This old man doing all he could

       About the root of an old tree,

       A stump of rotten wood.

       The mattock totter’d in his hand;

       So vain was his endeavour

       That at the root of the old tree

       He might have worked for ever.

      “You’re overtasked, good Simon Lee,

       Give me your tool” to him I said;

       And at the word right gladly he

       Received my proffer’d aid.

       I struck, and with a single blow

       The tangled root I sever’d,

       At which the poor old man so long

       And vainly had endeavour’d.

      The tears into his eyes were brought,

       And thanks and praises seemed to run

       So fast out of his heart, I thought

       They never would have done.

       — I’ve heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds

       With coldness still returning.

       Alas! the gratitude of men

       Has oftner left me mourning.

ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS SHEWING HOW THE ART OF LYING MAY BE TAUGHT

       Table of Contents

      I have a boy of five years old,

       His face is fair and fresh to see;

       His limbs are cast in beauty’s mould,

       And dearly he loves me.

      One morn we stroll’d on our dry walk,

       Our quiet house all full in view,

       And held such intermitted talk

       As we are wont to do.

      My thoughts on former pleasures ran;

       I thought of Kilve’s delightful shore,

       My pleasant home, when spring began,

       A long, long year before.

      A day it was when I could bear

       To think, and think, and think again;

       With so much happiness to spare,

       I could not feel a pain.

      My boy was by my side, so slim

       And graceful in his rustic dress!

       And oftentimes I talked to him,

       In very idleness.

      The young lambs ran a pretty race;

       The morning sun shone bright and warm;

       “Kilve,” said I, “was a pleasant place,

       “And so is Liswyn farm.

      “My little boy, which like you more,”

       I said and took him by the arm —

       “Our home by Kilve’s delightful shore,

       “Or here at Liswyn farm?”

      “And tell me, had you rather be,”

       I said and held him by the arm,

       “At Kilve’s smooth shore by the green sea,

       “Or here at Liswyn farm?”

      In careless mood he looked at me,

       While still I held him by the arm,

       And said, “At Kilve I’d rather be

       “Than here at Liswyn farm.”

      “Now, little Edward, say why so;

       My little Edward, tell me why;”

       “I cannot tell, I do not know,”

       “Why this is strange,” said I.

      “For, here are woods and green-hills warm;

       “There surely must some reason be

       “Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm

       “For Kilve by the green sea.”

      At this, my boy, so fair and slim,

       Hung down his head, nor made reply;

       And five times did I say to him,

       “Why? Edward, tell me why?”

      His head he raised — there was in sight,

       It caught his eye, he saw it plain —

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