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

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       His seat beneath the honeyed sycamore

       When the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire;

       When market-morning came, the neat attire

       With which, though bent on haste, myself I deck’d;

       My watchful dog, whose starts of furious ire,

       When stranger passed, so often I have check’d;

       The redbreast known for years, which at my casement peck’d.

      The suns of twenty summers danced along, —

       Ah! little marked, how fast they rolled away:

       Then rose a stately hall our woods among,

       And cottage after cottage owned its sway.

       No joy to see a neighbouring house, or stray

       Through pastures not his own, the master took;

       My Father dared his greedy wish gainsay;

       He loved his old hereditary nook,

       And ill could I the thought of such sad parting brook.

      But when he had refused the proffered gold,

       To cruel injuries he became a prey,

       Sore traversed in whate’er he bought and sold:

       His troubles grew upon him day by day,

       Till all his substance fell into decay.

       His little range of water was denied;

       All but the bed where his old body lay.

       All, all was seized, and weeping, side by side,

       We sought a home where we uninjured might abide.

      Can I forget that miserable hour,

       When from the last hill-top, my sire surveyed,

       Peering above the trees, the steeple tower

       That on his marriage-day sweet music made?

       Till then he hoped his bones might there be laid,

       Close by my mother in their native bowers:

       Bidding me trust in God, he stood and prayed, —

       I could not pray: — through tears that fell in showers,

       Glimmer’d our dear-loved home, alas! no longer ours!

      There was a youth whom I had loved so long.

       That when I loved him not I cannot say.

       ’Mid the green mountains many and many a song

       We two had sung, like gladsome birds in May.

       When we began to tire of childish play

       We seemed still more and more to prize each other;

       We talked of marriage and our marriage day;

       And I in truth did love him like a brother,

       For never could I hope to meet with such another.

      His father said, that to a distant town

       He must repair, to ply the artist’s trade.

       What tears of bitter grief till then unknown?

       What tender vows our last sad kiss delayed!

       To him we turned: — we had no other aid.

       Like one revived, upon his neck I wept,

       And her whom he had loved in joy, he said

       He well could love in grief: his faith he kept;

       And in a quiet home once more my father slept.

      Four years each day with daily bread was blest,

       By constant toil and constant prayer supplied.

       Three lovely infants lay upon my breast;

       And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed,

       And knew not why. My happy father died

       When sad distress reduced the childrens’ meal:

       Thrice happy! that from him the grave did hide

       The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel,

       And tears that flowed for ills which patience could not heal.

      ’Twas a hard change, an evil time was come;

       We had no hope, and no relief could gain.

       But soon, with proud parade, the noisy drum

       Beat round, to sweep the streets of want and pain.

       My husband’s arms now only served to strain

       Me and his children hungering in his view:

       In such dismay my prayers and tears were vain:

       To join those miserable men he flew;

       And now to the sea-coast, with numbers more, we drew.

      There foul neglect for months and months we bore,

       Nor yet the crowded fleet its anchor stirred.

       Green fields before us and our native shore,

       By fever, from polluted air incurred,

       Ravage was made, for which no knell was heard.

       Fondly we wished, and wished away, nor knew,

       ’Mid that long sickness, and those hopes deferr’d,

       That happier days we never more must view:

       The parting signal streamed, at last the land withdrew.

      But from delay the summer calms were past.

       On as we drove, the equinoctial deep

       Ran mountains-high before the howling blast.

       We gazed with terror on the gloomy sleep

       Of them that perished in the whirlwind’s sweep,

       Untaught that soon such anguish must ensue,

       Our hopes such harvest of affliction reap,

       That we the mercy of the waves should rue.

       We readied the western world, a poor, devoted crew.

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