No More Learning

For lo! the New Moon, winter-bright
And overspread with phantom light,
With swimming phantom light o'erspread,
But rimmed and circled by a silver thread;
I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling
The coming on of rain and squally blast.
And oh! that even now the gust were swelling,
And the slant night-shower driving hard and fast!
Those sounds, which oft have raised me, whilst they awed,
And sent my soul abroad,
Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give-
Might startle this dull pain and make it move and live.
A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear-
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief,
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,
In word, or sigh, or tear —
O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood,
To other thoughts by yonder throstle wooed,
All this long eve, so balmy and serene,
Have I been gazing on the western sky,
And its peculiar tint of yellow-green;
And still I gaze-and with how blank an eye!
And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars,
That give away their motion to the stars,—
Those stars that glide behind them or between,
Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen;


## p. 3859 (#225) ###########################################

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
3859
Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it grew
In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue:
I see them all so excellently fair —
I see, nor feel, how beautiful they are!
My genial spirits fail;
And what can these avail,
To lift the smothering weight from off my breast?
It were a vain endeavor,
Though I should gaze forever
On that green light that lingers in the west:
I may not hope from outward forms to win
The passion and the life whose fountains are within.
O lady! we receive but what we give,
And in our life alone does Nature live;
Ours is her wedding garment, ours her shroud!
And would we aught behold of higher worth
Than that inanimate cold world allowed
To the poor loveless, ever-anxious crowd-
Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud
Enveloping the earth;
And from the soul itself must there be sent
A sweet and potent voice of its own birth,
Of all sweet sounds the life and element!
O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me
What this strong music in the soul may be,
What and wherein it doth exist,
This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,
This beautiful and beauty-making power:
Joy, virtuous lady! Joy that ne'er was given
Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,
Life, and life's effluence, cloud at once and shower-
Joy, lady, is the spirit and the power
Which wedding nature to us, gives in dower
A new Earth and Heaven,
Undreamt-of by the sensual and the proud;
Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud-
We in ourselves rejoice!
And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,
All melodies the echoes of that voice,
All colors a suffusion from that light.
―


## p. 3860 (#226) ###########################################

3860
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
There was a time when, though my path was rough,
This joy within me dallied with distress;
And all misfortunes were but as the stuff
Whence fancy made me dreams of happiness.
For hope grew round me like the twining vine;
And fruits and foliage, not my own, seemed mine.
But now afflictions bow me down to earth,
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth;
But oh! each visitation
Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,
My shaping spirit of imagination.
For not to think of what I needs must feel,
But to be still and patient, all I can;
And haply by abstruse research to steal
From my own nature all the natural man
This was my sole resource, my only plan:
Till that which suits a part infects the whole,
And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.
Hence, viper thoughts that coil around my mind-
Reality's dark dream!
I turn from you, and listen to the wind,
Which long has raved unnoticed.
Of agony, by torture lengthened out,
That lute sent forth! Thou wind, that ravest without!
What a scream
Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted tree,
Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,
Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,
Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,
Mad lutanist! who in this month of showers,
Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers,
Makest devils' Yule, with worse than wintry song,
The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among!
Thou actor, perfect in all tragic sounds!
Thou mighty poet, e'en to frenzy bold!
What tell'st thou now about?
'Tis of the rushing of a host in rout,
With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds-
At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold
But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence!
And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,
-
With groans and tremulous shudderings—all is over
It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud!


## p. 3861 (#227) ###########################################

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
3861
A tale of less affright,
And tempered with delight,
As Otway's self had framed the tender lay:
'Tis of a little child
Upon a lonesome wild-
Not far from home, but she hath lost her way;
And now moans low in bitter grief and fear
And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear.
'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep;
Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!
Visit her, gentle Sleep, with wings of healing!
And may this storm be but a mountain-birth;
May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,
Silent as though they watched the sleeping earth!
With light heart may she rise,-
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes-
―――――――
Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice;
To her may all things live, from pole to pole-
Their life the eddying of her living soul!
O simple spirit, guided from above!
Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice!
Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice.
THE THREE TREASURES
COMPLAINT
ow seldom, Friend! a good great man inherits
Η
Honor or wealth, with all his worth and pains!
It sounds like stories from the land of spirits,
If any man obtain that which he merits,
Or any merit that which he obtains.
REPROOF
For shame, dear Friend; renounce this canting strain!
What wouldst thou have a good grea man obtain ?
Place - titles-salary- a gilded chain
Or throne of corses which his sword has slain?
Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends!
Hath he not always treasures, always friends,
The good great man? three treasures,-love and light,
And calm thoughts, regular as infant's breath;
And three firm friends, more sure than day and night—
Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death.


## p. 3862 (#228) ###########################################

3862
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
TO A GENTLEMAN
COMPOSED ON THE NIGHT AFTER HIS RECITATION OF A POEM ON
THE GROWTH OF AN INDIVIDUAL MIND
F
RIEND of the Wise! and Teacher of the Good!
Into my heart have I received that lay
More than historic, that prophetic lay,
Wherein (high theme by thee first sung aright)
Of the foundations and the building up
Of a Human Spirit thou hast dared to tell
What may be told, to the understanding mind
Revealable; and what within the mind,
By vital breathings secret as the soul
Of vernal growth, oft quickens in the heart
Thoughts all too deep for words!
Theme hard as high!
Of smiles spontaneous, and mysterious fears,
The first-born they of Reason, and twin-birth;
Of tides obedient to external force,
And currents self-determined, as might seem,
Or by some inner Power; of moments awful,
Now in thy inner life, and now abroad,
When Power stream'd from thee, and thy soul received
The light reflected, as a light bestowed
Of fancies fair, and milder hours of youth,
Hyblean murmurs of poetic thought,
Industrious in its joy, in Vales and Glens
Native or outland, Lakes and famous Hills!
Or on the lonely High-road, when the Stars
Were rising; or by secret mountain Streams,
The Guides and the Companions of thy way!
Of more than Fancy, of the Social Sense
Distending wide, and Man beloved as Man,
Where France in all her town lay vibrating
Like some becalmèd bark beneath the burst
Of Heaven's immediate thunder, when no cloud
Is visible, or shadow on the Main.
For thou wert there, thine own brows garlanded,
Amid the tremor of a realm aglow,
Amid a mighty nation jubilant,
When from the general heart of humankind


## p. 3863 (#229) ###########################################

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
3863
Hope sprang forth like a full-born Deity!
Of that dear Hope afflicted and struck down
So summoned homeward, thenceforth calm and sure,
From the dread watch-tower of man's absolute Self
With light unwaning on her eyes, to look
Far on
- herself a glory to behold,
-
The Angel of the vision! Then (last strain)
Of Duty, chosen laws controlling choice,
Action and Joy! - An Orphic song indeed,
A song divine of high and passionate thoughts,
To their own music chanted!
O great Bard!
Ere yet that last strain, dying, awed the air,
With stedfast eye I viewed thee in the choir
Of ever-enduring men. The truly Great
Have all one age, and from one visible space
Shed influence! They, both in power and act,
Are permanent, and Time is not with them,
Save as it worketh for them, they in it.
Nor less a sacred roll than those of old,
And to be placed, as they, with gradual fame
Among the archives of mankind, thy work
Makes audible a linkèd lay of Truth,
Of Truth profound a sweet continuous lay,
Not learnt, but native, her own natural notes!
Ah! as I listened with a heart forlorn,
The pulses of my being beat anew:
And even as life returns upon the drowned,
Life's joy rekindling roused a throng of pains-
Keen Pangs of Love, awakening as a babe
Turbulent, with an outcry in the heart;
And Fears self-willed that shunned the eye of Hope,
And Hope that scarce would know itself from Fear,
Sense of past Youth; and Manhood come in vain,
And all which I had culled in wood-walks wild,
And all which patient toil had reared, and all,
Commune with thee had opened out - but flowers
Strewed on my corse, and borne upon my bier,
In the same coffin, for the self-same grave!
That way no more! and ill beseems it me
Who came a welcomer in herald's guise
Singing of Glory and Futurity,
To wander back on such unhealthful road,


## p. 3864 (#230) ###########################################

3864
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
Plucking the poisons of self-harm! And ill
uch intertwine beseems triumphal wreaths
Strewed before thy advancing!
Nor do thou,
Sage Bard! impair the memory of that hour
Of my communion with thy nobler mind
By Pity or Grief, already felt too long!
Nor let my words import more blame than needs.
The tumult rose and ceased: for Peace is nigh
Where Wisdom's voice has found a listening heart.
Amid the howl of more than wintry storms,
The Halcyon hears the voice of vernal hours
Already on the wing.
Eve following eve,
Dear tranquil time, when the sweet sense of Home
Is sweetest! moments for their own sake hailed
And more desired, more precious for thy song,
In silence listening, like a devout child,
My soul lay passive, by the various strain
Driven as in surges now beneath the stars,
With momentary Stars of my own birth,
Fair constellated Foam, still darting off
Into the darkness; now a tranquil sea,
Outspread and bright, yet swelling to the Moon. .
And when-O Friend! my comforter and guide!
Strong in thyself, and powerful to give strength! -
Thy long-sustained song finally closed,
And thy deep voice had ceased-yet thou thyself
Wert still before my eyes, and round us both
That happy vision of beloved faces-
Scarce conscious, and yet conscious of its close,
I sate, my being blended in one thought
(Thought was it? or Aspiration? or Resolve ? )
Absorbed, yet hanging still upon the sound -
And when I rose, I found myself in prayer.
-
-


## p. 3865 (#231) ###########################################

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
3865
ODE TO GEORGIANA, DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE
ON THE TWENTY-FOURTH STANZA IN HER PASSAGE OVER MOUNT
GOTHARD'
A
ND hail the Chapel! hail the Platform wild!
Where Tell directed the avenging Dart,
With well-strung arm, that first preserved his Child,
Then aim'd the arrow at the Tyrant's heart.
Splendor's fondly fostered child!
And did you hail the platform wild
Where once the Austrian fell
Beneath the shaft of Tell?
O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure!
Whence learnt you that heroic measure?
Light as a dream your days their circlets ran;
From all that teaches Brotherhood to Man,
Far, far removed! from want, from hope, from fear.
Enchanting music lulled your infant ear,
Obeisance, praises, soothed your infant heart:
Emblazonments and old ancestral crests,
With many a bright obtrusive form of art,
Detained your eye from nature's stately vests
That veiling strove to deck your charms divine;
Rich viands and the pleasurable wine,
Were yours unearned by toil; nor could you see
The unenjoying toiler's misery.
And yet, free Nature's uncorrupted child,
You hailed the Chapel and the Platform wild,
Where once the Austrian fell
Beneath the shaft of Tell!
O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure!
Where learnt you that heroic measure?
There crowd your finely fibred frame,
All living faculties of bliss;
And Genius to your cradle came,
His forehead wreathed with lambent flame,
And bending low, with godlike kiss
Breathed in a more celestial life;
But boasts not many a fair compeer
A heart as sensitive to joy and fear?
T


## p. 3866 (#232) ###########################################

3866
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
And some, perchance, might wage an equal strife,
Some few, to nobler being wrought,
Co-rivals in the nobler gift of thought.
Yet these delight to celebrate
Laureled War and plumy State;
Or in verse and music dress
Tales of rustic happiness-
Pernicious Tales! insidious Strains!
That steel the rich man's breast,
And mock the lot unblest,
The sordid vices and the abject pains,
Which evermore must be
The doom of Ignorance and Penury!
But you, free Nature's uncorrupted child,
You hailed the Chapel and the Platform wild,
Where once the Austrian fell
Beneath the shaft of Tell!
O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure!
Where learnt you that heroic measure?
You were a Mother! That most holy name,
Which Heaven and Nature bless,
I may not vilely prostitute to those
Whose Infants owe them less
Than the poor Caterpillar owes
Its gaudy Parent Fly.
You were a Mother! at your bosom fed
The Babes that loved you. You, with laughing eye,
Each twilight-thought, each nascent feeling read,
Which you yourself created. Oh, delight!
A second time to be a Mother,
Without the Mother's bitter groans:
Another thought, and yet another,
By touch, or taste, by looks or tones,
O'er the growing Sense to roll,
The Mother of your infant's Soul!
The Angel of the Earth, who while he guides
His chariot-planet round the goal of day,
All trembling gazes on the Eye of God,
A moment turned his face away;
And as he viewed you, from his aspect sweet
New influences in your being rose,
Blest Intuitions and Communions fleet
With living Nature, in her joys and woes!


## p. 3867 (#233) ###########################################

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
3867
Thenceforth your soul rejoiced to see
The shrine of social Liberty!
O beautiful! O Nature's child!
'Twas thence you hailed the Platform wild,
Where once the Austrian fell
Beneath the shaft of Tell!
O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure!
Thence learnt you that heroic measure.
E
THE PAINS OF SLEEP
RE on my bed my limbs I lay,
It hath not been my use to pray
With moving lips or bended knees;
But silently, by slow degrees,
My spirit I to Love compose,
In humble Trust mine eyelids close,
With reverential resignation;
No wish conceived, no thought expressed!
Only a sense of supplication,
A sense o'er all my soul imprest
That I am weak, yet not unblest;
Since in me, round me, everywhere,
Eternal Strength and Wisdom are.
But yesternight I prayed aloud
In anguish and in agony,
Upstarting from the fiendish crowd
Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me:
A lurid light, a trampling throng,
Sense of intolerable wrong,
And whom I scorned, those only strong!
Thirst of revenge, the powerless will
Still baffled, and yet burning still!
Desire with loathing strangely mixed
On wild or hateful objects fixed.
Fantastic passions! maddening brawl!
And shame and terror over all!
Deeds to be hid which were not hid,
Which, all confused, I could not know
Whether I suffered, or I did:
For all seemed guilt, remorse, or woe,-
My own or others', still the same
Life-stifling fear, soul-stifling shame.


## p. 3868 (#234) ###########################################

3868
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
So two nights passed: the night's dismay
Saddened and stunned the coming day.
Sleep, the wide blessing, seemed to me
Distemper's worst calamity.
The third night, when my own loud scream
Had waked me from the fiendish dream,
O'ercome with sufferings strange and wild,
I wept as I had been a child;
And having thus by tears subdued
My anguish to a milder mood,
Such punishments, I said, were due
To natures deepliest stained with sin;
For aye entempesting anew
The unfathomable hell within,
The horror of their deeds to view,
To know and loathe, yet wish to do!
Such griefs with such men well agree,
But wherefore, wherefore fall on me?
To be beloved all need,
And whom I love, I love indeed.
SONG, BY GLYCINE
A
SUNNY shaft did I behold,
From sky to earth it slanted;
And poised therein a bird so bold-
Sweet bird, thou wert enchanted!
He sunk, he rose, he twinkled, he trolled
Within that shaft of sunny mist;
His eyes of fire, his beak of gold,
All else of amethyst!
And thus he sang: "Adieu! adieu!
Love's dreams prove seldom true.
The blossoms, they make no delay:
The sparkling dewdrops will not stay.
Sweet month of May,
We must away;
Far, far away!
To-day! to-day! »


## p. 3869 (#235) ###########################################

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
3869
YOUTH AND AGE
VERS
ERSE, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying,
Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee-
Both were mine! Life went a-Maying
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,
When I was young!
When I was young? —Ah, woful when!
Ah, for the change 'twixt now and then!
This breathing house not built with hands,
This body that does me grievous wrong,
O'er airy cliffs and glittering sands,
How lightly then it flashed along:-
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,
On winding lakes and rivers wide,
That ask no aid of sail or oar,
That fear no spite of wind or tide!
Naught cared this body for wind or weather
When Youth and I lived in't together.
Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like,
Friendship is a sheltering tree;
O the joys that came down shower-like,
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty!
Ere I was old!
Ere I was old? Ah, woful Ere,
Which tells me Youth's no longer here!
O Youth! for years so many and sweet,
'Tis known that thou and I were one;
I'll think it but a fond conceit -
It cannot be that thou art gone!
Thy vesper bell hath not yet tolled:-
And thou wert aye a masker bold!
What strange disguise hast now put on
To make believe that thou art gone?
I see these locks in silvery slips,
This drooping gait, this alter'd size:
But spring-tide blossoms on thy lips,
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!
Life is but thought: so think I will
That Youth and I are housemates still.
-


## p. 3870 (#236) ###########################################

3870
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
PHANTOM OR FACT?
AUTHOR
A
LOVELY form there sate beside my bed,
And such a feeding calm its presence shed,
A tender love, so pure from earthly leaven
That I unnethe the fancy might control,
'Twas my own spirit newly come from heaven,
Wooing its gentle way into my soul!
But ah! the change. it had not stirred, and yet -
Alas! that change how fain would I forget!
That shrinking back like one that had mistook!
That weary, wandering, disavowing Look!
'Twas all another, - feature, look, and frame,—
And still, methought, I knew it was the same!
―――――
FRIEND
This riddling tale, to what does it belong?
Is't history? vision? or an idle song?
Or rather say at once, within what space
Of time this wild disastrous change took place?
AUTHOR
Call it a moment's work (and such it seems);
This tale's a fragment from the life of dreams:
But say that years matured the silent strife,
And 'tis a record from the dream of Life.


## p. 3871 (#237) ###########################################

3871
WILLIAM COLLINS
(1721-1759)
HERE is much to inspire regretful sympathy in the short life
of William Collins. He was born at Chichester, and received
his education at Winchester College and at Magdalen Col-
lege, Oxford. A delicate, bookish boy, he had every stimulus toward
a literary career. With a fine appreciation of beauty in all forms of
art, and a natural talent for versification, he wrote poems of much
promise when very young. His Persian Eclogues' appeared when
he was only seventeen. Then Collins showed his impatient spirit and
fickleness of purpose by deserting his work
at Oxford and going to London with the
intention of authorship. His head was full
of brilliant schemes,-too full; for with
him as with most people, conception was
always easier than execution. But finding
it far more difficult to win fame than he
anticipated, he had not courage to per-
severe, and fell into dissipated, extrava-
gant ways which soon exhausted his small

means.
WILLIAM COLLINS
In 1746 he published the 'Odes, Descrip-
tive and Allegorical,' his most character-
istic work. They were never widely read,
and it took the public some time to appre-
ciate their lyric fervor, their exquisite imagery, and their musical
verse. In spite of occasional obscurities induced by careless treat-
ment, they are among the finest of English odes. His love for
nature and sympathy with its calmer aspects is very marked. Speak-
ing of the Ode to Evening,' Hazlitt says that "the sounds steal
slowly over the ear like the gradual coming on of evening itself. "
According to Swinburne, the 'Odes' do not contain "a single false
note. " "Its grace and vigor, its vivid and pliant dexterity of touch,"
he says of the 'Ode to the Passions,' « are worthy of their long
inheritance of praise. "
But the inheritance did not come at once, although Collins has
always received generous praise from fellow poets. His mortified
self-love resented lack of success. With a legacy bequeathed him by
an uncle he bought his book back from the publisher Millar, and the
unsold impressions he burned in "angry despair. "


## p. 3872 (#238) ###########################################

3872
WILLIAM COLLINS
Meantime he went on planning works quite beyond his power of
execution. He advertised 'Proposals for a History of the Revival of
Learning,' which he never wrote. He began several tragedies, but
his indolent genius would not advance beyond devising the plots. As
he was always wasteful and dissipated, he was continually in debt.
In spite of his unusual gifts, he had not the energy and self-control
necessary for adequate literary expression. Dr. Johnson, who ad-
mired and tried to befriend him, found a bailiff prowling around the
premises when he went to call. At his instigation a bookseller
advanced money to get Collins out of London, for which in return
he was to translate Aristotle's Poetics' and to write a commentary.
Probably he never fulfilled the agreement. Indeed, he had some
excuse. "A man doubtful of his dinners, or trembling at a creditor,
is not disposed to abstract meditation or remote inquiries," comments
Dr. Johnson.
Collins was always weak of body, and when still a young man
was seized by mental disease. Weary months of despondency were
succeeded by madness, until he was, as Dr. Wharton describes it,
with "every spark of imagination extinguished, and with only the
faint traces of memory and reason left. " Then the unhappy poet was
taken to Chichester and cared for by a sister. There he who had
loved music so passionately hated the cathedral organ in his mad-
ness, and when he heard it, howled in distress.
Among the best examples of his verse, besides the poems already
mentioned, are the 'Dirge to Cymbeline,' 'Ode to Fear,' and the
Ode on the Poetical Character,' which Hazlitt calls "the best of
all. "
HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE
HⓇ
ow sleep the brave, who sink to rest
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallowed mold,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay,
And Freedom shall a while repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there!


## p. 3873 (#239) ###########################################

WILLIAM COLLINS
3873
THE PASSIONS
HEN Music, heavenly maid! was young,
WH While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Thronged around her magic cell.
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possest beyond the Muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined:
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatched her instruments of sound,
And as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each - for Madness ruled the hour-
Would prove his own expressive power.
-
―――――――
First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewildered laid;
And back recoiled, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made.
Next Anger rushed; his eyes on fire,
In lightnings owned his secret stings:
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.
With woful measures wan Despair-
Low solemn sounds- his grief beguiled,
A sullen, strange, and mingled air;
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.
But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whispered promised pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!
Still would her touch the strain prolong,
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She called on Echo still through all the song;
And where her sweetest theme she chose,
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close,
And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair.
VI-243


## p. 3874 (#240) ###########################################

3874
WILLIAM COLLINS
And longer had she sung,- but with a frown,
Revenge impatient rose;
He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down,
And with a withering look
The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe!
And ever and anon he beat
The doubling drum with furious heat;
And though sometimes, each dreary pause between,
Dejected Pity, at his side,
Her soul-subduing voice applied,
Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien,
While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head.
Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fixed,
Sad proof of thy distressful state!
Of differing themes the veering song was mixed,
And now it courted Love, now raving called on Hate.
With eyes upraised, as one inspired,
Pale Melancholy sat retired;
And from her wild sequestered seat,
In notes by distance made more sweet,
Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul:
And dashing soft from rocks around,
Bubbling runnels joined the sound.
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole,
Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay,
Round an holy calm diffusing,
Love of peace and lonely musing,
In hollow murmurs died away.
But oh, how altered was its sprightlier tone
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulders flung,
Her buskins gemmed with morning dew,
Blew an inspiring air that dale and thicket rung!
The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known.
The oak-crowned Sisters, and their chaste-eyed Queen,
Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen,
Peeping from forth their alleys green;
Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear,
And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen spear.


## p. 3875 (#241) ###########################################

WILLIAM COLLINS
3875
Last came Joy's ecstatic trial;
He with viny crown advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand addrest;
But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best.
They would have thought who heard the strain,
They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids,
Amidst the festal sounding shades,
To some unwearied minstrel dancing;
While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings,
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round;
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;
And he, amidst his frolic play,
As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings.
O Music! sphere-descended maid,
Friend of pleasure, Wisdom's aid!
Why, goddess, why, to us denied,
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside?
As in that loved Athenian bower,
You learned an all-commanding power,
Thy mimic soul, Ó nymph endeared!
Can well recall what then it heard.
Where is that native simple heart,
Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art?
Arise, as in that elder time,
Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime!
Thy wonders, in that godlike age,
Fill thy recording Sister's page.
'Tis said- and I believe the tale.
Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggard age;
E'en all at once together found
Cecilia's mingled world of sound.
Oh bid our vain endeavors cease,
Revive the just designs of Greece;
Return in all thy simple state!
Confirm the tales her sons relate!


## p. 3876 (#242) ###########################################

3876
WILLIAM COLLINS
TO EVENING
F AUGHT of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear
Like thy own solemn springs,
Thy springs and dying gales;
O nymph reserved! while now the bright-haired sun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
With brede ethereal wove,
O'erhang his wavy bed:-
Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing;
Or where the beetle winds
His small but sullen horn,
As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum:
Now teach me, maid composed,
To breathe some softened strain,
Whose numbers, stealing through thy dark'ning vale,
May not unseemly with its stillness suit,
As, musing slow, I hail
Thy genial loved return!
For when thy folding-star arising shows
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
The fragrant hours, and elves
Who slept in buds the day,
And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge,
And sheds the freshening dew, and lovelier still,
The pensive Pleasures sweet,
Prepare thy shadowy car,-
Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene,
Or find some ruin 'midst its dreary dells,
Whose walls more awful nod
By thy religious gleams.
Or if chill blustering winds, or driving rain,
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut
That from the mountain's side
Views wilds and swelling floods,


## p. 3877 (#243) ###########################################

WILLIAM COLLINS
3877
And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires,
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all
Thy dewy fingers draw
The gradual dusky veil.
While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont,
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!
While Summer loves to sport
Beneath thy lingering light:
While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves;
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,
Affrights thy shrinking train,
And rudely rends thy robes:
So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,
Thy gentlest influence own,
And love thy favorite name!
ODE ON THE DEATH OF THOMSON
N YONDER grave a Druid lies,
IN
Where slowly winds the stealing wave!
The year's best sweets shall duteous rise,
To deck its poet's sylvan grave!
In yon deep bed of whisp'ring reeds
His airy harp shall now be laid;
That he whose heart in sorrow bleeds
May love through life the soothing shade.
Then maids and youths shall linger here,
And while its sounds at distance swell,
Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear
To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell.
Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore
When Thames in summer wreaths is drest;
And oft suspend the dashing oar
To bid his gentle spirit rest.
And oft as Ease and Health retire
To breezy lawn, or forest deep,
The friend shall view yon whitening spire,
And 'mid the varied landscape weep.


## p. 3878 (#244) ###########################################

3878
WILLIAM COLLINS
But thou, who own'st that earthly bed,
Ah! what will every dirge avail!
Or tears which Love and Pity shed,
That mourn beneath the gliding sail!
Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye
Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimm'ring near
With him, sweet bard, may Fancy die,
And Joy desert the blooming year.
But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide
No sedge-crowned sisters now attend,
Now waft me from the green hill's side,
Whose cold turf hides the buried friend!
And see, the fairy valleys fade,
Dun Night has veiled the solemn view!
Yet once again, dear parted shade,
Meek Nature's child, again adieu!
The genial meads, assigned to bless
Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom!
There hinds and shepherd girls shall dress
With simple hands thy rural tomb.
Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay
Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes:
"O vales and wild woods! " shall he say,
"In yonder grave your Druid lies! "


## p. 3879 (#245) ###########################################

3879
WILLIAM WILKIE COLLINS
(1824-1889)
ILKIE COLLINS has proved that the charm of a story does not
necessarily depend upon the depiction of character or an
appeal to the sympathies. As he said:-"I have always
held the old-fashioned opinion that the primary object of a work of
fiction should be to tell a story. " He also aspired to draw living
men and women, in which he was less successful. Count Fosco, Miss
Gwilt, Armadale, Laura Fairlie, and others, are indeed distinct;
but the interest centres not on them but on the circumstances in
which they are involved. This is the main
reason why the critics, even in admiring
his talent, speak of Collins with faint de-
preciation, as certainly not one of the
greatest novelists of the century, although
holding a place of his own which forces
recognition. For novel-readers have de-
lighted in his many volumes in spite of the
critics, and there is a steady demand for
the old favorites. Translated into French,
Italian, Danish, and Russian, many of them
continue to inspire the same interest in
foreign lands.

WILKIE COLLINS
Wilkie Collins, born January 8th, 1824,
did not show any special precocity in boy-
hood and youth. He probably learned much more from his self-
guided reading than from his schooling at Highbury, especially after
his acquisition of French and Italian during two years in Italy in his
early teens. The influences about him were strongly artistic. His
father, William Collins, was distinguished as a landscape painter.
The well-known portrait painter Mrs. Carpenter was his aunt, and
the distinguished Scotch artist David Wilkie his godfather. But
human action and emotion interested him more than art.
He was
very young when he expressed a desire to write, and perpetrated
blank verse which justified his father in vigorous opposition to his
adoption of authorship as a profession. So, his school days ended,
he presented the not unusual figure of a bright young Englishman
who must earn his bread, yet had no particular aptitude for doing it.
He tried business first, and became articled clerk with a City house


## p. 3880 (#246) ###########################################

3880
WILLIAM WILKIE COLLINS
in the tea trade. But the work was uncongenial; and after a few
unsatisfactory years he fell in with his father's views, and was entered
at Lincoln's Inn and in due time admitted to the bar, although he
never practiced law.
He continued writing for amusement, however, producing sketches
and stories valuable as training. On his father's death he prepared
a biography of that artist in two volumes (1848), which was consid-
ered a just as well as a loving appreciation. His first novel, how-
ever, was rejected by every publisher to whom he submitted it. His
second, 'Antonina,' a story of the fall of Rome, was mediocre.
He was about twenty-six when he met Charles Dickens, then a
man of forty, at the height of his fame, and with the kindliest feel-
ing for younger writers still struggling for recognition. Dickens,
whose own work was always prompted by sympathetic intuition, and
to whom character development came more easily than ingenious
plots, cordially admired Collins's skill in devising and explaining the
latter. He invited the younger man to become collaborator upon
Household Words, and thus initiated a warm friendship which
lasted until his own death. Encouraged by him, Collins essayed
drama and wrote The Light-House,' played at Gadshill by dis-
tinguished amateurs, Dickens himself among them. At first thought,
his would seem an essentially dramatic talent, and several of his
novels have been successfully dramatized. But the very cleverness
and intricacy of his situations make them unsuited to the stage.
They are too difficult of comprehension to be taken in at a glance
by an average audience, in the swift passage of stage action.
It was also the influence of Dickens which inspired Collins to
attempt social reform. In Man and Wife' he tries to show the
injustice of Scotch marriage laws; in 'The New Magdalen,' the pos-
sible regeneration of fallen women; in 'Heart and Science,' the
abuses of vivisection; and other stories are incumbered with didactic
purpose. Mr. Swinburne comments upon this aspect of his career in
a jocular couplet -
"What brought good Wilkie's genius nigh perdition?
Some demon whispered, 'Wilkie! have a mission! › »
But in all "tendency" novels it is not the discussion of problems
that makes them live; and Wilkie Collins, like others, survives by
purely literary qualities. Soon after his death the critic of the Spec-
tator gave the following capable summary of his peculiar method:-
"He was a literary chess player of the first force, with power of carrying
his plan right through the game and making every move tell. His method
was to introduce a certain number of characters, set before them a well-
defined object, such as the discovery of a secret, the re-vindication of a


## p. 3881 (#247) ###########################################

WILLIAM WILKIE COLLINS
3881
fortune, the tracking of a crime, or the establishment of a doubted mar-
riage, and then bring in other characters to resist or counterplot their
efforts. Each side makes moves, almost invariably well-considered and
promising moves; the counter-moves are equally good; the interest goes on
accumulating till the looker-on - the reader is always placed in that attitude
- is rapt out of himself by strained attention; and then there is a sudden
and totally unexpected mate. It is chess which is being played; and in the
best of all his stories, the one which will live for years,- The Moonstone,'
- the pretense that it is anything else is openly disregarded. »
―――――
This analysis however must not be too narrowly construed, as
petty critics often do, to mean that the only interest in Mr.
Collins's novels is that of disentangling the plot. If this were so, no
one would read them more than once; while in fact the best of them
are eminently readable again and again. This shallow judgment
evidently galled the novelist himself, and 'The New Magdalen' in
one aspect was a throwing-down of the gauntlet to the critics; for in
it he tells the plot page by page, almost paragraph by paragraph,
as he goes along, and even far in advance of the story, yet it is one
of the most fascinating of his novels. He proved that he could do
admirably what they said he could not do at all—make people read
his story with breathless absorption when they knew its end long
before they came to it; and it was as interesting backward as for-
ward. 'No Name' is in some sort a combination of the two methods,
— a revelation of the end, with perpetual interest in the discovery of
means.
'The Moonstone' and 'The Woman in White' are unquestionably
his masterpieces. In both he throws light upon a complex plot by
means of his favorite expedient of letters and diaries written by
different characters, who thus take the reader into their confidence
and bewilder him with conflicting considerations, until the author
comes forward with an ingenious and lucid solution. The Moon-
stone, however, is immensely superior in matter even to its fellow;
its plot is better (in one place The Woman in White' comes to a
dead wall which the author calmly ignores and goes on), and some
passages are worth reading over and over for pure pathos or descrip-
tion. Mr. Collins was in fact, aside from his special gift, a literary
artist of no mean power, even if not the highest: with an eye for
salient effects, a skill in touching the more obvious chords of
emotion, a knowledge of life and books, that enrich his stories with
enough extraneous wealth to prolong their life for many years, and
some of them perhaps for generations.


## p. 3882 (#248) ###########################################

3882
WILLIAM WILKIE COLLINS
THE SLEEP-WALKING
From The Moonstone>
[ This episode is related by the physician in charge of Mr. Franklin Blake,
whose good name he wishes to clear from a charge of fraud. ]
TWO
wo o'clock A. M. -The experiment has been tried. With what
result I am now to describe.
At eleven o'clock I rang the bell for Betteredge and
told Mr. Blake that he might at last prepare himself for bed.
. I followed Betteredge out of the room, and told him
to remove the medicine chest into Miss Verinder's sitting-room.
The order seemed to take him completely by surprise. He
looked as if he suspected me of some occult design on Miss
Verinder! "Might I presume to ask," he said,
what my
young lady and the medicine chest have got to do with each.
other? »
«< Stay in the sitting-room and you will see. ”
Betteredge appeared to doubt his own unaided capacity to
superintend me effectually, on an occasion when a medicine
chest was included in the proceedings.
"Is there any objection, sir," he asked, "to taking Mr.
Bruff into this part of the business? "
"Quite the contrary! I am now going to ask Mr. Bruff to
accompany me down-stairs. "
Betteredge withdrew to fetch the medicine chest without
another word. I went back into Mr. Blake's room, and knocked
at the door of communication. Mr. Bruff opened it, with his
papers in his hand-immersed in Law, impenetrable to Medi-
cine.
"I am sorry to disturb you,
» I said. "But I am going to
prepare the laudanum for Mr. Blake; and I must request you
to be present and to see what I do.
"Yes," said Mr. Bruff, with nine-tenths of his attention riv-
eted on his papers, and with one-tenth unwillingly accorded to
"Anything else? »
me.
"I must trouble you to return here with me, and to see me
administer the dose. "
"Anything else? »
"One thing more. I must put you to the inconvenience of
remaining in Mr. Blake's room to see what happens. "


## p. 3883 (#249) ###########################################

WILLIAM WILKIE COLLINS
3883
"Oh, very good! " said Mr. Bruff. "My room or Mr. Blake's
room, it doesn't matter which; I can go on with my papers
Unless you object, Mr. Jennings, to my importing
that amount of common-sense into the proceedings?
anywhere.
>>>>
Before I could answer, Mr. Blake addressed himself to the
lawyer, speaking from his bed.
--
"Do you really mean to say that you don't feel any interest
in what you are going to do? " he asked. "Mr. Bruff, you have
no more imagination than a cow! "
"A cow is a very useful animal, Mr.