And Germany might have been honestly prouder
Had she left it alone, and found out only powder.
My Lord! when I think of our labours and cares
Who rule the Department of Foreign Affairs,
And how with their libels these journalists bore us,
Though rage I acknowledge than scorn less de-

corous;

Yet their presses and types I could shiver in splinters, Those Printers' black devils! those devils of

Printers!

In case of a peace-but perhaps it were better
To proceed to the absolute point of my letter:
For the deep wounds of France, Bonaparte, my

master,

Has found out a new sort of basilicon plaister.
But your time, my dear Lord! is your nation's best
treasure,

I've intruded already too long on your leisure;
If so, I entreat you with penitent sorrow

To pause, and resume the remainder to-morrow.

158

A STRANGER MINSTREL.*

[WRITTEN TO MRS. ROBINSON, A FEW WEEKS BEFORE HER DEATH.]

As

S late on Skiddaw's † mount I lay supine, Midway th' ascent, in that repose divine When the soul centred in the heart's recess Hath quaff'd its fill of Nature's loveliness, Yet still beside the fountain's marge will stay And fain would thirst again, again to quaff; Then when the tear, slow travelling on its way, Fills up the wrinkles of a silent laughIn that sweet mood of sad and humorous thought A form within me rose, within me wrought With such strong magic, that I cried aloud, "Thou ancient Skiddaw by thy helm of cloud, And by thy many-colour'd chasms deep,§ And by their shadows that for ever sleep, By yon small flaky mists that love to creep Along the edges of those spots of light, Those sunny|| islands on thy smooth green height, And by yon shepherds with their sheep,

*Memoirs of the late Mrs. Robinson, written by herself. With some posthumous pieces. Lond. 1801, vol. iv. pp. 141-144; Poetical Works of the late Mrs. Mary Robinson, Lond. 1806; vol. 1., xlviii-li. [Now first included in any collection of Coleridge's Poems.]

+ Skiddaw-1801.

§ chasms so deep-il.

wrinkle-ib.

I sunshine-il.

And dogs and boys, a gladsome crowd,
That rush even now with clamour loud
Sudden from forth thy topmost cloud,
And by this laugh, and by this tear,
I would, old Skiddaw, she were here!
A lady of sweet song is she,

Her soft blue eye was made for thee!
O ancient Skiddaw, by this tear,

I would, I would that she were here!"

Then ancient Skiddaw, stern and proud,
In sullen majesty replying,

Thus spake from out his helm of cloud

(His voice was like an echo dying !) :—' "She dwells belike in* scenes more fair, And scorns a mount so bleak and bare."

I only sigh'd when this I heard,
Such mournful thoughts within me stirr'd
That all my heart was faint and weak,
So sorely was I troubled !

No laughter wrinkled on † my cheek,
But O the tears were doubled!

But ancient Skiddaw green and high
Heard and understood my sigh;
And now, in tones less stern and rude,
As if he wish'd to end the feud,
Spake he, the proud response renewing
(His voice was like a monarch wooing) :—

"Nay, but thou dost not know her might,
The pinions of her soul how strong!
But many a stranger in my height
Hath sung to me her magic song,
Sending forth his ecstasy

In her divinest melody,

And hence I know her soul is free,
She is where'er she wills to be,
Unfetter'd by mortality!

Now to the haunted beach' can fly,

Beside the threshold scourged with waves,
Now where the maniac wildly raves,*
"Pale moon, thou spectre of the sky!"
No wind that hurries o'er my height
Can travel with so swift a flight.
I too, methinks, might merit
The presence of her spirit!
To me too might belong

The honour of her song and witching melody,

Which most resembles me,

Soft, various, and sublime,

Exempt from wrongs of Time !"

Thus spake the mighty Mount, and I
Made answer, with a deep-drawn sigh :-
"Thou ancient Skiddaw, by this tear,
I would, I would that she were here!"
November, 1800.

*Now to the maniac while he raves-1801.

EPIGRAMS.