And Germany might have been honestly prouder 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 master, Has found out a new sort of basilicon plaister. I've intruded already too long on your leisure; 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, Her soft blue eye was made for thee! I would, I would that she were here!" Then ancient Skiddaw, stern and proud, 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, No laughter wrinkled on † my cheek, But ancient Skiddaw green and high "Nay, but thou dost not know her might, In her divinest melody, And hence I know her soul is free, Now to the haunted beach' can fly, Beside the threshold scourged with waves, 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 *Now to the maniac while he raves-1801. |