Samuel Taylor Coleridge

From FireBlade Fiction on Negative Space.


Coleridge had all the powers of a great poet except for the ordinary virtues of concentration and continuity of purpose.—Century Readings in English Literature


Part I

The Conclusion to Part I

  • It was a lovely sight to see
  • The lady Christabel, when she
  • Was praying at the old oak tree.
  • Amid the jagged shadows
  • Of mossy leafless boughs,
  • Kneeling in the moonlight,
  • To make her gentle vows;
  • Her slender palms together prest,
  • Heaving sometimes on her breast;
  • Her face resigned to bliss or bale—
  • Her face, o, cdall it fair not pale,
  • And both blue eyes more bright than clear,
  • Each about to have a tear.
  • With open eyes (ah, woe is me!)
  • Asleep, and dreaming fearfully,
  • Fearfully dreaming, yet, I wis,
  • Dreaming that alone, which is—
  • O sorrow and shame! Can this be she,
  • The lady, who knelt at the old oak tree?
  • And lo! the worker of these harms,
  • That holds the maiden in her arms,
  • Seems to slumber still and mild,
  • As a mother with her child.
  • A star hath set, a star hath risen,
  • O Geraldine! since arms of thine
  • Have been the lovely lady’s prison.
  • O Geraldine! one hour was thine—
  • Thou’st had they will! By tairn and rill,
  • The night-birds all that hour were still.
  • But now they are jubilant anew,
  • From cliff and tower, tu-whoo! tu-whoo!
  • Tu-whoo! tu-whoo! from wood and fell!
  • And see! the lady Christabel
  • Gathers herself from our her trance;
  • Her limbs relax, her coutnenance
  • Grows sad and soft; the smooth thin lids
  • Close o’er her eyes; and tears she sheds—
  • Large tears that leave the lashes bright!
  • And oft the while she seems to smile
  • As infants at a sudden light!
  • Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep,
  • Like a youthful hermitess,
  • Beauteous in a wilderness,
  • Who, praying always, prays in sleep.
  • And, if she move unquietly,
  • Perchance, ’t is but the blood so free
  • Comes back and tingles in her feet.
  • No doubt, she hath a vision sweet.
  • What if her guardian spirit ’t were,
  • What if she knew her mother near?
  • But this she knows, in joys and woes,
  • That saints will aid if men will call:
  • For the blue sky bends over all.

Part II

Kubla Khan

Or, a vision in a dream

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens, bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests, ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy, and enchanted
As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast, thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift, half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain, beneath the thresher’s flail:

And ’mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.

It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

A damsel, with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.

Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song
To such a deep delight ’twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Transcription and organization by Jerry Stratton, for FireBlade Coffeehouse. From Century Readings in English Literature.

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

Transcription and organization by Jerry Stratton, for FireBlade Coffeehouse. From Century Readings in English Literature.

Part I

It is an ancient Mariner,
And he stoppeth one of three.
‘By thy long gray beard and glittering eye,
Now wherefore stoppst thou me?

‘The Bridegroom’s doors are opened wide,
And I am next of kin;
The guests are met, the feast is set:
May’st hear the merry din.’

He holds him with his skinny hand,
‘There was a ship,’ quoth he.
‘Hold off! unhand me, graybeard loon!’
Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

He holds him with his glittering eye—
The Wedding-Guest stood still,
And listens like a three years’ child:
The Mariner hath his will.

The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:
He cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner.

‘The ship was cheered, the harbor cleared,
Merrily did we drop
Below the kirk, below the hill,
Below the lighthouse top.

‘The sun came up upon the left,
Out of the sea came he!
And he shone bright, and on the right
Went down into the sea.

‘Higher and higher every day,
Till over the mast at noon—’
The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast,
For he heard the loud bassoon.

The bride hath paced into the hall,
Red as a rose is she;
Nodding their heads before her goes
The merry minstrelsy.

The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast,
Yet he cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner:

‘And now the Storm-blast came, and he
Was tyrannous and strong:
He struck with his o’ertaking wings,
And chased us south along.

‘With sloping masts and dipping prow,
As who pursued with yell and blow
Still treads the shadow of his foe,
And forward bends his head,
The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,
And southward aye we fled.

‘And now there came both mist and snow,
And it grew wondrous cold;
And ice, mast-high, came floating by,
As green as emerald.

‘And through the drifts the snowy clifts
Did send a dismal sheen:
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken—
The ice was all between.

‘The ice was here, the ice was there,
The ice was all around:
It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,
Like noises in a swound!

‘At length did cross an Albatross:
Thorough the fog it came:
As if it had been a Christian soul,
We hailed it in God’s name.

‘It ate the food it ne’er had eat,
And round and round it flew.
The ice did split with a thunder-fit;
The helmsman steered us through!

‘And a good south wind sprung up behind;
The Albatross did follow,
And every day, for food or play,
Came to the mariner’s hollo!

‘In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,
It perched for vespers nine;
Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,
Glimmered the white moon-shine.’

‘God save thee, ancient Mariner!
From the fiends, that plague thee thus!—
Why look’st thou so?’—’With my cross-bow
I shot the Albatross!’

Part II

‘The Sun now rose upon the right:
Out of the sea came he,
Still hid in mist, and on the left
Went down into the sea.

‘And the good south wind still blew behind,
But no sweet bird did follow,
Nor any day, for food or play,
Came to the mariner’s hollo!

‘And I had done a hellish thing,
And it would work ‘em woe;
For all averred, I had killed the bird
That made the breeze to blow.
Ah, wretch! said they, the bird to slay
That made the breeze to blow!

‘Nor dim nor red, like God’s own head,
The glorious Sun uprist:
Then all averred, I had killed the bird
That brought the fog and mist.
‘T was right, said they, such birds to slay,
That bring the fog and mist.

‘The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,
The furrow followed free:
We were the first that ever burst
Into that silent sea.

‘Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,
’T was sad as sad could be;
And we did speak only to break
The silence of the sea!

‘All in a hot and copper sky,
The bloody Sun, at noon,
Right up above the mast did stand,
No bigger than the Moon.

‘Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.

‘Water, water, everywhere,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, everywhere,
Nor any drop to drink.

‘The very deep did rot: O Christ!
That ever this should be!
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs,
Upon the slimy sea.

‘About, about, in reel and rout,
The death-fires danced at night;
The water, like a witch’s oils,
Burnt green, and blue, and white.

‘And some in dreams assurèd were
Of the Spirit that plagued us so:
Nine fathom deep he had followed us,
From the land of mist and snow.

‘And every tongue, through utter drought,
Was withered at the root;
We could not speak, no more than if
We had been choked with soot.

‘Ah! well-a-day! what evil looks
Had I from old and young!
Instead of the cross, the Albatross
About my neck was hung.

Part III

‘There passed a weary time. Each throat
Was parched, and glazed each eye.
A weary time! A weary time!
How glazed each weary eye!
When looking westward I beheld
A something in the sky.

‘At first it seemed a little speck,
And then it seemed a mist:
It moved and moved, and took at last
A certain shape, I wist.

‘A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!
And still it neared and neared:
As if it dodged a water-sprite,
It plunged and tacked and veered.

‘With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
We could nor laugh nor wail;
Through utter drought all dumb we stood!
I bit my arm, I sucked the blood,
And cried, A sail! a sail!

‘With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
Agape they heard me call:
Gramercy! they for joy did grin,
And all at once their breath drew in,
As they were drinking all.

‘“See! see (I cried) she tacks no more!
Hither to work us weal;
Without a breeze, without a tide,
She steadies with upright keel!”

‘The western wave was all a-flame:
The day was well nigh done:
Almost upon the western wave
Rested the broad bright Sun;
When that strange shape drove suddenly
Betwixt us and the Sun.

‘And straight the Sun was flecked with bars,
(Heaven’s Mother send us grace!)
As if through a dungeon grate he peered,
With broad and burning face.

‘Alas (thought I, and my heart beat loud)
How fast she nears and nears!
Are those her sails that glance in the Sun,
Like restless gossameres?

‘Are those her ribs through which the Sun
Did peer, as through a grate?
And is that Woman all her crew?
Is that a Death? and are there two?
Is Death that woman’s mate?

‘Her lips were red, her looks were free,
Her locks were yellow as gold:
Her skin was as white as leprosy,
The Nightmare Life-in-Death was she,
Who thicks man’s blood with cold.

‘The naked hulk alongside came,
And the twain were casting dice;
“The game is done! I’ve won, I’ve won!”
Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

‘The Sun’s rim dips; the stars rush out:
At one stride comes the dark;
With far-heard whisper, o’er the sea,
Off shot the specter-bark.

‘We listened and looked sideways up!
Fear at my heart, as at a cup,
My life-blood seemed to sip!

‘The stars were dim, and thick the night,
The steersman’s face by his lamp gleamed white;
From the sails the dew did drip—
Till clomb above the eastern bar
The hornèd Moon with one bright star
Within the nether tip.

‘One after one, by the star-dogged Moon,
Too quick for groan or sigh,
Each turned his face with a ghastly pang,
And cursed me with his eye.

‘Four times fifty living men,
(And I heard nor sigh nor groan)
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,
They dropped down one by one.

‘The souls did from their bodies fly—
They fled to bliss or woe!
And every soul, it passed me by,
Like the whiz of my cross-bow!’

Part IV

‘I fear thee, ancient Mariner!
I fear thy skinny hand!
And thou art long, and lank, and brown,
As is the ribbed sea-sand.

‘I fear thee and thy glittering eye,
And thy skinny hand, so brown.’—
‘Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest!
This body dropt not down.

‘Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on a wide, wide sea!
And never a saint took pity on
My soul in agony.

‘The many men, so beautiful!
And they all dead did lie:
And a thousand thousand slimy things
Lived on; and so did I.

‘I looked upon the rotting sea,
And drew my eyes away;
I looked upon the rotting deck,
And there the dead men lay.

‘I looked to heaven, and tried to pray;
But or ever a prayer had gusht,
A wicked whisper came, and made
My heart as dry as dust.

‘I closed my lids, and kept them close,
And the balls like pulses beat;
For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky,
Lay like a load on my weary eye,
and the dead were at my feet.

‘The cold sweat melted from their limbs,
Nor rot nor reek did they:
The look with which they looked on me
Had never passed away.

‘An orphan’s curse would drag to hell
A spirit from on high;
But oh! more horrible than that
Is the curse in a dead man’s eye!
Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse,
And yet I could not die.

‘The moving Moon went up the sky,
And nowhere did abide:
Softly she was going up,
And a star or two beside—

‘Her beams bemocked the sultry main,
Like April hoar-frost spread;
But where the ship’s huge shadow lay,
The charmèd water burnt alway
A still and awful red.

‘Beyond the shadow of the ship,
I watched the water-snakes:
They moved in tracks of shining white,
And when they reared, the elfish light
Fell off in hoary flakes.

‘Within the shadow of the ship
I watched their rich attire:
Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,
They coiled and swam; and every track
Was a flash of golden fire.

‘O happy living things! no tongue
Their beauty might declare:
A spring of love gushed from my heart,
And I blessed them unaware!
Sure my kind saint took pity on me,
And I blessed them unaware.

‘The selfsame moment, I could pray;
And from my neck so free
The Albatross fell off, and sank
Like lead into the sea.

Part V

‘Oh, sleep! it is a gentle thing,
Beloved from pole to pole!
To Mary Queen the praise be given!
She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven,
that slid into my soul.

‘The silly buckets on the deck,
That had so long remained,
I dreamt that they were filled with dew;
And when I awoke, it rained.

‘My lips were wet, my throat was cold,
My garments all were dank;
Sure I had drunken in my dreams,
And still my body drank.

‘I moved, and could not feel my limbs:
I was so light—almost
I thought that I had died in sleep,
And was a blessèd ghost.

‘And soon I heard a roaring wind:
It did not come anear;
But with its sound it shook the sails,
That were so thin and sere.

‘The upper air burst into life!
And a hundred fire-flags sheen,
To and fro they were hurried about;
And to and fro, and in and out,
The wan stars danced between.

‘And the coming wind did roar more loud,
And the sails did sigh like sedge;
And the rain poured down from one black cloud;
The Moon was at its edge.

‘The thick black cloud was cleft, and still
The Moon was at its side:
Like waters shot from some high crag,
The lightning fell with never a jag,
A river steep and wide.

‘The loud wind never reached the ship,
Yet now the ship moved on!
Beneath the lightning and the Moon
The dead men gave a groan.

‘They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose,
Nor spake nor moved their eyes;
It had been strange, even in a dream,
To have seen those dead men rise.

‘The helmsman steered, the ship moved on;
Yet never a breeze up-blew;
The mariners all ‘gan work the ropes,
Where they were wont to do:
They raised their limbs like lifeless tools—
We were a ghastly crew.

‘The body of my brother’s son
Stood by me, knee to knee;
The body and I pulled at one rope,
But he said nought to me.’

‘I fear thee, ancient Mariner!’
Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest!
‘T was not those souls that fled in pain,
But a troop of spirits blest:

‘For when it dawned—they dropped their arms,
And clustered round the mast;
Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths,
And from their bodies passed.

‘Around, around, flew each sweet sound,
Then darted to the Sun;
Slowly the sounds came back again,
Now mixed, now one by one.

‘Sometimes a-dropping from the sky
I heard the skylark sing;
Sometimes all little birds that are,
How they seemed to fill the sea and air
With their sweet jargoning!

‘And now ‘t was like all instruments,
Now like a lonely flute;
And now it is an angel’s song,
That makes the heavens be mute.

‘It ceased; yet still the sails made on
A pleasant noise till noon,
A noise like of a hidden brook
In the leafy month of June,
That to the sleeping woods all night
Singeth a quiet tune.

‘Till noon we quietly sailed on,
Yet never a breeze did breathe:
Slowly and smoothly went the ship,
Moved onward from beneath.

‘Under the keel nine fathom deep,
From the land of mist and snow,
The spirit slid; and it was he
That made the ship to go.
The sails at noon left off their tune,
And the ship stood still also.

‘The Sun, right up above the mast,
Had fixed her to the ocean;
But in a minute she ‘gan stir,
With a short uneasy motion—
Backwards and forwards half her length,
With a short uneasy motion.

‘Then like a pawing horse let go,
She made a sudden bound:
It flung the blood into my head,
And I fell down in a swound.

‘How long in that same fit I lay,
I have not to declare;
But ere my living life return’d,
I heard, and in my soul discern’d
Two voices in the air.

‘“Is it he?” quoth one, “is this the man?
By Him who died on cross,
With his cruel bow he laid full low
The harmless Albatross.

‘“The spirit who bideth by himself
In the land of mist and snow,
He loved the bird that loved the man
Who shot him with his bow.”

‘The other was a softer voice,
As soft as honey-dew:
Quoth he, “The man hath penance done,
And penance more will do.”

Part VI

First Voice
‘“But tell me, tell me! speak again
Thy soft response renewing—
What makes that ship drive on so fast?
What is the ocean doing?”

Second Voice
‘“Still as a slave before his lord,
The ocean hath no blast;
His great bright eye most silently
Up to the Moon is cast—

‘“If he may know which way to go;
For she guides him, smooth or grim.
See, brother, see! how graciously
She looketh down on him.”

First Voice
‘“But why drives on that ship so fast,
Without or wave or wind?”

Second Voice
‘“The air is cut away before,
And closes from behind.

‘“Fly brother, fly! more high, more high!
Or we shall be belated:
For slow and slow that ship will go,
When the Mariner’s trance is abated.”

‘I woke, and we were sailing on,
As in a gentle weather:
‘T was night, calm night, the moon was high;
The dead men stood together.

‘All stood together on the deck,
For a charnel-dungeon fitter:
All fixed on me their stony eyes,
That in the Moon did glitter.

‘The pang, the curse, with which they died,
Had never passed away:
I could not draw my eyes from theirs,
Nor turn them up to pray.

‘And now this spell was snapt: once more
I viewed the ocean green,
And looked far forth, yet little saw
Of what had else been seen—

‘Like one, that on a lonesome road
Doth walk in fear and dread,
And having once turned round, walks on,
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.

‘But soon there breathed a wind on me,
Nor sound nor motion made:
Its path was not upon the sea,
In ripple or in shade.

‘It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek
Like a meadow-gale of spring—
It mingled strangely with my fears,
Yet it felt like a welcoming.

‘Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,
Yet she sailed softly too:
Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze—
On me alone it blew.

‘Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed
The lighthouse top I see?
Is this the hill? is this the kirk?
Is this mine own countree?

‘We drifted o’er the harbor-bar,
And I with sobs did pray—
“O let me be awake, my God!
Or let me sleep alway.”

‘The harbor-bay was clear as glass,
So smoothly it was strewn!
And on the bay the moonlight lay,
And the shadow of the Moon.

‘The rock shone bright, the kirk no less,
That stands above the rock:
The moonlight steeped in silentness
The steady weathercock.

‘And the bay was white with silent light,
Till rising from the same,
Full many shapes, that shadows were,
In crimson colors came.

‘A little distance from the prow
Those crimson shadows were:
I turned my eyes upon the deck—
Oh, Christ! what saw I there!

‘Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat,
And, by the holy rood!
A man all light, a seraph-man,
On every corse there stood.

‘This seraph-band, each waved his hand:
It was a heavenly sight!
They stood as signals to the land,
Each one a lovely light:

‘This seraph-band, each waved his hand,
No voice did they impart—
No voice; but oh! the silence sank
Like music on my heart.

‘But soon I heard the dash of oars,
I heard the pilot’s cheer;
My head was turned perforce away,
And I saw a boat appear.

‘The Pilot, and the Pilot’s boy,
I heard them coming fast:
Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy
The dead men could not blast.

‘I saw a third—I heard his voice:
It is the Hermit good!
He singeth loud his godly hymns
That he makes in the wood.
He’ll shrieve my soul, he’ll wash away
The Albatross’s blood.

Part VII

‘This Hermit good lives in that wood
Which slopes down to the sea.
How loudly his sweet voice he rears!
He loves to talk with marineres
That come from a far countree.

‘He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve—
He hath a cushion plump:
It is the moss that wholly hides
The rotted old oak-stump.

‘The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk,
“Why, this is strange, I trow!
Where are those lights so many and fair,
That signal made but now?”
‘“Strange, by my faith!” the Hermit said—
“And they answered not our cheer!
The planks looked warped! and see those sails,
How thin they are and sere!
I never saw aught like to them,
Unless perchance it were

‘“Brown skeletons of leaves that lag
My forest-brook along:
When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow,
And the owlet whoops to the wolf below,
That eats the she-wolf’s young.”

‘“Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look”—
(The Pilot made reply)
“I am a-feared”—”Push on, push on!”
Said the Hermit cheerily.

‘The boat came closer to the ship,
But I nor spake nor stirred;
The boat came close beneath the ship,
And straight a sound was heard.

‘Under the water it rumbled on,
Still louder and more dread:
It reached the ship, it split the bay;
The ship went down like lead.

‘Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound,
Which sky and ocean smote,
Like one that hath been seven days drowned,
My body lay afloat;
But swift as dreams, myself I found
Within the Pilot’s boat.

‘Upon the whirl, where sank the ship,
The boat spun round and round;
And all was still, save that the hill
Was telling of the sound.

‘I moved my lips—the Pilot shrieked,
And fell down in a fit;
The holy Hermit raised his eyes,
And prayed where he did sit.

‘I took the oars: the Pilot’s boy,
Who now doth crazy go,
Laughed loud and long, and all the while
His eyes went to and fro.
“Ha! ha!” quoth he, “full plain I see,
The Devil knows how to row.”

‘And now, all in my own countree,
I stood on the firm land!
The Hermit stepped forth from the boat,
And scarcely he could stand.

‘“O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!”
The Hermit crossed his brow.
“Say quick,” quoth he, “I bid thee say—
What manner of man art thou?”

‘Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched
With a woeful agony,
Which forced me to begin my tale;
And then it left me free.
Since then at an uncertain hour,
That agony returns;
And till my ghastly tale is told,
This heart within me burns.

‘I pass, like night, from land to land;
I have strange power of speech;
That moment that his face I see,
I know the man that must hear me:
To him my tale I teach.

‘What loud uproar bursts from that door:
The wedding-guests are there;
But in the garden-bower the bride
And bride-maids singing are;
And hark the little vesper bell,
Which biddeth me to prayer!

‘O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been
Alone on a wide wide sea:
So lonely ‘t was, that God himself
Scarce seemè;d there to be.

‘O sweeter than the marriage-feast,
‘T is sweeter far to me,
To walk together to the kirk
With a goodly company!—

‘To walk together to the kirk,
And all together pray,
While each to his great Father bends,
Old men, and babes, and loving friends,
And youths and maidens gay!

‘Farewell, farewell! but this I tell
To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!
He prayeth well, who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast.

‘He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.’

The Mariner, whose eye is bright,
Whose beard with age is hoar,
Is gone; and now the Wedding-Guest
Turned from the bridegroom’s door.

He went like one that hath been stunned,
And is of sense forlorn:
A sadder and a wiser man
He rose the morrow morn.

The World’s Progress

from The World’s Progress, Vol. VIII, the Delphian Society, 1913:

Eminent above most as poet, literary expounder, philosopher, and conversor, Coleridge is greatest as an influence. It welled from everything he produced, and how potent and widespread that influence has been can only be understood after a thoughtful survey of the higher literature and oral teaching since his day. Born in 1772, he was a schoolmate of Charles Lamb in the Charterhouse, thence he went to Cambridge, to study everything, from the political pamphlets of Burke to the Greek classics. His adoption of Unitarian doctrine and sundry pecuniary worries led to college troubles which he solved by suddenly enlisting in the army. Bought out by some friends, he returned to the university, but left without graduating in 1794. Then it was that his friend Southey espoused his fantastic “pantisocracy” scheme, which was to found an earthly paradise on the banks of the Susquehanna, which was selected in blank ignorance of everything except the melodious charm of its name. When in a few months the fairy bubble burst, the pair of poet-souls married sisters, Southey keeping it secret until he returned from foreign travel, Coleridge settling down to domestic life near Bristol. He lectured, with scant success, published “Addresses to the People,” on political topics, strongly radical in sentiment, and had hard work to earn a living. A chance meeting with Wordsworth and his sister Dorothy proved the beginning of a life-long friendship. Together they issued the famous volume of “Lyrical Ballads,” 1798, from which their own fame dates. Coleridge’s sole, but sufficient contribution to this book was “The Ancient Mariner.”

Coleridge had meantime become a Unitarian preacher, unappreciated by congregations, had issued “Juvenile Poems,” and started a paper, The Watchman, which died in two months. The success of the “Ballads” and the annuity conferred on him by admiring friends enabled him to spend a year in Germany. On his return he published his translation of Schiller’s “Wallenstein” and took up his abode in the house of Southey. His revolutionary sentiments were exchanged for ardent loyalty, and his Unitarianism for orthodox faith. twenty-seven numbers of his new periodical, The Friend, were brought out at this time, and his lectures on Shakespeare and other subjects made a deep impression.

But Coleridge had succumbed to the charm of opium, and its terrible traces are seen in the “Ode to Dejection” and other poems and essays. Physically its influence was deplorable. Painful domestic troubles and alienations of friendship followed the rest of his life. Southey generously housed his family, from whom he was finally estranged. From 1816, till his death in 1834, he lived as the guest of Dr. Gillman at Highgate, London, where he was the high priest, if not the divinity, of a devoted band who gathered to hear his marvellous conversation. It was monologue rather than talk, as the anecdote indicates. Coleridge asked Lamb, “Have you ever heard me preach?” “I have never heard you do anything else!” was Lamb’s reply. In his later years, Coleridge issued his best prose book, the “Aids to Reflection,” with other philosophical writings of exceptional worth. In his lectures on Shakespeare he brought the full force and depth of the poet’s genius before the public mind as no other English commentator had done. In short, Coleridge had become a mighty influence upon the most thoughtful of his countrymen.

As a critic of poetry he holds the sceptre by common consent, having fixed canons of appreciation which were not recognized until he codified them. His own work rises in its best examples to the criterion he established. Imagination soars to lofty heights as melodiously as the song flight of the lark “from sullen earth arising” to “sing hymns at heaven’s gate.“ Swinburne, gifted with rare powers of expression, unqualifiedly pronounces “The Ancient Mariner” “the most wonderful of all poems,” as Wordsworth, and others in after years, declared Coleridge to be “the most wonderful man,” in respect of thoughts conveyed in magical speech, they had ever met. The strange wild melody and uncanny fascination of this peom place it on a pedestal all its own in literature. “Christabel” is another incomparable monument of genius and art, meaningless but enthralling, only an incomplete beginning, yet sublimer for all that it leaves in the vague. The “Ode to France,” an apostrophe to liberty, and “Ode to the New Year,” rank with the better known odes of Dryden, Collins, and Gray. The unevenness of Coleridge’s work and his small poetic output are explained by his long struggle with poverty, and a still sadder malady. Yet, mystic philosopher, though he was, he has contributed to lyric verse one of the purest love songs in the language, “Genevieve.”

I’ve received word from a fan that the above article mistakenly says he attended Charterhouse when Coleridge was educated at Christ's Hospital in London.