Source of book: I own this
First of all, do not confuse this poet, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, with the Afro-British composer Samuel Coleridge-Taylor. Both are luminaries in their own way. I do recommend listening to Coleridge-Taylor’s music - for example, The Bamboula, which I got to play with the Tehachapi Symphony Orchestra a few years ago. The composer was named after the poet.
Most of us know Samuel Taylor Coleridge for two poems: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, and Kubla Khan. And, even those who don’t remember or didn’t read these, undoubtedly know some version of the most famous line from the former:
Water, water everywhere
And all the boards did shrink
Water, water everywhere
Nor any drop to drink
Both poems are true masterpieces, and are rightly well known and loved. But Coleridge wrote a lot more than just those - I own his complete poems and it clocks in at over 600 pages.
Coleridge is also known for his mental health struggles. While retroactive diagnoses are difficult, there is some evidence that he suffered from bipolar disorder. This was compounded by his becoming addicted to opium after an injury. Much like our own opioid issues today, actually. Hey, I blogged a few years ago about a book that talks all about that.
He also once attempted, along with fellow British poets Robert Southey and Robert Lovell, to found a utopian socialist community to be located in the United States - the “Pantisocracy.” Oh, and the three poets married three sisters. It’s…a story.
For what it is worth, Southey and Edith appear to have had a happy marriage, until her death more than 40 years later. (His second marriage ended in a breakup, mostly due to Southey’s dementia.)
Lovell created a scandal in his devout Quaker family by marrying Mary, who had gone on stage at one point. Lovell died a mere year after the marriage, and with his family rejecting Mary, she took refuge with Southey and her sister Edith. She lived to age 90, finally living with Southey’s daughter.
Coleridge and Sara, though. Well, that was a total disaster. They very inharmoniously separated less than 10 years later, with each blaming the other in a very public feud.
Just some interesting background for the collection.
My book is a Wordsworth Poetry Library paperback - one of several used books my wife has found for me over the years. These are, in my opinion, good for being complete, but often frustrating in layout - a layout that isn’t even consistent across the series. This isn’t helped by the fact that, in contrast to today’s practice of releasing poetry in successive volumes, back in the day, collections were issued every few years, but containing some or all of the previous poems.
This makes it difficult to read a portion in a coherent manner. What I have decided to do in these cases is to pick an arbitrary amount to read, based on some criterion that will enable me to systematically go through my book.
In this case, since the poems are arranged chronologically, and indexed by year, I decided to read a time framework of about the number of pages I wished to read. In this case, that meant I would start at the beginning, and read through 80 or so pages, and find a reasonable stopping point.
In this case, I decided not to stop exactly at the end of 1794, but read an additional four poems to complete a cycle that spanned both years.
Because I started at the beginning, there are a number of juvenile works, from Coleridge’s days at a charity boarding school, Christ’s Hospital, where he was sent after his father died. Later, he would attend Jesus College at Cambridge.
During this time, he wrote works that were published in the school newspaper, but also poems that were just for fun, or for particular people. These are really all over the place, from formal odes to silly doggerel for friends. He also wrote under a pseudonym in some cases, so reconstructing this era was a bit of a job for later editors.
The poems often seem very much of their era. The Romantic period in English poetry was even more flowery and emotional that the Victorian Era to follow, and that is saying something.
On the other hand, however, the poetry is a great reminder that our current narrow view of stoic masculinity isn’t really masculine at all, just a current cultural affectation driven in part by a backlash to feminism.
Back in the day, a man could express extremes of grief and pain and fear and joy and rapture - not just anger. It was a far more full spectrum of human emotions, and whatever the very genuine faults of the era, it was a lot easier to be a man with emotions than now. Coleridge makes me jealous about that, I will admit.
I won’t quote them here, but there are several poems that are either about or refer to the death of Coleridge’s beloved sister. They are heart-rending of course, but they also allowed him to publicly express his grief in a healthy way.
As I noted, early poetry is often varied and uneven. There were definitely a few “meh” poems. But also some really good ones. So, I have picked a few that I think are best to feature here. Enjoy.
As regular readers will know, I am very fond of the Sonnet form. Here is an early one from 1788, written when Coleridge would have been 15 or 16 years old. It’s a heck of a lot better than the sonnets I wrote for school at that age…
Sonnet: To The Autumnal Moon
Mild Splendor of the various-vested Night!
Mother of wildly-working visions! hail!
I watch thy gliding, while with watery light
Thy weak eye glimmers through a fleecy veil;
And when thou lovest thy pale orb to shroud
Behind the gather'd blackness lost on high;
And when thou dartest from the wind-rent cloud
Thy placid lightning o'er th' awakened sky.
Ah, such is Hope! As changeful and as fair!
Now dimly peering on the wistful sight;
Now hid behind the dragon-wing'd Despair:
But soon emerging in her radiant might
She o'er the sorrow-clouded breast of Care
Sails, like a meteor kindling in its flight.
From the next year comes this occasional poem, on the destruction of the Bastille, the spark of the French Revolution. It is a fragment, clearly missing stanzas two and three. It seems a bit apropos to our own time, when the obscenely rich are attempting to take control of the United States Federal Government.
Destruction of the Bastille
I
Heard'st thou yon universal cry,
And dost thou linger still on Gallia's shore?
Go, Tyranny! beneath some barbarous sky
Thy terrors lost and ruin'd power deplore!
What tho' through many a groaning age
Was felt thy keen suspicious rage,
Yet Freedom rous'd by fierce Disdain
Has wildly broke thy triple chain,
And like the storm which Earth's deep entrails hide,
* * * * *
IV
In sighs their sickly breath was spent; each gleam
Of Hope had ceas'd the long long day to cheer;
Or if delusive, in some flitting dream,
It gave them to their friends and children dear—
Awaked by lordly Insult's sound
To all the doubled horrors round,
Oft shrunk they from Oppression's band
While Anguish rais'd the desperate hand
For silent death; or lost the mind's controll,
Thro' every burning vein would tides of Frenzy roll.
V
But cease, ye pitying bosoms, cease to bleed!
Such scenes no more demand the tear humane;
I see, I see! glad Liberty succeed
With every patriot virtue in her train!
And mark yon peasant's raptur'd eyes;
Secure he views his harvests rise;
No fetter vile the mind shall know,
And Eloquence shall fearless glow.
Yes! Liberty the soul of Life shall reign,
Shall throb in every pulse, shall flow thro' every vein!
VI
Shall France alone a Despot spurn?
Shall she alone, O Freedom, boast thy care?
Lo, round thy standard Belgia's heroes burn,
Tho' Power's blood-stain'd streamers fire the air,
And wider yet thy influence spread,
Nor e'er recline thy weary head,
Till every land from pole to pole
Shall boast one independent soul!
And still, as erst, let favour'd Britain be
First ever of the first and freest of the free!
The non-standard spellings are in the original, by the way. For all the drilling we all got as kids, it is easy to forget that barely 200 years ago, before the great dictionaries were first created, spelling was a lot more hit and miss.
Next up is a fun occasional poem from 1793. A “monody” is a poem written as a lament on a person’s death. Or, perhaps, the death of beloved pot.
Monody on a Tea Kettle
O Muse who sangest late another’s pain,
To griefs domestic turn thy coal-black steed!
With slowest steps thy funeral steed must go,
Nodding his head in all the pomp of woe:
Wide scatter round each dark and deadly weed,
And let the melancholy dirge complain,
(Whilst Bats shall shriek and Dogs shall howling run)
The tea-kettle is spoilt and Coleridge is undone!
Your cheerful songs, ye unseen crickets, cease!
Let songs of grief your alter’d minds engage!
For he who sang responsive to your lay,
What time the joyous bubbles ’gan to play,
The sooty swain has felt the fire’s fierce rage; —
Yes, he is gone, and all my woes increase;
I heard the water issuing from the wound —
No more the Tea shall pour its fragrant steams around!
O Goddess best belov’d! Delightful Tea!
With thee compar’d what yields the madd’ning Vine?
Sweet power! who know’st to spread the calm delight,
And the pure joy prolong to midmost night!
Ah! must I all thy varied sweets resign?
Enfolded close in grief thy form I see;
No more wilt thou extend thy willing arms,
Receive the fervent Jove, and yield him all thy charms!
How sink the mighty low by Fate opprest! —
Perhaps, O Kettle! thou by scornful toe
Rude urg’d t’ ignoble place with plaintive din,
May’st rust obscure midst heaps of vulgar tin; —
As if no joy had ever seiz’d my breast
When from thy spout the streams did arching fly, —
As if, infus’d, thou ne’er hadst known t’ inspire
All the warm raptures of poetic fire!
But hark! or do I fancy the glad voice —
"What tho’ the swain did wondrous charms disclose —
(Not such did Memnon’s sister sable drest)
Take these bright arms with royal face imprest,
A better Kettle shall thy soul rejoice,
And with Oblivion’s wings o’erspread thy woes!"
Thus Fairy Hope can soothe distress and toil;
On empty Trivets she bids fancied Kettles boil!
I love the high-flown language. The tea kettle gets every bit as much metaphor and literary allusion as the greatest dead poet. And really, since Jove (aka Zeus) seemingly wants to bonk anything that moves (hence 90% of all myths start with “and then Zeus got horny…”), why not have a tea kettle yield her charms?
This next poem, one of several fine nature-themed verses, was written in Jesus Wood in 1792.
A Wish
Lo! thro' the dusky silence of the groves,
Thro' vales irriguous, and thro' green retreats,
With languid murmur creeps the placid stream,
And works its secret way!
Awhile meand'ring round its native fields
It rolls the playful wave, and winds its flight:
Then downward flowing with awaken'd speed
Embosoms in the Deep!
Thus thro' its silent tenor may my Life
Smooth its meek stream, by sordid Wealth unclogg'd,
Alike unconscious of forensic storms,
And Glory's blood-stain'd palm!
And when dark Age shall close Life's little day,
Satiate of sport, and weary of its toils,
E'en thus may slumbrous Death my decent limbs
Compose with icy hand!
I find it interesting in part because although it has a regular meter and stanza - quatrains in iambic pentameter - it is unrhymed. Not exactly blank verse, because the stanzas are in a form rather than free, it also has the line of trimeter at the end of each stanza. It’s a bit different, and it drew my eye.
One of the ways the young Coleridge wrote was to take poems from the past - often translated - and re-tell them in “modern” language. In this case, the poem is a double copy, sort of. Scottish poet James Macpherson wrote poems purported to be by “Ossian,” the son of the legendary hero Finn McCool. Macpherson claimed that he collected oral tradition, translated it from the Gaelic, and published it. Whether this was true or whether he simply wrote the poems himself is debated.
In any case, Coleridge took one of these, and made his own version.
Imitated from Ossian
The stream with languid murmur creeps,
In Lumin's flowery vale:
Beneath the dew the Lily weeps
Slow-waving to the gale.
'Cease, restless gale! 'it seems to say,
'Nor wake me with thy sighing!
The honours of my vernal day
On rapid wing are flying.
Tomorrow shall the Traveller come
Who late beheld me blooming:
His searching eye shall vainly roam
The dreary vale of Lumin.'
With eager gaze and wetted cheek
My wonted haunts along,
Thus, faithful Maiden! thou shalt seek
The Youth of simplest song.
But I along the breeze shall roll
The voice of feeble power;
And dwell, the Moon-beam of thy soul,
In Slumber's nightly hour.
Poetry nerds will instantly recognize that this is in ballad stanza, presumably as a nod to the original sung poetry Macpherson was allegedly translating.
Coleridge wrote quote a number of sonnets, including one about a river otter - and lost youth - that is actually one I had read before - I had forgotten that it was Coleridge.
Sonnet: To the River Otter
Dear native brook! wild streamlet of the West!
How many various-fated years have passed,
What happy and what mournful hours, since last
I skimmed the smooth thin stone along thy breast,
Numbering its light leaps! Yet so deep impressed
Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes
I never shut amid the sunny ray,
But straight with all their tints thy waters rise,
Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows grey,
And bedded sand that, veined with various dyes,
Gleamed through thy bright transparence!
On my way,Visions of childhood! oft have ye beguiled
Lone manhood’s cares, yet waking fondest sighs:
Ah! that once more I were a careless child!
I would be remiss if I didn’t share at least one of the poems written about the Pantisocracy plan. While the idea never was carried out, it remains one of the many utopian experiments of its time, which have created both inspiration and some really great humor. For example, Nathaniel Hawthorne’s take, The Blithedale Romance; or Bayard Taylor’s hilarious short story, “The Experiences of the A. C.” In this case, enjoy the idealism of youth.
Pantisocracy
No more my Visionary Soul shall dwell
On Joys that were! No more endure to weigh
The Shame and Anguish of the evil Day,
Wisely forgetful! O'er the Ocean swell
Sublime of Hope I seek the cottag'd Dell,
Where Virtue calm with careless step may stray,
And dancing to the moonlight Roundelay
The Wizard Passions weave an holy Spell.
Eyes that have ach'd with Sorrow! Ye shall weep
Tears of doubt-mingled Joy, like theirs who start
From Precipices of distemper'd Sleep,
On which the fierce-eyed Fiends their Revels keep,
And see the rising Sun, & feel it dart
New Rays of Pleasance trembling to the Heart.
I’ll end with a pair of sonnets. These are part of the collection (which straddles the year) “Sonnets on Eminent Characters.”
The collection was interesting for who was included. Some, of course, are well known, including the ones I am going to quote. Others are…not so much these days. They also include politicians of the era (Gladstone and Burke) and philosophers (Godwin) and scientists (Priestley) and playwrights (Sheridan) and more. Here are the two I decided to feature.
I chose Priestley because I am a fan of science and scientists, and Priestley gave some really badass lectures and demonstrations back in the day. He also had rather progressive political views, which Coleridge shared.
Priestley
Though rous'd by that dark Vizir Riot rude
Have driven our Priestly o'er the Ocean swell;
Though Superstition and her wolfish brood
Bay his mild radiance, impotent and fell;
Calm in his halls of brightness he shall dwell!
For lo! Religion at his strong behest
Starts with mild anger from the Papal spell,
And flings to Earth her tinsel-glittering vest,
Her mitred State and cumbrous Pomp unholy;
And Justice wakes to bid th' Oppressor wail
Insulting aye the wrongs of patient Folly;
And from her dark retreat by Wisdom won
Meek Nature slowly lifts her matron veil
To smile with fondness on her gazing Son!
The other one I chose was William Godwin. He may not be quite as familiar these days as the women in his life, but he was one of the original Utilitarians, along with Jeremy Bentham and John Stuart Mill. A discussion of Utilitarianism is beyond the scope of this post, but I recommend The Happiness Philosophers by Bart Schultz for a detailed look at their lives and ideas.
But, Godwin is perhaps better known today because he married Mary Wollstonecraft, the legendary first wave feminist and author of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman.
Wollstonecraft would, alas, die giving birth to the other famous woman in Godwin’s life, his daughter Mary Godwin - the future Mary Shelley. Shelley, of course, would invent the genre of Science Fiction with Frankenstein, and also write the first post-apocalyptic novel, The Last Man.
I find it amusing that in contrast to the usual situation - where worthy women are overshadowed by mediocre men - in this case, Godwin (who was far from mediocre) has gotten lost in the shadows of his brilliant wife and daughter.
In any case, he did get a sonnet out of it.
William Godwin
O! form'd t' illume a sunless world forlorn,
As o'er the chill and dusky brow of Night,
In Finland's wintry skies, the Mimic Morn
Electric pours a stream of rosy light,
Pleas'd I have mark'd Oppression, terror-pale,
Since, thro' the windings of her dark machine,
Thy steady eye has shot its glances keen—
And bade th' All-lovely "scenes at distance hail".
Nor will I not thy holy guidance bless,
And hymn thee, Godwin! with an arden lay;
For that thy voice, in Passion's stormy day,
When wild I roam'd the bleak Heath of Distress,
Bade the bright form of Justice meet my way—
And told me that her name was Happiness.
That last couplet is really good. It sums up the goals of Utilitarianism pretty well. Justice and happiness go hand in hand. The best goal is to maximize happiness (and even more so, minimize misery) for as many as possible. It actually fits with a line attributed to the preacher and theologian John Wesley.
“Do all the good you can, by all the means you can, in all the ways you can, in all the places you can, at all the times you can, to all the people you can, as long as you ever can.”
And indeed, this is good advice for our own troubled times.
As I have stated so many times on this blog, my goal in reading is to expand my field of experience. This includes reading broadly, not just in one genre or style. I have nothing against the modern poets - check out my index and the increasing number of 20th and 21st century works I write about.
But I also believe the past has wisdom for us as well, and that wisdom is often “truth told slant” as Emily Dickinson (one of my very first poetic loves as a child) put it so well. While these juvenile poems haven’t quite gotten to the profundity that Coleridge would attain in his prime, they do wear his heart on the sleeve, and express a beauty of fragile youth that I wish we could see more in our culture. Maybe we have to look beyond the surface and find the poets.
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