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To The Rev. George Coleridge Analysis



Author: poem of Samuel Taylor Coleridge Type: poem Views: 49

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Notus in fratres animi paterni.

                         Hor. Carm. lib.II.2.



A blesséd lot hath he, who having passed

His youth and early manhood in the stir

And turmoil of the world, retreats at length,

With cares that move, not agitate the heart,

To the same dwelling where his father dwelt;

And haply views his tottering little ones

Embrace those agéd knees and climb that lap,

On which first kneeling his own infancy

Lisp'd its brief prayer. Such, O my earliest Friend!

Thy lot, and such thy brothers too enjoy.

At distance did ye climb Life's upland  road,

Yet cheered and cheering: now fraternal love

Hath drawn you to one centre. Be your days

Holy, and blest and blessing may ye live!



  To me the Eternal Wisdom hath dispens'd

A different fortune and more different mind—

Me from the spot where first I sprang to light

Too soon transplanted, ere my soul had fix'd

Its first domestic loves; and hence through life

Chasing chance-started friendships. A brief while

Some have preserved me from life's pelting ills;

But, like a tree with leaves of feeble stem,

If the clouds lasted, and a sudden breeze

Ruffled the boughs, they on my head at once

Dropped the collected shower; and some most false,

False and fair-foliag'd as the Manchineel,

Have tempted me to slumber in their shade

E'en mid the storm; then breathing subtlest damps,

Mix'd their own venom with the rain from Heaven,

That I woke poison'd! But, all praise to Him

Who gives us all things, more have yielded me

Permanent shelter; and beside one Friend,

Beneath the impervious covert of one oak,

I've rais'd a lowly shed, and know the names

Of Husband and of Father; not unhearing

Of that divine and nightly-whispering Voice,

Which from my childhood to maturer years

Spake to me of predestinated wreaths,

Bright with no fading colours!

                                               Yet at times

My soul is sad, that I have roam'd through life

Still most a stranger, most with naked heart

At mine own home and birth-place: chiefly then,

When I remember thee, my earliest Friend!

Thee, who didst watch my boyhood and my youth;

Didst trace my wanderings with a father's eye;

And boding evil yet still hoping good,

Rebuk'd each fault, and over all my woes

Sorrow'd in silence! He who counts alone

The beatings of the solitary heart,

That Being knows, how I have lov'd thee ever,

Lov'd as a brother, as a son rever'd thee!

Oh! 'tis to me an ever new delight,

To talk of thee and thine: or when the blast

Of the shrill winter, rattling our rude sash,

Endears the cleanly hearth and social bowl;

Or when, as now, on some delicious eve,

We in our sweet sequester'd orchard-plot

Sit on the tree crook'd earth-ward; whose old boughs,

That hang above us in an arborous roof,

Stirr'd by the faint gale of departing May,

Send their loose blossoms slanting o'er our heads!



  Nor dost not thou sometimes recall those hours,

When with the joy of hope thou gavest thine ear

To my wild firstling-lays. Since then my song

Hath sounded deeper notes, such as beseem

Or that sad wisdom folly leaves behind,

Or such as, tuned to these tumultuous times,

Cope with the tempest's swell!



                                                These various strains,

Which I have fram'd in many a various mood,

Accept, my Brother! and (for some perchance

Will strike discordant on thy milder mind)

If aught of error or intemperate truth

Should meet thine ear, think thou that riper Age

Will calm it down, and let thy love forgive it!






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