Image of LEWTI in my mind, 60 Methinks thou lookest not [*kin*] unkind!

FOOTNOTES:

[1049:1] The first ten lines of MS. version (1) were first published in _Note 44_ of _P. W._, 1893, p. 518, and the MS. as a whole is included in _Coleridge's Poems_, A Facsimile Reproduction of The Proofs and MSS., &c., 1899, pp. 132-4. MSS. (2) and (3) are now printed for the first time.

H

INTRODUCTION TO THE TALE OF THE DARK LADIE[1052:1]

[Vide _ante_, p. 330.]

TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORNING POST.

SIR,

The following Poem is the Introduction to a somewhat longer one, for which I shall solicit insertion on your next open day. The use of the Old Ballad word, _Ladie_, for Lady, is the only piece of obsoleteness in it; and as it is professedly a tale of ancient times, I trust, that 'the affectionate lovers of venerable antiquity' (as Camden says) will grant me their pardon, and perhaps may be induced to admit a force and propriety in it. A heavier objection may be adduced against the Author, that in these times of fear and expectation, when novelties _explode_ around us in all directions, he should presume to offer to the public a silly tale of old fashioned love; and, five years ago, I own, I should have allowed and felt the force of this objection. But, alas! explosion has succeeded explosion so rapidly, that novelty itself ceases to appear new; and it is possible that now, even a simple story, wholly unspired [? inspired] with politics or personality, may find some attention amid the hubbub of Revolutions, as to those who have resided a long time by the falls of Niagara, the lowest whispering becomes distinctly audible.

S. T. COLERIDGE.

1

O leave the Lily on its stem; O leave the Rose upon the spray; O leave the Elder-bloom, fair Maids!

And listen to my lay.

2

A Cypress and a Myrtle bough, 5 This morn around my harp you twin'd, Because it fashion'd mournfully Its murmurs in the wind.

3

And now a Tale of Love and Woe, A woeful Tale of Love I sing: 10 Hark, gentle Maidens, hark! it sighs And trembles on the string.

4

But most, my own dear Genevieve!

It sighs and trembles most for thee!

O come and hear the cruel wrongs 15 Befel the dark Ladie!

5

Few sorrows hath she of her own, My hope, my joy, my Genevieve!

She loves me best whene'er I sing The songs that make her grieve. 20

6

All thoughts, all pa.s.sions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame.

7

O ever in my waking dreams, 25 I dwell upon that happy hour, When midway on the Mount I sate Beside the ruin'd Tow'r.

8

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, Had blended with the lights of eve, 30 And she was there, my hope! my joy!

My own dear Genevieve!

9

She lean'd against the armed Man The statue of the armed Knight-- She stood and listen'd to my harp, 35 Amid the ling'ring light.

10

I play'd a sad and doleful air, I sang an old and moving story, An old rude song, that fitted well The ruin wild and h.o.a.ry. 40

11

She listen'd with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes and modest grace: For well she knew, I could not choose But gaze upon her face.

12

I told her of the Knight that wore 45 Upon his shield a burning brand.

And how for ten long years he woo'd The Ladie of the Land:

13

I told her, how he pin'd, and ah!

The deep, the low, the pleading tone, 50 With which I sang another's love, Interpreted my own!

14

She listen'd with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes and modest grace.

And she forgave me, that I gaz'd 55 Too fondly on her face!

15

But when I told the cruel scorn, That craz'd this bold and lovely Knight; And how he roam'd the mountain woods, Nor rested day or night; 60

16

And how he cross'd the Woodman's paths, Thro' briars and swampy mosses beat; How boughs rebounding scourg'd his limbs, And low stubs gor'd his feet.

17