Dejection--At Long Last, an End


Dejection--At Long Last, an End

Here's the final portion of the ode:

from Dejection: An Ode Samuel Taylor Coleridge

            Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,
                       Reality's dark dream!
            I turn from you, and listen to the wind,
                  Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream
            Of agony by torture lengthened out
            That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that rav'st without,
                Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted tree,
          Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,
          Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,
                Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,
          Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers,
          Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers,
          Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song,
          The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among.
                Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds!
          Thou mighty Poet, e'en to frenzy bold!
                     What tell'st thou now about?
                     'Tis of the rushing of an host in rout,
                With groans, of trampled men, with smarting wounds--
          At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold!
          But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence!
                And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,
          With groans, and tremulous shudderings--all is over--
                It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud!
                     A tale of less affright,
                     And tempered with delight,
          As Otway's self had framed the tender lay,--
                     'Tis of a little child
                     Upon a lonesome wild,
          Nor far from home, but she hath lost her way:
          And now moans low in bitter grief and fear,
          And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear.
          'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep:
          Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!
          Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing,
                And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,
          May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,
                Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth!
                     With light heart may she rise,
                     Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,
                Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice;
          To her may all things live, from pole to pole,
          Their life the eddying of her living soul!
                O simple spirit, guided from above,
          Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice,
          Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice.

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This page contains a single entry by Steven Riddle published on January 7, 2003 8:16 AM.

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