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Samuel Taylor Coleridge - To A Young Lady, With A Poem On The French RevolutionSamuel Taylor Coleridge - To A Young Lady, With A Poem On The French Revolution
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Much on my early youth I love to dwell, Ere yet I bade that friendly dome farewell, Where first, beneath the echoing cloisters, pale, I heard of guilt and wondered at the tale! Yet tho` the hours flew by on careless wing, Full heavily of sorrow would I sing. Aye as the star of evening flung its beam In broken radiance on the wavy stream, My soul amid the pensive twilight gloom Mourned with the breeze, O, Lee Boo! o`er thy tomb. Where`er I wanderd, pity still was near, Breathed from the heart and glistened in the tear: No knell that tolled, but filled my anxious eye, And suffering nature wept that one should die! Thus to sad sympathies I soothed my breast, Calm, as the rainbow in the weeping west: When slumb`ring freedom roused by high disdain With giant fury burst her triple chain! Fierce on her front the blasting dog-star glowed; Her banners like a midnight meteor flowed; Amid the yelling of the storm-rent skies She came, and scattered battles from her eyes! Then exultation waked the patriot fire And swept with wilder hand the Alcaean lyre: Red from the tyrant`s wound I shook the lance, And strode in joy the reeking plains of France! Fall`n is th` oppressor, friendless, ghastly, low, And my heart aches tho` mercy struck the blow. With wearied thought once more I see the shade, Where peaceful virtue weaves the myrtle braid. And O! if eyes, whose holy glances roll, Swift messengers, and eloquent of soul; If smiles more winning, and a gentler mien, Than the love-wildered maniac`s brain hath seen Shaping celestial forms in vacant air, If these demand th` impassioned poet`s care-- If mirth, and softened sense, and wit refined, The blameless features of a lovely mind; Then haply shall my trembling hand assign No fading wreath beauty`s saintly shrine. Nor, Sara! thou these early flowers refuse---- Ne`er lurked the snake beneath their simple hues, No purple bloom the child of nature brings From flatt`ry`s night-shade: as he feels, he sings. Sept. 1794.
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