Hartley Coleridge

Mortal! fear no more,— The reign is past of ancient violence; And Jove hath sworn that time shall not deface, Nor death destroy, nor mutability Perplex the truth of love.

Oh, where is man— That mortal god, that hath no mortal kin Or like on earth? Shall Nature's orator— The interpreter of all her mystic strains — Shall he be mute in Nature's jubilee?

Thou breeze, That mak'st an organ of the mighty sea, Obedient to thy wilful phantasies, Provoke him not to scorn; but soft and low, As pious maid awakes her aged sire, On tiptoe stealing, whisper in his ear

With all your music, loud and lustily, With every dainty joy of sight and smell, Prepare a banquet meet to entertain The Lord of Thunder, that hath set you free From old oppression.

Ye patient fields, rejoice! The blessing that ye pray for silently Is come at last; for ye shall no more fade, Nor see your flow'rets droop like famishing babes Upon your comfortless breasts.

There is a dark foreboding in thy speech; Thine eyes flash fearfully a moody joy That augurs a new downfall. Whence arise These desperate hopes, that seem to make thee fond Of lowest misery?

Aye, ye were blest with folly. Who may tell What strange conceits upon the earth were sown And gender'd by the fond garrulity Of your aereal music? Scatter'd notes, Half heard, half fancied by the erring sense Of man, on which they fell …

Thus he used to prate, Till we almost believed him.

Then would he swear That he would conquer time; that in his reign It never should be winter; he would have No pain, no growing old, no death at all.

The glad sons of the deliver'd earth Shall yearly raise their multitudinous voice, Hymning great Jove, the God of Liberty!

He grew, and grew, A star-bright sign of fated empery; And all conspiring omens led him on To lofty purpose and pre-eminence.

What were Jove himself If pity had not been? Was not he once A hapless babe, condemn'd to die ere born?

Jove is not one half so merciless As thou art to thyself. But fare thee well; Our love is all as stubborn as thy pride, And swift as firm.

Go your way. Forget Prometheus, And all the woe that he is doom'd to bear; By his own choice this vile estate preferring To ignorant bliss and unfelt slavery.

once an age Some desperate wight, or wizard, gaunt and grey, Shall seek this spot by help of hidden lore, To ask of things forgotten or to come. But who, beholding me, shall dare defy The wrath of Jove? Since vain is wisdom's boast,

Now shall I become a common tale, A ruin'd fragment of a worn-out world; Unchanging record of unceasing change. Eternal landmark to the tide of time. Swift generations, that forget each other, Shall still keep up the memory of my shame

Gentle powers, forbear! Twere worse than all my miseries foreseen Should my huge wreck suck down the friendly skiffs That proffer'd aid. Oh! would that Jupiter Had hurl'd me to the deep of Erebus, Where neither god nor man might pity me.

Are we not bold to bid a god repent; To break upon his slumbers with our prayers; To watch him day and night; to wear him out With endless supplication? Perhaps to beg His kind attention to a pleasant tale; To cheat him into pity, and …

Where'er ye sojourn, and whatever names Ye are or shall be called; fairies, or sylphs, Nymphs of the wood or mountain, flood or field: Live ye in peace, and long may ye be free To follow your good minds.

True, thy fault is great, But we are many that will plead for thee; We and our sisters, dwellers in the streams That murmur blithely to the joyous mood, And dolefully to sadness. Not a nook In darkest woods but some of us are there,

We have winning wiles and witcheries, Such incantations as thy sterner wit Did never dream of. Time hath been ere now That Jove hath listen'd to our minstrelsy. Till wrath would seem to drop out of his soul Like a forgotten thing.

The mighty Jove did love us. Did? He does. There is a spell of unresisted power In wonder-working weak simplicity, Because it is not fear'd.

I will live, That Jove may know there is a deathless soul Who ne'er will be his subject. Yes, 'tis past. The stedfast Fates confess my absolute will,— Their own co-equal.

Hard I strove To put away my immortality, Till my collected spirits swell'd my heart Almost to bursting; but the strife is past.