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Title: Introduction To The Tale Of The Dark Ladie
Author: Samuel Taylor Coleridge [
More Titles by Coleridge]
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.
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.
A Cypress and a Myrtle bough,
This morn around my harp you twin'd,
Because it fashion'd mournfully
Its murmurs in the wind.
And now a Tale of Love and Woe,
A woeful Tale of Love I sing: 0
Hark, gentle Maidens, hark! it sighs
And trembles on the string.
But most, my own dear Genevieve!
It sighs and trembles most for thee!
O come and hear the cruel wrongs
Befel the dark Ladie!
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.
All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.
O ever in my waking dreams,
I dwell upon that happy hour,
When midway on the Mount I sate
Beside the ruin'd Tow'r.
The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene,
Had blended with the lights of eve,0
And she was there, my hope! my joy!
My own dear Genevieve!
She lean'd against the armed Man
The statue of the armed Knight--
She stood and listen'd to my harp,
Amid the ling'ring light.
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 hoary.
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.
I told her of the Knight that wore
Upon his shield a burning brand.
And how for ten long years he woo'd
The Ladie of the Land:
I told her, how he pin'd, and ah!
The deep, the low, the pleading tone,
With which I sang another's love,
Interpreted my own!
She listen'd with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace.
And she forgave me, that I gaz'd
Too fondly on her face!
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;
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.
How sometimes from the savage den,
And sometimes from the darksome shade,
And sometimes starting up at once,
In green and sunny glade;
There came and look'd him in the face
An Angel beautiful and bright,
And how he knew it was a Fiend,
This mis'rable Knight!
And how, unknowing what he did,
He leapt amid a lawless band,
And sav'd from outrage worse than death
The Ladie of the Land.
And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees,
And how she tended him in vain,
And meekly strove to expiate
The scorn that craz'd his brain;
And how she nurs'd him in a cave;
And how his madness went away,
When on the yellow forest leaves
A dying man he lay;
His dying words--but when I reach'd
That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
My fault'ring voice and pausing harp
Disturb'd her soul with pity.
All impulses of soul and sense
Had thrill'd my guiltless Genevieve--
The music and the doleful tale,
The rich and balmy eve;
And hopes and fears that kindle hope,
An undistinguishable throng;
And gentle wishes long subdu'd,
Subdu'd and cherish'd long.
She wept with pity and delight--
She blush'd with love and maiden shame,
And like the murmurs of a dream,
I heard her breathe my name.
I saw her bosom heave and swell,
Heave and swell with inward sighs--
I could not choose but love to see
Her gentle bosom rise.
Her wet cheek glow'd; she stept aside,
As conscious of my look she stept;
Then suddenly, with tim'rous eye,
She flew to me, and wept;
She half-inclos'd me with her arms--
She press'd me with a meek embrace;
And, bending back her head, look'd up,
And gaz'd upon my face.
'Twas partly love, and partly fear,
And partly 'twas a bashful art,
That I might rather feel than see,
The swelling of her heart.
I calm'd her fears, and she was calm,
And told her love with virgin pride;
And so I won my Genevieve,
My bright and beaut'ous bride.
And now once more a tale of woe,
A woeful tale of love, I sing:
For thee, my Genevieve! it sighs,
And trembles on the string.
When last I sang the cruel scorn
That craz'd this bold and lonely Knight,
And how he roam'd the mountain woods,
Nor rested day or night;
I promis'd thee a sister tale
Of Man's perfidious cruelty:
Come, then, and hear what cruel wrong
Befel the Dark Ladie.
[The end]
Samuel Taylor Coleridge's poem: Introduction To The Tale Of The Dark Ladie
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