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France: an Ode

­·

'And what,' I said, 'though Blasphemy's loud scream
With that sweet music of deliverance strove!
Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove
A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's dream!
Ye storms, that round the dawning East assembled,
The Sun was rising, though ye hid his light!'
And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled,
The dissonance ceased, and all that seemed calm and bright;
When France her front deep-scarr'd and gory
Concealed with clustering wreaths of glory;
When, unsupportably advancing,
Her arm made mockery of the warrior's ramp;
While timid looks of fury glancing,
Domestic treason, crushed beneath her fatal stamp,
Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore;
Then I reproached my fears that would not flee;
'And soon,' I said, 'shall Wisdom teach her lore
In the low huts of them that toil and groan!
And, conquering by her happiness alone,
Shall France compel the nations to be free,
Till love and Joy look round, and call the Earth their own.'

Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1722-1834)


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France: an Ode

II

When France in wrath her giant-limbs upreared,
And with that oath, which smote air, earth, and sea,
Stamped her strong foot and said she would be free,
Bear witness for me, how I hoped and feared!
With what a joy my lofty gratulation
Unawed I sang, amid a slavish band:
And when to whelm the disenchanted nation,
Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand,
The Monarchs marched in evil day,
And Britain joined the dire array;
Though dear her shores and circling ocean,
Though many friendships, many youthful loves
Had swoln the patriot emotion
And flung a magic light o'er all the hills and groves;
Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang defeat
To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance,
And shame too long delayed and vain retreat!
For ne'er, O Liberty! with parial aim
I dimmed thy light or damped thy holy flame;
But blessed the paeans of delivered France,
And hung my head and wept at Britain's name.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1722-1834)


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France: an Ode

I

Ye clouds! that far above me float and pause,
Whose pathless march no mortal may control!
Ye Ocean-Waves! that, whereso'er ye roll,
Yield homage only to eternal laws!
Ye Woods! that listen to the night-birds singing,
Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclined,
Save when your own imperious branches swinging,
Have made a solemn music of the wind!
Where, like a man beloved of God,
Through glooms, which never woodman trod,
How oft, pursuing fancies holy,
My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound,
Inspired, beyond the guess of folly,
By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound!
O ye loud Waves! and O ye Forests high!
And O ye Clouds that far above me soared!
Thou rising Sun! thou blue rejoicing Sky!
Yea! every thing that is and will be free!
Bear witness for me, whereso'er ye be,
With what deep worship I have still adored
The spirit of divinest Liberty.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1722-1834)


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¥³¡¼¥ë¥ê¥Ã¥¸¤Ï¥µ¥é¡¦¥Ï¥Ã¥Á¥ó¥½¥ó¡ÊSara Hutchinson¡Ë¤È¤¤¤¦½÷À­¤Ë½ñ¤¤¤¿¥é¥Ö¡¦¥ì¥¿¡¼¤Ç¤¢¤ë¡£¤³¤Î½÷À­¤Ë¤Ä¤¤¤Æ¤ÏÎɤ¯ÃΤé¤Ê¤¤¤¬¡¢¸ÐÈÊ»í¿Í¤È¤È¤â¤Ë½Ð¤Æ¤¯¤ë½÷À­¤Ç¤¢¤ë¡£

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To Asra

Are there two things, of all which men possess,
That are so like each other and so near,
As mutual Love seems like to Happiness?
Dear Asra, woman beyond utterance dear!

This Love which ever welling at my heart,
Now in its living fount doth heave and fall,
Now overflowing pours thro' every part
Of all my frame, and fills and changes all,

Like vernal waters springing up through snow,
This Love that seeming great beyond the power
Of growth, yet seemeth ever more to grow,
Could I transmute the whole to one rich Dower

Of Happy Life, and give it all to Thee,
Thy lot, methinks, were Heaven, thy age, Eternity!

Samuel Taylor Coleridge


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¥³¡¼¥ë¥ê¥Ã¥¸°ì²¤Î»í¤òÌõ¤·¤Æ¤­¤Æ¡¢¤Õ¤È¥³¡¼¥ë¥ê¥Ã¥¸¤Î¡Ö¥Õ¥é¥ó¥¹¡×¤òÃΤ뤳¤È¤Ë¤Ê¤Ã¤¿¡£¤À¤¬¡Ö¥Õ¥é¥ó¥¹¡×¤ÎÁ°ÊÔ¤¬¤¢¤ë¤Ï¤º¤Èõ¤·¤Æ¤¤¤¿¤é¡¢¥¦¥£¥­¥½¡¼¥¹¤Ë¡ÈDestruction of the Bastille (1789)¡É ¤¬¤¢¤Ã¤¿¡£Á´Ê¸¤Ï²¿»íÀá¤Ë¤Ê¤ë¤«ÃΤé¤Ê¤¤¤¬¡¢Âè°ì¡¢Âè»Í¡¢Âè¸Þ¡¢ÂèÏ»»íÀ᤬·ÇºÜ¤·¤Æ¤¢¤ë¡£ÆÉ¤ó¤À¸Â¤ê¡¢ÂèÏ»»íÀá¤Ç½ª¤Ã¤Æ¤¤¤ë¡£ÂèÆó¡¢Âè»°»íÀá¤Î¥«¥Ã¥ÈÉôʬ¤¬¤¢¤ì¤Ð¤Þ¤¿Äɲ乤ë¤È¤·¤Æ¡¢º£Æü¤Ï¥¦¥£¥­¥½¡¼¥¹ÈǤÎÌõ¤òÅê¹Æ¤¹¤ë¡£¾ð¤±¤Ê¤¤¤¬¡¢º£Æü¤â¼áÁ³¤È¤·¤Ê¤¤Éôʬ¤¬¤¢¤ë¡£¤Þ¤¿»×¤¤ÉÕ¤¤¤Æ½¤ÀµÌõ¤òÅê¹Æ¤Ç¤ì¤Ð¤È»×¤Ã¤Æ¤¤¤ë¡£¤³¤Î»í¤òÁ°Äó¤Ë¤·¤Æ¡Ö¥Õ¥é¥ó¥¹¡×¤òÅê¹Æ¤·¡¢Èà¤Î¡Ö¥Õ¥é¥ó¥¹³×Ì¿¡×¤Ë¤¿¤¤¤¹¤ëÂÖÅÙ¤ò¤ß¤Æ¤ß¤¿¤¤¡£


Destruction of the Bastille

üñ.

Heard¡Çst thou yon universal cry,
And dost thou linger still on Gallia¡Çs shore?
Go, Tyranny! beneath some barbarous sky
Thy terrors lost and ruin¡Çd power deplore!
What tho¡Ç through many a groaning age
Was felt thy keen suspicious rage,
Yet Freedom rous¡Çd by fierce Disdain
Has wildly broke thy triple chain,
And like the storm which Earth¡Çs deep entrails hide,
At length has burst its way and spread the ruins wide.

  • * * * * *

üô.

In sighs their sickly breath was spent; each gleam
Of Hope had ceas¡Çd the long long day to cheer;
Or if delusive, in some flitting dream,
It gave them to their friends and children dear —
Awaked by lordly Insult¡Çs sound
To all the doubled horrors round,
Oft shrunk they from Oppression¡Çs band
While Anguish rais¡Çd the desperate hand
For silent death; or lost the mind¡Çs controll,
Thro¡Ç every burning vein would tides of Frenzy roll.

üõ.

But cease, ye pitying bosoms, cease to bleed!
Such scenes no more demand the tear humane;
I see, I see! glad Liberty succeed
With every patriot virtue in her train!
And mark yon peasant¡Çs raptur¡Çd eyes;
Secure he views his harvests rise;
No fetter vile the mind shall know,
And Eloquence shall fearless glow.
Yes! Liberty the soul of Life shall reign,
Shall throb in every pulse, shall flow thro¡Ç every vein!

üö.

Shall France alone a Despot spurn?
Shall she alone, O Freedom, boast thy care?
Lo, round thy standard Belgia¡Çs heroes burn,
Tho¡Ç Power¡Çs blood-stain¡Çd streamers fire the air,
And wider yet thy influence spread,
Nor e¡Çer recline thy weary head,
Till every land from pole to pole
Shall boast one independent soul!
And still, as erst, let favour¡Çd Britain be
First ever of the first and freest of the free!

Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834)


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