Reminiscences of Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Robert SoutheyCottle, Joseph
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Reminiscences of Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Robert Southey
Cottle, Joseph
Authors, English -- 19th century -- Biography; Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 1772-1834; Southey, Robert, 1774-1843
She had lost her thimble, and her complaint being accidentally
overheard by her friend, he immediately sent her four others to take
her choice from.
* * * * *
As oft mine eye, with careless glance,
Has gallop'd o'er some old romance,
Of speaking birds, and steeds with wings,
Giants and dwarfs, and fiends, and kings:
Beyond the rest, with more attentive care,
I've loved to read of elfin-favor'd fair--
How if she longed for aught beneath the sky,
And suffered to escape one votive sigh,
Wafted along on viewless pinions airy,
It kid itself obsequious at her feet:
Such things I thought we might not hope to meet,
Save in the dear delicious land of fairy!
But now (by proof I know it well)
There's still some peril in free wishing--
Politeness is a licensed spell,
And you, dear sir, the arch-magician.
You much perplexed me by the various set:
They were indeed an elegant quartette!
My mind went to and fro, and wavered long;
At length I've chosen (Samuel thinks me wrong)
That around whose azure brim,
Silver figures seem to swim,
Like fleece-white clouds, that on the skyey blue,
Waked by no breeze, the self-same shapes retain;
Or ocean nymphs, with limbs of snowy hue,
Slow floating o'er the calm cerulean plain.
Just such a one, mon cher ami
(The finger-shield of industry,)
The inventive gods, I deem, to Pallas gave,
What time the vain Arachne, madly brave,
Challenged the blue-eyed virgin of the sky
A duel in embroidered work to try.
And hence the thimbled finger of grave Pallas,
To th' erring needle's point was more than callous.
But, ah, the poor Arachne! she, unarmed,
Blund'ring, through hasty eagerness, alarmed
With all a rival's hopes, a mortal's fears,
Still miss'd the stitch, and stained the web with tears.
Unnumbered punctures, small, yet sore,
Full fretfully the maiden bore,
Till she her lily finger found
Crimson'd with many a tiny wound,
And to her eyes, suffused with watery woe,
Her flower-embroidered web danced dim, I wist,
Like blossom'd shrubs, in a quick-moving mist;
Till vanquish'd, the despairing maid sank low.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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