Sibylline Leaves (Coleridge)/Lines, written in the Album at Elbingerode

by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

LINES
Written in the Album at Elbingerode, in the Hartz Forest.

 

I stood on ^[1]Brocken's sovran height, and saw
Woods crowding upon woods, hills over hills,
A surging scene, and only limited
By the blue distance. Heavily my way
Downward I dragg'd through fir-groves evermore,
Where bright green moss heaves in sepulchral forms
Speckled with sunshine; and, but seldom heard,
The sweet bird's song became an hollow sound;
And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly,
Preserved its solemn murmur most distinct
From many a note of many a waterfall,
And the brook's chatter; 'mid whose islet stones
The dingy kidling with its tinkling bell
Leapt frolicsome, or old romantic goat
Sat, his white beard slow waving. I moved on

In low and languid ^[2]mood: for I had found
That outward Forms, the loftiest, still receive
Their finer influence from the Life within:
Fair Cyphers of vague import, where the Eye
Traces no spot, in which the Heart may read
History or Prophecy of Friend, or Child,
Or gentle Maid, our first and early love,
Or Father, or the venerable name
Of our adored Country! O thou Queen,
Thou delegated Deity of Earth,
O dear, dear England! how my longing eye
Turned westward, shaping in the steady clouds
Thy sands and high white cliffs!
My native Land!
Filled with the thought of thee this heart was proud,
Yea, mine eye swam with tears: that all the view
From sovran Brocken, woods and woody hills,
Floated away, like a departing dream,
Feeble and dim! Stranger, these impulses

Blame thou not lightly; nor will I profane,
With hasty judgment or injurious doubt,
That man's sublimer spirit, who can feel
That God is every where! the God who framed
Mankind to be one mighty Family,
Himself our Father, and the World our Home.

1. The highest mountain in the Hartz and indeed in North Germany.
2. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .When I have gazed
   From some high eminence on goodly vales,
   And cots and villages embowered below,
   The thought would rise that all to me was strange
   Amid the scenes so fair, nor one small spot
   Where my tired mind might rest, and call it home.
   Southey's Hymn to the Penates.