from The Bijou Literary Annual, 1828
author: By S.T. Coleridge, Esq.
source date: 1828
edition published: 20170606
availability: Freely available via a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License

The Bijou;
or Annual of Literature and the Arts

compiled by William Fraser
William Pickering London
1828
pp. 202-204

The Two Founts

By S.T. Coleridge, Esq.

Stanzas addressed to a lady on her recovery with unblemished looks,
from a severe attack of pain.

'TWAS my last waking thought, How can it be,
That thou, sweet friend, such anguish should'st
endure?
When straight from Dreamland came a Dwarf, and he
Could tell the cause, forsooth, and knew the cure.

Methought he fronted me with peering look,
Fix'd on my heart; and read aloud in game,
The loves and griefs therein, as from a book;
And utter'd praise like one who wish'd to blame.

In every heart (quoth he) since Adam's sin,
TWO FOUNTS there are, of SUFFERING and of CHEER,
That to let forth, and this to keep within!
But she, whose aspect I find imaged here,

Of pleasure only will to all dispense,
That Fount alone unlock, by no distress
Choked or turn' inward; but still issue thence
Unconquer'd cheer, persistent loveliness.

As on the driving cloud the shiny bow,
That gracious thing made up of tears and light,
Mid the wild rack, and rain that slants below,
Stands smiling forth unmov'd, and freshly bright:

As though the spirits of all lovely flowers,
Inweaving each its wreath and dewy crown,
Or ere they sank to earth in vernal showers,
Had built a bridge to tempt the angels down.

Ev'n so, Eliza! on that face of thine,
On that benignant face, whose look alone
'The soul's translucence through her crystal shrine!)
Has power to soothe all anguish but thine own.

A Beauty hovers still, and ne'er takes wing
But with a silent charm compels the stern,
And fost'ring genius of the BITTER SPRING,
To shrink aback, and cower upon his urn.

Who then needs wonder, if (no outlet found
In passion, spleen, or strife,) the FOUNT OF PAIN,
O'erflowing beats against its lovely mound,
And in wild flashes shoots from heart to brain?

Sleep, and the Dwarf with that unsteady gleam,
On his rais'd lip, that aped a critic smile,
Had pass'd: yet I, my sad thoughts to beguile,
Lay weaving on the tissue of my dream.

Till audibly at length I cried, as though
Thou hadst indeed been present to my eyes,
O sweet, sweet sufferer! if the case be so,
I pray thee be less good, less sweet, less wise!

In every look a barbed arrow send,
On those soft lips let scorn and anger live!
Do any thing, rather than thus, sweet friend!
Hoard for thyself the pain thou wilt not give!