Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772–1834)

I STOOD on 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 dragged 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

Leaped frolicsome, or old romantic goat

Sat, his white beard slow waving. I moved on

In low and languid mood: for I had found

That outward forms, the loftiest, still receive

Their finer influence from the Life within;—

Fair cyphers else: fair, but of import vague

Or unconcerning, where the heart not finds

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 eyes 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 everywhere! the God who framed

Mankind to be one mighty family,

Himself our Father, and the World our Home.