The overall nature and character of this poem is very intriguing. First is the conflict about its style is closer to an Ode or a Conversation Poem. On one hand is the fact that Coleridge himself referred to the poem as an Ode and on the other is the conversational tone of the poem. While there is no denying the conversational tone of the poem, it is hard to classify it as a proper Conversation Poem. Even though the poem sounds amiable it is not very intimate and has a heightened sense of dignity to it which isn’t found in Conversation Poems. Coupled with Coleridge’s reference to the poem as an Ode, I am lead to believe that this poem is more of an Ode.
Now, considering that this is an ode, it is hard to strictly classify it into a Pindaric or an Horatian ode. On the one hand there is the extravagant passion that the poem is conveying (which are attributes of a Pindaric ode) and on the other is the meditative nature of the poem (which is usually found is Horatian odes). However, since the poem is not completely homostrophic in nature, I’m more inclined to believe that it’s a Pindaric ode.
But overall, I believe the poem is a bit of everything and is, hence, unique. The meditative nature
coupled with a genial tone to convey deep passion, giving it a touch of Horatian and Pindaric odes and Conversation Poems.
Inspired by Coleridge’s doomed love for Sara Hutchinson, the poem (to me) describes the declining creative imagination or the “genial spirit” of the poet. On first perusal the poem seems to be about the depression the poet is experiencing because of an unattainable love. It can also be read as a chronicle of that phase in the poet’s life when he was facing a crisis in terms of his creativity and imagination. It highlights the place of imagination and perception in Romantic ideology and how imagination gives life to nature. Coleridge tries to arouse his creativity and imagination through elements of nature but evidently fails. Coleridge has lost all motivation and inspiration and the distress over the loss of his creativity troubles and dismays him more than his grief. Dejection is not a poem about the agonies of depression but about the torment over the inability to feel. When Coleridge fails to find any inspiration from outside sources he seeks motivation from within and this way focuses on the ideal Romantic belief of a balance between imagination and internal realities. By the end of the poem, Coleridge learn to make his dejection productive. As Shelly points out in Defense of Poetry that it is not always joy and pleasure that inspire a poetic creation but also “sorrow, terror, anguish, despair”. Coleridge’s despair inspires a new way of thinking or critical thinking which is based on a kind of blank attachment with the
subject being perceived and this blank attachment is developed by his inability to feel.
“Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made
The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,
This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence
Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade
Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes,
Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes
Upon the strings of this Æolian lute,
Which better far were mute.
For lo! the New-moon winter-bright!
And overspread with phantom light,
(With swimming phantom light overspread
But rimmed and circled by a silver thread)
I see the old Moon, in her lap, foretelling
The coming-on of rain and squally blast.
And oh! that even now the gust were swelling,
And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast!
Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed,
And sent my soul abroad,
Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give,
Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live!”
These lines portray a carefree, wandering thought process but are leashed by a proper rhyme scheme which does not lessen the geniality of the stanza in any way. In a way, this stanza blends paradoxes together and gives it a unique yet balanced taste. The solemnity of the rhyme scheme is tempered by an ambling joviality produced by diverse metrical patterns that follows the jaunting thought and scheme of the stanza and the wandering breeze.
To my understanding, the Aeolian harp is a symbol of both, the rising and falling wind and the restless mind of the poet. Just as the requires a strong wind to compose music, the poet needs an external inspiration to rouse his creativity. But in the end, the wind by itself cannot create music and for inspiration the poet needs to look within.
The moon while being described as an abstract “phantom light” and is yet "rimmed and circled by a silver thread" to add a degree of definitiveness to it. The concern and the sense of foreboding over what is going to happen in the future is redeemed by the certainty of the way Coleridge is describing the present. This sense of foreboding and apprehension is partly invoked by the rising wind and echoes the sinister touch of the epigraph: “ And I fear, I fear, my Master dear!
Suspended between expectations and apprehensions, this stanza establishes the paradoxes which are explored throughout the poem.
“A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief,
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,
In word, or sigh, or tear—
O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood,
To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd,
All this long eve, so balmy and serene,
Have I been gazing on the western sky,
And its peculiar tint of yellow green:
And still I gaze—and with how blank an eye!
And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars,
We shall have a deadly storm.”
That give away their motion to the stars;
Those stars, that glide behind them or between,
Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen:
Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it grew
In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue;
I see them all so excellently fair,
I see, not feel, how beautiful they are!”
Because of the poet’s “wan and heartless mood” he is unable to fully perceive things. Yes, he does notice them or rather he stares at them with a “blank” eye but it is all mechanical for he expresses his inability to connect with his surroundings; he can see them “ but not feel how beautiful they are”.
“My genial spirits fail;
And what can these avail
To lift the smothering weight from off my breast?
It were a vain endeavour,
Though I should gaze for ever
On that green light that lingers in the west:
I may not hope from outward forms to win
The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.”
This stanza gives off a very resigned and paralyzed feel. He is unable to do anything more than gaze at the “western sky” Outward beauty is unable to inspire him, to strengthen him from within and he is now resigned to this fate.
“O Lady! we receive but what we give,
And in our life alone does Nature live:
Ours is her wedding garment, ours her shroud!
And would we aught behold, of higher worth,
Than that inanimate cold world allowed
To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,
Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud
Enveloping the Earth—
And from the soul itself must there be sent
A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,
Of all sweet sounds the life and element!”
Although Romantics regularly highlight the significance of nature and the relationship between man and nature, Coleridge, here, states that nature with all its elegance is insignificant without an aspect of internal beauty, of understanding, of meaning in the individual who perceives nature. Hence, it is not the beauty of one’s surroundings that matter. What matters is one’s assimilation, of one’s awareness and one’s interpretation of that beauty. If the perceiver does not emphatically use his own imaginative prowess, nature does not affect him in any major way.
This stanza might also be the result of his guilt over his illicit relationship with Sara Hutchinson especially if he believes in Milton’s philosophy that a good poet “must first be wise and good”.
“Joy, virtuous Lady! joy that ne'er was given,
Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,
Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and shower,
Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power,
Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower
A new Earth and new Heaven . . . .”
The basic theme of the above lines is that the bounteousness of nature is a source of eternal joy and pleasure. This stanza, like the previous one does not follow the reflective theme of the rest of the poem. The poet is directly addressing a ‘Lady’ and is talking about the general truths rather than lamenting over his personal loss.
“There was a time when, though my path was rough,
This joy within me dallied with distress,
And all misfortunes were but as the stuff
Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness:
For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,
And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine.
But now afflictions bow me down to earth:
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth;
But oh! each visitation
Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,
My shaping spirit of Imagination.
For not to think of what I needs must feel,
But to be still and patient, all I can;
And haply by abstruse research to steal
From my own nature all the natural man—
This was my sole resource, my only plan:
Till that which suits a part infects the whole,
And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.”
The narration turns back again to the poet’s particular, personal experiences and loss. He talks of how, in the past he had enough gaiety, enough hope to face and fight all kinds of distress and now the slightest of “afflictions” break him apart and uproot him. His distress has now suspended his “spirit of Imagination” with which he was born. His only solace, his way out of his misery is his “abstruse research” or a sense of self-oblivion, disconnecting himself from nature, which probably laid the foundation for his metaphysical work; his philosophies and his work on literary criticism.
“Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,
Reality's dark dream!
I turn from you, and listen to the wind,
Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream
Of agony by torture lengthened out
That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that rav'st without,
Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted tree,
Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,
Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,
Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,
Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers,
Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers,
Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song,
The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among.
Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds!
Thou mighty Poet, e'en to frenzy bold
What tell'st thou now about?
'Tis of the rushing of an host in rout,
With groans, of trampled men, with smarting wounds—
At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold!
But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence!
And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,
With groans, and tremulous shudderings—all is over—
It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud!
A tale of less affright,
And tempered with delight,
As Otway's self had framed the tender lay,—
'Tis of a little child
Upon a lonesome wild,
Nor far from home, but she hath lost her way:
And now moans low in bitter grief and fear,
And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear.”
With an effort, the poet now turns his attentions away “the viper thoughts” that corrupt his mind and to the ranting, frenzied wind. This spooky, ghostly wind has been called a “Mad Lutanist” that blemishes the blossoms of the spring; an “Actor” adept at playing tragedies and then a “mighty Poet” who tells of terrible storms and tragedies and the wailing of a lost child for her mother. The poet’s Imagination has now taken a grim and macabre turn. His creativity has become active once again because of his deep dejection. This creativity doesn’t churn out bliss or peace but sings of terror and dismay.
“'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep:
Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!
Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing,
And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,
May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,
Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth!
With light heart may she rise,
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,
Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice;
To her may all things live, from pole to pole,
Their life the eddying of her living soul!
O simple spirit, guided from above,
Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice,
Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice.”
In this final stanza, the poet wishes the “Lady” all the happiness and peace that have been denied to him. This heartfelt blessing is projected towards the source of his misery but is not meant for him. However, it feels like he has found his own way with his new situation and now has the tools to mold the new clay that has been given to him to form something meaningful.
In my opinion, the last two stanzas are a little different from the rest of the poem and interfere with the unification of the entire poem. It is probably is a result of the exclusion of parts of the original verse-letter that Coleridge wrote. However, it does not diminish the artistry of this creation. It comes across as a very honest rendition of Coleridge’s pathos.
