# Sibylline Leaves (Coleridge)/To a Young Friend

The 'Young Friend' of the title is Charles Lloyd
TO A YOUNG FRIEND,
On his proposing to Domesticate with the Author.
Composed in 1796.
A mount, not wearisome and bare and steep, But a green mountain variously up-piled, Where o'er the jutting rocks soft mosses creep, Or color'd lichens with slow oosing weep; Where cypress and the darker yew start wild; And 'mid the summer torrent's gentle dash Dance brighten'd the red clusters of the ash; Beneath whose boughs, by those still sounds beguil'd, Calm Pensiveness might muse herself to sleep; Till haply startled by some fleecy dam, That rustling on the bushy clift above, With melancholy bleat of anxious love, Made meek enquiry for her wandering lamb: Such a green mountain 'twere most sweet to climb, E'en while the bosom ach'd with loneliness— How more than sweet, if some dear friend should bless Th' advent'rous toil, and up the path sublime
Now lead, now follow: the glad landscape round, Wide and more wide, increasing without bound!
O then 'twere loveliest sympathy, to mark The berries of the half-uprooted ash Dripping and bright; and list the torrent's dash,— Beneath the cypress, or the yew more dark, Seated at ease, on some smooth mossy rock; In social silence now, and now t'unlock The treasur'd heart; arm link'd in friendly arm, Save if the one, his muse's witching charm Mutt'ring brow-bent, at unwatch'd distance lag; Till high o'er head his beck'ning friend appears, And from the forehead of the topmost crag Shouts eagerly: for haply there uprears That shadowing pine its old romantic limbs, Which latest shall detain th' enamoured sight Seen from below, when eve the valley dims, Ting'd yellow with the rich departing light; And haply, bason'd in some unsunn'd cleft, A beauteous spring, the rock's collected tears, Sleeps shelter'd there, scarce wrinkled by the gale! Together thus, the world's vain turmoil left,
Stretch'd on the crag, and shadow'd by the pine, And bending o'er the clear delicious fount, Ah! dearest youth! it were a lot divine To cheat our noons in moralizing mood, While west-winds fann'd our temples toil-bedew'd: Then downwards slope, oft pausing, from the mount, To some lone mansion, in some woody dale, Where smiling with blue eye, domestic bliss Gives this the Husband's, that the Brother's kiss!
Thus rudely vers'd in allegoric lore, The Hill of Knowledge I essay'd to trace; That verd'rous hill with many a resting-place, And many a stream, whose warbling waters pour To glad, and fertilize the subject plains; That hill with secret springs, and nooks untrod, And many a fancy-blest and holy sod Where Inspiration, his diviner strains Low murmuring, lay; and starting from the rocks Stiff evergreens, whose spreading foliage mocks Want's barren soil, and the bleak frosts of age, And Bigotry's mad fire-invoking rage! O meek retiring spirit! we will climb, Cheering and cheer'd, this lovely hill sublime;
And from the stirring world up-lifted high, (Whose noises, faintly wafted on the wind, To quiet musings shall attune the mind, And oft the melancholy theme supply) There, while the prospect through the gazing eye Pours all its healthful greenness on the soul, We'll smile at wealth, and learn to smile at fame, Our hopes, our knowledge, and our joys the same, As neighbouring fountains image, each the whole: Then when the mind hath drank its fill of truth, We'll discipline the heart to pure delight, Rekindling sober joy's domestic flame. They whom I love shall love thee. Honor'd youth! Now may Heaven realize this vision bright!