Actually, maybe I'm in an odd mood (maybe it is too much Retsina), but I find this much less offensive than the rest of you. The first section actually has for me a certain charm to it. The whole thing seems to partake of some classical tropes. By modern sensibilities, Catullus' lament for Lesbia's sparrow might be deemed "sentimental," but by classical standards it is very sophisticated and polished. One of the most famous sections of Lucretius describes in detail a cow mourning, in very human terms, her calf which has been taken for sacrifice. It is a beautiful passage, but one which, again, by modern standards, might be stamped sentimental, even laughable. We groan now, for instance, to see elegies for pets (Wendy Cope's hilarious dead cat poem tweaks its nose at them), but in fact that is an ancient and esteemed genre--the Greek anthology, Catullus, Martial, Thomas Gray, and others. And it seems to me that Coleridge is aware of the poetic "inappropriateness" of his subject--that there is some playfulness in the mock-epic tone of the apostrophes, which we are meant to smile, not grimace, at.
Not to say that there are not some other, more serious things going on here. In Coleridge's time, ideas about slavery, about Republicanism, about oppression, etc., were very hot topics. In likening the ass's colt to his master, it seems to be touching on these. But yes, the second stanza contains some infelicities and lacks the charm of the first, which really could stand alone. Anyway, no doubt I come across as a bit of a nut defending this piece. Obviously, it isn't a great poem--but it just doesn't strike me as quite as dreadful as you all are making out.
While everyone is still groaning at me, and throwing rotten vegetables, I thought I'd share this. Coleridge himself has some hilarious parodies on bad sonnets of the time. Here is one (the italics are beyond me, I'm afraid):
To Simplicity
O! I do love thee, meek SIMPLICITY!
For of thy lays the lulling simpleness
Goes to my heart and soothes each small distress,
Distress though small, yet haply great to me!
'Tis true on Lady Fortune's gentlest pad
I amble on; yet, though I know not why,
So sad I am--but should a friend and I
Grow cool and MIFF. O! I am VERY sad!
And then with sonnets and with sympathy
My dreamy bosom's mystic woes I pall;
Now of my false friend plaining plaintively,
Now raving at mankind in general;
But, whether sad or fierce, 'tis simple all,
All very simple, meek Simplicity!
Now THAT's a clunker...
[This message has been edited by A. E. Stallings (edited January 20, 2001).]
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