The Poetry of Matthew Gregory "Monk" Lewis

[𝘗rincess 𝘵uvstarr]

I was reading last night bits from the excitingly titled De Quincey's Editorship of the Westmorland Gazette, and in it there is an extract from a biographical sketch of Monk Lewis, who had recently died, dated August 1st 1818:

"In 1801 he published two volumes of poems, under the title of Tales of Wonder : these merit their title, and abound with sufficient of the marvellous, which seemed to be a favourite theme with him. They also possess great beauty. The Bravo of Venice was published in 1804, and Feudal Tyrants, a romance of four volumes, in 1806. Besides these, he has published Tales of Terror, three volumes ; Romantic Tales, four volumes ; and a Collection of Poems in one volume. The prominent tone of all these works is the horrible — their prevailing character the super-natural. With a fine and strong imagination, Mr. Lewis addicted himself to the demonology of belles lettres, if we may bestow that appellation upon the darkest German fictions, and the wildest conceptions of romance. But for the revolting excess to which he was so apt to carry his favourite theme, he must have been infinitely popular, since even in spite of this blemish, his animated pictures, his powerful descriptions, his charms of composition, and his agitating situations, have a wonderful hold upon the mind, which cannot resist their effects. Undoubtedly he was more likely to corrupt the stage than to enrich it with dramas within the license which our freedom in that respect admits. But his muse knew no bounds. His tales are excellent of their kind, admirably " written, and generally replete with pathos. Of the same nature are many of his minor poems. Alonzo the Brave ; Mary, the Maid of the Inn ; Bonny Jane, &c., are exquisitely wrought : and it should be noticed, that as he was aware of the ridicule that might be attached to that class of poems to which the first of these belongs, and which he may be said to have introduced, he at once blunted the shafts of ridicule by anticipating parody, and evinced his own versatile talent by writing the humorous imitation 'Giles Jollup the Grave.' "

Apparently Coleridge, the greatest literary intellect of the age, had a high opinion of the poetry too. So I thought I'd do a thread on it. His poetry can be found in his famous novel The Monk, but he wrote much more, as De Quincey tells us.
De Quincey being the notorious Opium Eater. (Cue jojo joke about this at some point)
In fact both Coleridge and De Quincey were notorious opium fiends.

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I'm afraid this thread is going to be boring for most people. But anyway.
Lewis apparently had a thing about mad women.

CRAZY JANE

“Stay, fair maid! On every feature,

Why are marks of dread imprest?

Can a wretched, helpless creature

Raise such terrors in your breast?

Do my frantic looks alarm you? 

Trust me, sweet, your fears are vain:

Not for kingdoms would I harm you ―

Shun not then poor Crazy Jane.


“Dost thou weep to see my anguish?

Mark me, and escape my woe:

When men flatter, sigh, and languish,

Think them false ― I found them so!

For I loved, Oh! so sincerely,

None will ever love again;

Yet the man I prized most dearly 

Broke the heart of Crazy Jane.


“Gladly that young heart received him,

Which has never loved but one;

He seemed true, and I believed him ―

He was false, and I undone! 

Since that hour has reason never

Held her empire o’er my brain.

Henry fled! ― With him, for ever,

Fled the wits of Crazy Jane.


“Now forlorn and broken-hearted, 

Still with frenzied thoughts beset,

Near the spot where last we parted,

Near the spot where first we met,

Thus I chant my lovelorn ditty,

While I sadly pace the plain;

And each passer by, in pity,

Cries ‘God help thee, Crazy Jane!’”


THE CAPTIVE.

A SCENE IN A PRIVATE MAD-HOUSE.

Stay jailor stay and hear my woe!

She is not mad who yields to thee;

For what I’m now, too well I know,

And what I was, and what should be.

I’ll rave no more, in proud despair;

My language shall be mild, tho’ sad;

But yet I firmly truely swear

I am not mad; I am not mad.



My tyrant husband forged the tale,

Which chains one in this dismal cell;

My fate unknown, my friends bewail-

O jailor! haste that fate to tell;

O haste my father’s heart to cheer

This heart at once t’will grieve and glad

To know tho kept a captive here

I am not mad. I am not mad.



He smiles in scorn, and turns the key;

He quits the grate; I knelt in vain;

His glimmering lamp still, still I see-

‘Tis gone - and all is gloom again.

Cold bitter cold! no warmth! no light!

Life all thy comforts once I had;

Yet here I’m chained this freezing night

Although not mad; no, no, not mad.



‘Tis sure some dream some vision vain;

What! I- the child of rank and wealth,-

Am I the wretch who clanks this chain

Bereft of freedom, friends and health

Ah! while I dwell on bleſsing1 fled

Which never more any heart must glad,

How aches my heart! how burns my head!

But ‘tis not mad; no, ‘tis not mad;



Hast thou my child forgot e’er this,

A mother’s face, a mother’s tongue?

She ne’er forget your parting kiſs

Nor round her neck how fast you clung;

Nor how with her you sued to stay;

Nor how that suit your sire forbade;

Nor how- I’ll drive such thoughts away;

They’ll make me mad, they’ll make me mad.



His rosy lips how sweet they smiled!

His mild blue eyes how bright they shone!

None ever bore a lovelier child;

And art there now forever gone?

And must I never see the more,

My pretty, pretty, pretty lad?

I will be free, unbar the door!

I am not mad; I am not mad,



O, hark! what mean those yells & cries?

His chain some furious madman breaks;

He comes,- I see his glaring eyes,

Now, now my dungeon-grate he shakes

Help! help! - He’s gone! - O, fearful woe!

Such screams to hear, such sights to see!

My brain My brain- I know I know

I am not mad but soon shall be



Yes soon; for lo yon- while I speak-

Mark how yon demon’s eyeballs glare!

He sees me now with dreadful shriek,

He whirls a serpent high in air

Horror! the reptile strikes his tooth

Deep in my heart so crush’d and sad

Ah, laugh ye fiends;- I feel the truth

Your task is done- I’m mad! I’m mad!



Men are fiends.

[weirdmonger]

I remember serialising my reading aloud of THE MONK by Matthew Gregory Lewis to someone in the late 1960s, but I cannot remember the book in the detail that you do. But thanks for the reminders,

[𝘗rincess 𝘵uvstarr]

This poem is filled to the brim with Gothic elements. Dated 1796

OSRIC — THE LION!


A ROMANCE.


SWIFT roll the Rhine's billows, and water the plains,

Where Falkenstein Castle's majestic remains,

Their moss-cover'd turrets still rear;

Oft loves the gaunt wolf midst the ruins to prowl,

What Time from the battlements pours the lone owl

Her plaints in the passenger's ear.


No longer resound through the vaults of yon hall

The song of the minstrel, and mirth of the ball;

Those pleasures for ever are fled;

There now dwells the bat with her light-shunning brood;

There ravens and vultures now clamour for food,

And all is dark, silent, and dread!


Ha! Dost thou not see by the Moon's trembling light,

Directing his steps, where advances a Knight,

His eye big with vengeance and fate?

'Tis Osric — the Lion, his Nephew who leads,

And swift up the crackling old stair-case proceeds,

Gains the hall, and quick closes the gate.


Now round him young Carloman casting his eyes,

Surveys the sad scene with dismay and surprize,

And fear steals the rose from his cheeks;

His spirits forsake him, his courage is flown

The hand of Sir Osric he clasps in his own,

And while his voice falters he speaks: -


"Dear Uncle," he murmurs, "why linger we here?

'Tis late, and these chambers are damp and are drear;

Keen blows through the ruins the blast!

Oh! let us away and our journey pursue;

Fair Blumenberg's Castle will rise on our view,

Soon as Falkenstein Forest is past.


"Why roll thus your eye-balls? Why glare they so wild?

Oh! chide not my weakness, nor frown, that a child

Should view these apartments with dread;

For know, that full oft have I heard from my Nurse,

There still on this Castle has rested a curse,

Since innocent blood here was shed.


"She said, too, bad spirits, and ghosts all in white,

Here use to resort at the dead time of night,

Nor vanish till breaking of day;

And still at their coming is heard the deep tone

Of a bell — loud and awful — Hark! hark! 'twas a groan!

Good Uncle, oh! let us away!"


"Peace, serpent!" thus Osric — the Lion, replies,

While rage and malignity gloom in his eyes;

"Thy journey and life here must close:

Thy Castle's proud turrets no more shalt thou see;

No more betwixt Blumenberg's Lordship and me

Shalt thou stand, and my greatness oppose.


"My Brother lies breathless on Palestine's plains,

And though once remov'd, to his noble domains

My right can no rival deny:

Then, stripling, prepare on my dagger to bleed;

No succour is near, and thy fate is decreed;

Commend thee to Jesus, and die!"


Thus saying, he seizes the boy by the arm,

Whose grief rends the vaulted hall's roof, while alarm

His heart of all fortitude robs:

His limbs sink beneath him; distracted with fears,

He falls at his Uncle's feet, bathes them with tears,

And — "Spare me! Oh! spare me!" he sobs.


But ah! 'tis in vain that he strives to appease

The miscreant; in vain does he cling round his knees,

And sue in soft accents for life:

Unmov'd by his sorrow — unmov'd by his pray'r,

Fierce Osric has twisted his hand in his hair,

And aims at his bosom a knife.


But e'er the steel blushes with blood, strange to tell!

Self-struck, does the tongue of the hollow-ton'd bell

The presence of midnight declare:

And while, with amazement, his hair bristles high,

Hears Osric a voice, loud and terrible, cry,

In sounds heart appalling — "Forbear!"


Straight curses and shrieks thro' the chambers resound,

With hellish mirth mingled; the walls shake around;

The groaning roof threatens to fall;

Loud bellows the thunder; blue lightnings still flash;

The casements they clatter; chains rattle; doors clash,

And flames spread their waves through the hall.


The clamour increases; the portals expand;

O'er the pavement's black marble now rushes a band

Of daemons all dropping with gore;

In visage so grim, and so monstrous in height,

That Carloman screams, as they burst on his sight,

And sinks without sense on the floor.


Not so his fell Uncle: he sees that the throng

Impels, loudly shrieking, a female along,

And well the sad spectre he knows:

The daemons with curses her steps onward urge;

Her shoulders with whips form'd of serpents they scourge,

And fast from her wounds the blood flows.


"Oh! welcome," she cry'd, and her voice spoke despair;

Oh! welcome, Sir Osric, the torments to share,

Of which thou hast made me the prey:

Twelve years have I languish'd thy coming to see;

Ulrilda, who perish'd dishonour'd by thee,

Now calls thee to anguish away!


My ruin compleated, thy love became hate;

Thy hand gave the draught which consign'd me to Fate;

Nor thought I death lurk'd in the bowl;

Unfit for the grave, stain'd with guilt, swell'd with pride,

Unblest, unabsolv'd, unrepenting I dy'd,

And daemons straight seiz'd on my soul!


"Thou com'st, and with transport I feel my breast swell!

Full long I have suffer'd the torments of hell,

And now shall its pleasures be mine!

See, see, how the fiends are athirst for thy blood!

Twelve years has my panting heart furnish'd their food,

Come, wretch, let them feast upon thine!"


She said, and the daemons their prey flock'd around;

They dash'd him with horrible yell on the ground,

And blood down his limbs trickl'd fast:

His eyes from their sockets with fury they tore;

They fed on his entrails, all reeking with gore,

And his heart was Ulrilda's repast.


But now the grey cock told the coming of day;

The fiends with their victim straight vanish'd away,

And Carloman's heart throbb'd again:

With terror recalling the deeds of the night,

He rose, and from Falkenstein speeding his flight,

Soon reach'd his paternal domain.


Since then all with horror the ruins behold;

No shepherd, though stray'd be a lamb from his fold,

No mother, though lost be her child,

The fugitive dares in these chambers to seek,

Where fiends nightly revel, and guilty ghosts shriek,

In accents most fearful and wild!


Oh! shun them, ye pilgrims, tho' late be the hour,

Tho' loud howl the tempest, and fast fall the show'r,

From Falkenstein Castle be gone!

There still their said banquet Hell's denizens share;

There Osric — the Lion, still raves in despair;

Breathe a prayer for his soul, and pass on!

[dem bones]

Alonzo the Brave and the Fair Imogine is reprinted in Misty Annual 1981, accompanying artwork enchanting as ever.

So it's not a poem, but for those who might not have read it, here's Shelley's record of one of four ghost stories told him by M. G. Lewis on their meeting of 18 August 1816.

A young man who had taken orders had just been presented with a living on the death of the incumbent. It was in the Catholic part of Germany — He arrived at the parsonage on a Saturday night; it was summer, and waking about 3 o'clock in the morning, and it being already broad day he saw a venerable looking man, but with an aspect exceedingly melancholy, sitting at a desk in the window reading, and two beautiful boys standing near him, whom he regarded with looks expressive of the profoundest grief. Presently, he rose from his seat, the boys followed him, and they were no more to be seen. The young man — much troubled — arose, hesitating whether he should regard what he had seen as a dream or as a waking phantasy. To divert his dejection he walked towards the church which the sexton was already employed in preparing for the morning service. The first sight that struck him was a portrait the exact resemblance of the man whom he had seen sitting in his chamber. — It was the custom in this district to place the portraits of each minister after his death in the church. He made the minutest enquiries respecting his predecessor, and learned that he was universally beloved as a man of unexampled integrity and benevolence, but that he was the prey to a secret and perpetual sorrow. His grief was supposed to have arisen from an attachment to a young lady with whom his situation did not permit him to untie himself — others however asserted that a connection did subsist between them, and that even she occasionally brought to his house two beautiful boys, the offspring of their connection. — Nothing further occurred until the cold weather came, and the new minister desired a fire to be lighted in the room where he slept. A hideous stench arose from the stove as soon as it was lighted, and on examining it the bones of two male children were found within.

As reprinted in the debut issue of the Gothic Society's The Goth, Sept. 1990

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I was reading some of the letters of Keats last night, no sign of Monk Lewis I'm afraid, but here is his encounter with the talker supreme, Samuel Taylor Coleridge (letter to George and Georgina Keats) on Sunday April 11 1819:

Last Sunday I took a Walk towards Highgate and in the lane that winds by the side of Lord Mansfield’s park I met Mr. Green our Demonstrator at Guy’s in conversation with Coleridge—I joined them, after enquiring by a look whether it would be agreeable—I walked with him at his alderman-after-dinner pace for near two miles I suppose. In those two Miles he broached a thousand things—let me see if I can give you a list—Nightingales—Poetry—on Poetical Sensation—Metaphysics—Different genera and species of Dreams—Nightmare—a dream accompanied by a sense of touch—single and double touch—a dream related—First and second consciousness—the difference explained between will and Volition—so say metaphysicians from a want of smoking the second consciousness—Monsters—the Kraken—Mermaids—Southey believes in them—Southey’s belief too much diluted—a Ghost story—Good morning—I heard his voice as he came towards me—I heard it as he moved away—I had heard it all the interval—if it may be called so. He was civil enough to ask me to call on him at Highgate. Good-night!

[𝘗rincess 𝘵uvstarr]

helrunar, you are our very own Coleridge on here!