« AnteriorContinuar »
must rely on yourselves ; looking to statesmen only for the capacity to give you salutary counsels. And now after summing up in a word what I have to urge, I have done. I say you should levy the necessary supplies, should maintain the army on its necessary establishment-correcting whatever abuses may be found to exist, but not disbanding it altogether upon the first clamor that is raised—should send ambassadors, wherever they can be useful in informing, admonishing, or anywhere further ing the interests of this country.
9. But you should, beside all this, bring the men to punish. ment whose administration has been stained with corruption, and consign them to abhorr,nce in all times and all places, to the end that those whose conduct has been temperate and pure, may be shown to have consulted at once their own interests and yours. If such shall be your course, and you no longer neglect your most important concerns, it may be that our affairs shall take a better turn. But, if you sit down inactive and confining youi exertions to acclamations and applause, shrink back the moment anything is required to be done, I can conceive nc eloquence which, in the absence of every necessary effort on your part, will have the power to save the country.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE, author of the following humorous effusion, W 20 one of the most distinguished poets and philosophers of his time. He was born in Devonshire in the year 1772, and died in 1834. “The literary char. acter of Samuel Taylor Coleridge," says an able critic, "resembles some vast but unfinished palace : all is gigantic, beautiful, and rich ; but nothing is complete, nothing compact. He was all his days, from his youth to his death, laboring, meditating, projecting: and yet all that he left us, bears a painful character of fragmentariness and imperfection. His mind was eminently dreamy; he was deeply tinged with that incapacity of acting, which formg the characteristic of the German intellect: his genius was multiform, manysided; and for this reason, perhaps, could not at once seize upon the right point of view. No man, probably, ever existed, who thought more, and more intensely, than Coleridge; few ever possessed a vaster treasury of learning and knowledge; and yet how little has he given us ! or rather how few of his works are in any way worthy of the undoubted majesty of his genius!"
ODE TO RAIN.
BAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
COMPOSED BEFORE DAYLIGHT, ON THE MORNING APPOINTED FOR THE DE
PARTURE OF A VERY WORTHY, BUT NOT VERY PLEASANT VISITOR, WHON IT TA 1 FEARED THE RAIN MIGHT DETAIN.
I know it is dark; and though I have lain
For breaking thus my needful rest,
O Rain! with your dull twofold sound,
But only now for this one day,
Dear Rain! I ne'er refuse to say
IV. Dear Rain ! if I've been cold and shy, Take no offense! I'll tell you why. A dear old Friend e’en now is here, And with him came my sister dear; After long absence now first met, Long months by pain and grief beset With three dear Friends ! in truth, we groen Impatiently to be alone. We three you mark! and not one more ! The strong wish makes my spirit sore. We have so much to talk about, So many sad things to let out; So many tears in our eye-corners, Sitting like little Jacky HornersIn short, as soon as it is day, Do go, dear Rain ! do go away!
Yet, knowing well your worth and place,
The following curious piece, found in an old English collection, was written in answer to the question once put to the author-“Why turns your hair white ?” It is a good example of labored alliteration, that is, the style in which the same sound is made frequently to recur in the same line; as where Milton says—"Behemoth, biggest born of earth.”
WHY DOES YOUR HAIR TURN WHITE ?
Where seething sighs and sorrow sobs
Where thought hath thrilled, and thrown his spears,
* Fetch, or bring out. The word is obsoleto
III. Where pinching pain himself has placed, There peace with pleasures were possessed : And, where the walls of wealth lie waste, And poverty in them is pressed; What wonder, then, though that you see, Upon my head, white hairs to be?
IV. Where wretched woe will weave her web, Where care the clue can catch, and dust : And floods of joy are fallen to ebb, So low, that life may not long last; What wonder, then, though that you see, Upon my head, white hairs to be ?
These hairs of age are messengers Which bid me fast, repent, and pray; They be of death the harbingers, That doth prepare and dress the way; Wherefore I joy that you may see, Upon my head, such hairs to be.
VI. They be the lines that lead the length, How far my race is yet to run: They show my youth is filed with strength, And how old age is weak begun : The which I feel, and you may see, Upon my head, such lines to be.
VII. They be the strings of sober sound, Whose music is harmonical: Their tunes declare what time from ground I came, and how thereto I shall :