the Comets forget not,

Yea, in the measureless distance wheel round, and again they behold thee!

Fadeless and young (and what if the latest birth of Creation?)

Bride and consort of Heaven, that looks down upon

thee enamored!

Say, mysterious Earth! O say, great Mother and Goddess!

Was it not well with thee then, when first thy lap was ungirdled,

Thy lap to the genial Heaven, the day that he wooed thee and won thee!

Fair was thy blush, the fairest and first of the blushes of morning!

Deep was the shudder, O Earth! the throe of thy self-retention :

July thou strovest to flee, and didst seek thyself at thy centre!

Mightier far was the joy of thy sudden resilience; and forth with

Myriad myriads of lives teemed forth from the mighty

embracement,

In the hexameter rises the fountain's silvery column; In the pentameter aye falling in melody back.

V. A VERSIFIED REFLECTION.

[A Force is the provincial term in Cumberland for any narrow fall of water from the summit of a mountain precipice. -The following stanza (it may not arrogate the name of poem) or versified reflection, was composed while the author was gazing on three parallel Forces, on a moonlight night, at the foot of the Saddleback Fell.-S. T. C.]

On stern BLENCARTHUR'S perilous height
The wind is tyrannous and strong:
And flashing forth unsteady light
From stern Blencarthur's skiey height
As loud the torrents throng!.

sand-fold instincts,

Laughed on their shores the hoarse seas: the yearn

ing ocean swelled upward:

Young life lowed through the meadows, the woods, and the echoing mountains,

Wandered bleating in valleys, and warbled in blossoming branches.

LOVE'S GHOST AND RE-EVANITION.

AN ALLEGORIC ROMANCE.

Like a lone ARAB, old and blind,
Some caravan had left behind;
Who sits beside a ruin'd well,

Where the shy Dipsads* bask and swell! And now he cowers with low-hung head aslant,

And listens for some human sound in vain :

And now the aid, which Heaven alone can grant,
Upturns his eyeless face from Heaven to gain
Even thus, in languid mood and vacant hour,
With brow low-bent, within my garden bower,
Resting my eye upon a drooping plant,
I sate upon its couch of Camomile:
And lo!-or was it a brief sleep, the while
I watch'd the sickly calm and aimless scope
Of my own heart?-I saw the inmate, HOPE,

That once had made that heart so warm,
Lie lifeless at my feet!

And LovE stole in, in maiden form,

Toward my arbor-seat!

She bent and kissed her sister's lips,
As she was wont to do:
Alas! 't was but a chilling breath,
That woke enough of life in death
To make HOPE die anew.

The Asps of the sand-deserts, anciently named Dipsads.

LIGHT-HEARTEDNESS IN RHYME.

"I expect no sense, worth listening to, from the man who never dares talk nonsense."— Anon.

1. THE REPROOF AND REPLY: OR, THE FLOWER-THIEF's apology, FOR A ROBBERY COMMITTED IN MR. AND MRS. —'S GARDEN, ON SUNDAY MORNING, 25TH OF MAY, 1833, BETWEEN

THE HOURS OF ELEVEN AND TWELVE.

"FIE, Mr. Coleridge!-and can this be you?
Break two commandments?—and in church-time too?
Have you not heard, or have you heard in vain,
The birth-and-parentage-recording strain?—
Confessions shrill, that shrill cried mack'rel drown –
Fresh from the drop-the youth not yet cut down
Letter to sweet-heart-the last dying speech -
And did'nt all this begin in Sabbath-breach?
You, that knew better! In broad open day
Steal in, steal out, and steal our flowers away?
What could possess you? Ah! sweet youth, I fear,
The chap with horns and tail was at your ear!"

Such sounds, of late, accusing fancy brought
From fair C to the Poet's thought.
Now hear the meek Parnassian youth's reply :-
A bow-a pleading look-a downcast eye —
And then:

"Fair dame! a visionary wight,
Hard by your hill-side mansion sparkling white,
His thought all hovering round the Muses' home,
Long hath it been your Poet's wont to roam.
And many a morn, on his bed-charmed sense,
So rich a stream of music issued thence,
He deem'd himself, as it flow'd warbling on,
Beside the vocal fount of Helicon!
But when, as if to settle the concern,
A nymph too he beheld, in many a turn,
Guiding the sweet rill from its fontal urn;
Say, can you blame ?-No! none, that saw and heard,
Could blame a bard, that he, thus inly stirr'd,
A muse beholding in each fervent trait,
Took Mary H-for Polly Hymnia!
Or, haply as thou stood beside the maid
One loftier form in sable stole arrayed,
If with regretful thought he hail'd in thee,
C-m, his long-lost friend Mol Pomonè?
But most of you, soft warblings, I complain!
Twas ye, that from the bee-hive of my brain
Did lure the fancies forth, a freakish rout,
And witched the air with dreams turn'd inside out.

Thus all conspired-each power of eye and ear,
And this gay month, th' enchantress of the year,
To cheat poor me (no conjurer, God wot!)
And Cm's self accomplice in the plot.
Can you then wonder if I went astray?
Not bards alone, nor lovers mad as they —
All Nature day-dreams in the month of May,
And if I pluck'd'each flower that sweetest blows’—
Who walks in sleep, needs follow must his nose.

Thus long accustomed on the twy-fork'd hill,*
To pluck both flower and floweret at my will;
The garden's maze, like No-man's land, I tread,
Nor common law, nor statute in my head;
For my own proper smell, sight, fancy, feeling,
With autocratic hand at once repealing
Five Acts of Parliament 'gainst private stealing!
But yet from C―m, who despairs of grace?
There's no spring-gun nor man-trap in that face!
Let Moses then look black, and Aaron blue,
That look as if they had little else to do:
For C-m speaks. Poor youth! he's but a waif!
The spoons all right? The hen and chickens safe?
Well, well, he shall not forfeit our regards -
The Eighth Commandment was not made for Bards!"

II. IN ANSWER TO A FRIEND'S QUESTION.

Her attachment may differ from yours in degree,
Provided they are both of one kind;
But friendship, how tender so ever it be,

Gives no accord to love, however refined.

Love, that meets not with love, its true nature revealing,

Grows ashamed of itself, and demurs:

If you cannot lift hers up to your state of feeling, You must lower down your state to hers.

III. LINES TO A COMIC AUTHOR, ON AN ABU. SIVE REVIEW.

WHAT though the chilly wide-mouth'd quacking

chorus

From the rank swamps of murk Review-land croak:
So was it, neighbour, in the times before us,
When Momus, throwing on his Attic cloak,
Romped with the Graces: and each tickled Muse
(That Turk, Dan Phœbus, whom bards call divine,
Was married to - at least, he kept-all nine) -
They fled; but with reverted faces ran!
Yet, somewhat the broad freedoms to excuse,
They had allured the audacious Greek to use,
Swore they mistook him for their own Good Man.
This Momus-Aristophanes on earth
Men called him maugre all his wit and worth,
Was croaked and gabbled at. How, then, should you,
Or I, Friend, hope to 'scape the skulking crew?
No: laugh, and say aloud, in tones of glee,
"I hate the quacking tribe, and they hate me!"

IV. AN EXPECTORATION,

OR SPLENETIC EXTEMPORE, ON MY JOYFUL DEPARTURE FROM THE CITY OF COLOGNE.

As I am Rhymer,

And now at least a merry one, Mr. MUM's Rudesheimer t

And the church of St. Geryon

*The English Parnassus is remarkable for its two summits of unequal height, the lower denominated Hampstead, the higher Highgate.

†The apotheosis of Rhenish wine.

Are the two things alone

That deserve to be known

In the body-and-soul-stinking town of Cologne.

EXPECTORATION THE SECOND.

IN COLN,† a town of monks and bones, t
And pavements fang'd with murderous stones;
And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches;
I counted two-and-seventy stenches,
All well-defined and several stinks!

Ye nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks,
The river Rhine, it is well known,
Doth wash your city of Cologne ;
But tell me, nymphs! what power divine
Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine ?>

SONG

Yet haply there will come a weary day,
When over-task'd at length

Both Love and HOPE beneath the load give way,
Then with a statue's smile, a statue's strength,
Stands the mute sister, PATIENCE, nothing loth,
And both supporting does the work of both.

JULIA.

medio de fonte leporum

Surgit amari aliquid.—Lueret.

JULIA was blest with beauty, wit, and grace: Small poets loved to sing her blooming face. Before her altars, lo! a numerous train Preferr'd their vows; yet all preferr'd in vain : Till charming Florio, born to conquer, came, And touch'd the fair one with an equal flame.

LADY'S BEAUTY.

"T is not the lily brow I prize,

Nor roseate cheeks, nor sunny eyes,
Enough of lilies and of roses!
A thousand fold more dear to me
The gentle look that love discloses,
The look that love alone can see.

THE POET'S ANSWER TO A LADY'S QUESTION RESPECTING THE ACCOMPLISHMENTS MOST DESIRABLE IN AN INSTRUCTRESS OF

CHILDREN.

O'ER wayward childhood would'st thou hold firm rule,
And sun thee in the light of happy faces;
LOVE, HOPE, and PATIENCE, these must be thy Graces,
And in thine own heart let them first keep school.
For as old Atlas on his broad neck places
Heaven's starry globe, and there sustains it; so
o these upbear the little world below
Of Education, PATIENCE, LOVE, and HOPE.
Methinks, I see them group'd in seemly show,
The straiten'd arms upraised, the palms aslope
And robes that touching, as adown they flow,
Distinctly blend, like snow emboss'd in snow.
O part them never! If HOPE prostrate lie,

LOVE too will sink and die.
But Love is subtle, and will proof derive
From her own life that HOPE is yet alive.
And bending o'er, with soul-transfusing eyes,
And the soft murmurs of the Mother Dove,
Wooes back the fleeting spirit, and half supplies:
Thus Love repays to HOPE what HOPE first gave to
LOVE.

The German name of Cologne.

Of the eleven thousand virgin martyrs.

As Necessity is the mother of Invention, and extremes beget each other, the fact above recorded may explain how this ancient town (which, alas! as sometimes happens with veni

son, has been kept too long.) came to be the birth-place of the

most fragrant of spirituous fluids, the Eau de Cologne.

What every look and action would reveal.
With boldness then, which seldom fails to move,
He pleads the cause of marriage and of love;
The course of hymeneal joys he rounds,

The fair one's eyes dance pleasure at the sounds. Nought now remain'd but "Noes"- how little meant

And the sweet coyness that endears consent.
The youth upon his knees enraptured fell :-
The strange misfortune, oh! what words can tell?
Tell! ye neglected sylphs! who lap-dogs guard,
Why snatch'd ye not away your precious ward?
Why suffer'd ye the lover's weight to fall
On the ill-fated neck of much-loved Ball?
The favorite on his mistress casts his eyes,
Gives a short melancholy howl, and — dies!
Sacred his ashes lie, and long his rest!
Anger and grief divide poor Julia's breast.
Her eyes she fix'd on guilty Florio first,
On him the storm of angry grief must burst.
That storm he fled :- he wooes a kinder fair,
Whose fond affections no dear puppies share.
"T were vain to tell how Julia pined away;—
Unhappy fair, that in one luckless day
(From future almanacs the day be cross'd!)
At once her lover and her lap-dog lost!

1789.

-I yet remain

To mourn the hours of youth (yet mourn in vain)
That fled neglected; wisely thou hast trod
The better path — and that high meed which God
Assign'd to virtue tow'ring from the dust,
Shall wait thy rising, Spirit pure and just!

O God! how sweet it were to think, that all
Who silent mourn around this gloomy ball
Might hear the voice of joy ;- but 't is the will
Of man's great Author, that through good and ill
Calm he should hold his course, and so sustain
His varied lot of pleasure, toil, and pain.

1793

TO THE REV. W. I. HORT

HUSH! ye clamorous cares, be mute!
Again dear harmonist, again
Through the hollow of thy flute

Breathe that passion-warbled strain;
Till memory back each form shall bring
The loveliest of her shadowy throng,
And hope, that soars on sky-lark's wing,
Shall carol forth her gladdest song!

O skill'd with magic spell to roll

The thrilling tones that concentrate the soul!
Breathe through thy flute those tender notes again,
While near thee sits the chaste-eyed maiden mild;
And bid her raise the poet's kindred strain
In soft impassion'd voice, correctly wild.

In freedom's undivided dell

Where toil and health with mellow'd love shall dwell:
Far from folly, far from men,
In the rude romantic glen,

Up the cliff, and through the glade,
Wand'ring with the dear loved maid,
I shall listen to the lay

And ponder on the far away;-
Still as she bids those thrilling notes aspire,
Making my fond attuned heart her lyre),
Thy honor'd form, my friend! shall reappear,
And I will thank thee with a raptured tear!

TO CHARLES LAMB.

1794.

WITH AN UNFINISHED POEM.

THUS far my scanty brain hath built the rhyme
Elaborate and swelling;-yet the heart
Not owns it. From thy spirit-breathing powers
1 ask not now, my friend! the aiding verse
Tedious to thee, and from thy anxious thought
Of dissonant mood. In fancy (well I know)
From business wand'ring fur and local cares
Thou creepest round a dear loved sister's bed,
With noiseless step, and watchest the faint look,
Soothing each pang with fond solicitudes
And tenderest tones medicinal of love.
I, too, a sister had, an only sister-
She loved me dearly, and I doted on her;
To her I pour'd forth all my puny sorrows;
(As a sick patient in a nurse's arms)
And of the heart those hidden maladies —

That e'en from friendship's eye will shrink ashamed.
O! I have waked ut midnight, and have wept
Because she was not ! - Cheerily, dear Charles!
Thou thy best friend shall cherish many a year;
Such warm presages feel I of high hope!
For not uninterested the dear maid

I've view'd-her soul affectionate yet wise,
Her polish'd wit as mild as lambent glories
That play around a sainted infant's head.
He knows (the Spirit that in secret sees,
Of whose omniscient and all-spreading love
Aught to implore were impotence of mind!)

SISTER of lovelorn poets, Philomel!
How many bards in city garrets pent,
While at their window they with downward eye
Mark the faint lamp-beam on the kennell'd mud,
And listen to the drowsy cry of the watchmen,
(Those hoarse unfeather'd nightingales of time!)
How many wretched bards address the name,
And hers, the full-orb'd queen, that shines above.
But I do hear thee, and the high bough mark,
Within whose mild moon-mellow'd foliage hid,
Thou warblest sad thy pity-pleading strains.
Oh, I have listen'd, till my working soul,
Waked by those strains to thousand phantasies,
Absorb'd, hath ceased to listen! Therefore oft
I hymn thy name; and with a proud delight
Oft will I tell thee, minstrel of the moon
Most musical, most melancholy bird!
That all thy soft diversities of tone,
Though sweeter far than the delicious airs
That vibrate from a white-arm'd lady's harp,
What time the languishment of lonely love
Melts in her eye,
and heaves her breast of snow
Are not so sweet, as is the voice of her,
My Sara- best beloved of human kind!
When breathing the pure soul of tenderness,
She thrills me with the husband's promised name!

"Nor wake me with thy sighing:

The honours of my vernal day
On rapid wings are flying.

"To-morrow shall the traveller come,

That erst beheld me blooming; His searching eye shall vainly roam The dreary vale of Sumin."

With eager gaze and wetted cheek

My wanton haunts along,
Thus, lovely maiden, thou shalt seek

The youth of simplest song.

But I along the breeze will roll

The voice of feeble power, And dwell, the moon-beam of thy soul, In slumber's nightly hour

1794.

1794.

CASIMIR.

If we except Lucretius and Statius, I know no Latin poet, ancient or modern, who has equalled Casimir in boldness of conception, opulence of fancy, or beauty of versification. The odes of this illustrious Jesuit were translated into English about 150 years ago, by a G. Hils, I think. I never saw the translation. A few of the odes have been translated in a very animated manner by Watts. I have subjoined the third ode of the second Book, which, with the exception of the first line, is an effusion of exquisite elegance. In the imitation attempted I am sensible that I have destroyed the effect of suddenness, by translating into two stanzas what is one in the original. 1796.

My gentle love! caressing and caress'd,
With heaving heart shall cradle me to rest;
Shed the warm tear-drop from her smiling eyes,
Lull the fond woe, and med'cine me with sighs;
While finely-flushing float her kisses meek,
Like melted rubies, o'er my pallid cheek.
Chill'd by the night, the drooping rose of May
Mourns the long absence of the lovely day:
Young day returning at the promised hour,
Weeps o'er the sorrows of the fav'rite flower,-
Weeps the soft dew, the balmy gale she sighs,
And darts a trembling lustre from her eyes.
New life and joy th' expanding flow'ret feels:
His pitying mistress mourns, and mourning heals'

1796.

THESE, Virtue, are thy triumph, that adorn
Fitliest our nature, and bespeak us born
For loftiest action;-not to gaze and run
From clime to clime; or batten in the sun,
Dragging a drony flight from flower to flower,
Like summer insects in a gaudy hour;
Nor yet o'er lovesick tales with fancy range,
And cry, 'Tis pitiful, 't is passing strange!'
But on life's varied views to look around,
And raise expiring sorrow from the ground:—
And he who thus hath borne his part assign'd
In the sad fellowship of human kind,
Or for a moment soothed the bitter pain
Of a poor brother-has not lived in vain.

1796.