THE BRITISH STRIPLING'S

WAR-SONG.*

IMITATED FROM STOLBERG.

YES, noble old Warrior! this heart has beat high, Since you told of the deeds which our countrymen wrought;

O lend me the sabre that hung by thy thigh
And I too will fight as my forefathers fought.

Despise not my youth, for my spirit is steel'd
And I know there is strength in the grasp of my

hand;

Yea, as firm as thyself would I march to the field, And as proudly would die for my dear native land.

In the sports of my childhood I mimick'd the fight, The sound of a trumpet suspended my breath h; And my fancy still wander'd by day and by night, Amid battle and tumult, 'mid conquest and death.

My own shout of onset, when the Armies advance, How oft it awakes me from visions of glory; When I meant to have leapt on the Hero of France, And have dash'd him to earth, pale and breath

less and gory.

* Morning Post, August 24, 1799; Annual Anthology, 1800, signed "Esteesi."

As late thro' the city with banners all streaming
To the music of trumpets the Warriors flew by,
With helmet and scimitars naked and gleaming,
On their proud-trampling, thunder-hoof'd steeds
did they fly;

I sped to yon heath that is lonely and bare,

For each nerve was unquiet, each pulse in alarm; And I hurl'd the mock-lance thro' the objectless air,

And in open-eyed dream proved the strength of my arm.

Yes, noble old Warrior! this heart has beat high, Since you told of the deeds that our countrymen wrought;

O lend me the sabre that hung by thy thigh,
And I too will fight as my forefathers fought ! *

LINES

WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM AT ELBINGERODE,
IN THE HARTZ FOREST.†

I STOOD on Brocken's ‡ sovran height, and saw
Woods crowding upon woods, hills over hills,

* This poem is reprinted in Coleridge's Literary Remains (vol. i. pp. 276-77), with a few unimportant verbal variations. + Printed in The Morning Post, September 17, 1799, and in The Annual Anthology, vol. ii., Bristol, 1800.

The highest mountain in the Hartz, and indeed in North Germany.

A surging scene, and only limited
By the blue distance. Heavily my way
Downward I dragg'd through fir-groves evermore,
Where bright green moss heaves in sepulchral forms
Speckled with sunshine; and, but seldom heard,
The sweet bird's song became a hollow sound;
And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly,
Preserved its solemn murmur most distinct
From many a note of many a waterfall,

And the brook's chatter; 'mid whose islet-stones
The dingy kidling with its tinkling bell
Leap'd frolicsome, or old romantic goat

Sat, his white beard slow waving. I moved on
In low and languid mood: for I had found
That outward forms, the loftiest, still receive
Their finer influence from the Life within ;-
Fair cyphers else: fair, but of import vague
Or unconcerning, where the heart not finds*
History or prophecy of friend, or child,†
Or gentle maid, our first and early love,
Or father, or the venerable name
Of our adored country! O thou Queen,
Thou delegated Deity of Earth,

* Fair cyphers of vague import, where the eye Traces no spot, in which the heart may read, &c.

That grandest scenes have but imperfect charms,
Where the sight vainly wanders, nor beholds

One spot with which the heart associates

Holy remembrances of friend or child, &c.—1799.

O dear, dear England! how my longing eye
Turn'd westward, shaping in the steady clouds
Thy sands and high white cliffs !

My native Land!

Fill'd with the thought of thee this heart was proud,
Yea, mine eye swam with tears that all the view
From sovran Brocken, woods and woody hills,
Floated away, like a departing dream,
Feeble and dim! Stranger, these impulses
Blame thou not lightly; nor will I profane,
With hasty judgment or injurious doubt,
That man's sublimer spirit, who can feel
That God is everywhere! the God who framed
Mankind to be one mighty family,

Himself our Father, and the World our Home.

INSCRIPTION FOR A FOUNTAIN
ON A HEATH.*

HIS Sycamore, oft musical with bees,—

THIS

Such tents the Patriarchs loved - long unharm'd

May all its aged boughs † o'er-canopy

The small round basin, which this jutting stone

Keeps pure from falling leaves! Long may the Spring,

* Printed in The Morning Post, September 24, 1802, with the title "Inscription on a Jutting Stone over a Spring." + Darksome boughs-1802.

Quietly as a sleeping infant's breath,

Send up cold waters to the traveller
With soft and even pulse! Nor ever cease
Yon tiny cone of sand its soundless * dance,
Which at the bottom, like a Fairy's page,
As merry and no taller, dances still,

Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the Fount.
Here twilight is and coolness: here is moss,
A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade.
Thou may'st toil far and find no second tree.
Drink, Pilgrim, here! † here rest! and if thy heart
Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh
Thy Spirit, listening to some gentle sound,
Or passing gale or hum of murmuring bees!

A TOMBLESS EPITAPH. §

TIS true, Idoloclastes Satyrane!

(So call him, for so mingling blame with praise

And smiles with anxious looks, his earliest friends, Masking his birth-name, wont to character

*Noiseless dance-1802.

+ Here, stranger, drink!—ib.

The passing gale or ever murmuring bees.-Ib.

§ First printed (without a title) in The Friend of November 23, 1809, with the following note :-" Imitated, though in the movements rather than the thoughts, from the seventh of Gli Epitafi of Chiabrera,

"Fu ver che Ambrosio Salinero a torto

Si pose in pena d'odiose liti," &c.