LIGHT-HEARTEDNESS IN RHYME.

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,

never dares talk nonsense."— Anon.

I. 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 drownFresh 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,
Cm, his long-lost friend Mol Pomonè?
But most of you, soft warblings, I complain!
"T was 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 C-m'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.

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 Cm 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 Phoebus, 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.

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.

"Tis 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
Do 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 cleven 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.

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!
Anger and grief divide poor Julia's breast.
Sacred his ashes lie, and long his rest!
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 far 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 at 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!)

That my mute thoughts are sad before his throne,-
Prepared, when He his healing ray vouchsafes,
Thanksgiving to pour forth with lifted heart,
And praise him gracious with a brother's joy!

1794.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE. 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!

TO SARA.

THE stream with languid murmur creeps
In Sumin's flow'ry vale;
Beneath the dew the lily weeps,

Slow waving to the gale.

"Cease, restless gale," it seems to say,

"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.

239

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.

In my calmer moments I have the firmest faith that all things work together for good. But, alas! it seems a long and a dark process:—

The early year's fast-flying vapors stray
In shadowing train across the orb of day;
And we poor insects of a few short hours,
Deem it a world of gloom.

Were it not better hope, a nobler doom,

Proud to believe, that with more active powers
On rapid many-colour'd wing,

We thro' one bright perpetual spring

Shall hover round the fruits and flowers,

Screen'd by those clouds, and cherish'd by those showers!

COUNT RUMFORD'S ESSAYS.

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.

ON AN AMOROUS DOCTOR.

FROM Rufa's eye sly Cupid shot his dart,
And left it sticking in Sengrado's heart.
No quiet from that moment has he known,

And peaceful sleep has from his eyelids flown;
And opium's force, and what is more, alack!
His own oration's, cannot bring it back:

In short unless she pities his afflictions,

Despair will make him take his own prescriptions.

1796.

TRANSLATION.

DEPART in joy from this world's noise and strife
To the deep quiet of celestial life!
Depart! Affection's self reproves the tear
Which falls, O honour'd Parent! on thy bier;-
Yet Nature will be heard, the heart will swell,
And the voice tremble with a last Farewell!

TO A PRIMROSE,

(THE FIRST SEEN IN THE SEASON.)

nitens, et roboris expers Turget et insolida est: at spe delectat.-Ovid.

THY smiles I note, sweet early flower,
That peeping forth thy rustic bower
The festive news of earth dost bring,
A fragrant messenger of spring!

But tender blossom, why so pale?
Dost hear stern winter in the gale?
And didst thou tempt th' ungentle sky
To catch one vernal glance and die?

Such the wan lustre sickness wears,
When health's first feeble beam appears;
So languid are the smiles that seek
To settle on thy care-worn cheek!
When timorous hope the head uprears,
Still drooping and still moist with tears,
If, through dispersing grief, be seen
Of bliss the heavenly spark serene.

EPIGRAM.

1796.

HOARSE Mævius reads his hobbling verse
To all, and at all times;

And finds them both divinely smooth,
His voice, as well as rhymes.

Yet folks say " Mævius is no ass:"
But Mævius makes it clear,
That he's a monster of an ass,
An ass without an ear.

1797.

INTRODUCTION TO THE TALE OF THE DARK LADIE.

THE following poem is intended as the introduction to a somewhat longer one. The use of the old ballad word Ladie for Lady, is the only piece of obsoleteness in it; and as it is professedly a tale of ancient times, I trust that the affectionate lovers of venerable antiquity, as Camden says, will grant me their pardon, and perhaps may be induced to admit a force and propriety in it. A heavier objection may be adduced against the author, that in these times of fear and expectation, when novelties explode around us in all directions, he should presume to offer to the public a silly tale of old-fashioned love: and five years ago, I own I should have allowed and felt the force of this objection. But alas! explosion after explosion has succeeded so rapidly, that novelty itself ceases to appear new; and it is possible that now, even a simple story wholly uninspired with politics or personality, may find some attention amid the hubbub of revolutions, as to those who have remained a long time by the falls of Niagara, the lowest whispering becomes distinctly 1799.

audible.

O LEAVE the lily on its stem;

O leave the rose upon the spray;

O leave the elder bloom, fair maids!
And listen to my lay.

A cypress and a myrtle-bough

This morn around my harp you twined, Because it fashion'd mournfully

Its murmurs in the wind.

And now a tale of love and woe,
A woful tale of love I sing;
Hark, gentle maidens, hark: it sighs
And trembles on the string.
But most, my own dear Genevieve,

It sighs and trembles most for thee!
O come and hear the cruel wrongs
Befell the Dark Ladie!

INSCRIPTION BY THE REV. W. S. BOWLES.

IN NETHER STOWEY CHURCH.

LETUS abi; mundi strepitu curisque remotus,
Lætus abi! cœli qua vocat alma quies.

Ipsa Fides loquitur, lacrymanque incausat inamen,
Quæ cadit in restros, care pater, cineres.

Heu! tantum liceat meritos hos soliere ritus
Et longum tremula dicere voce, vale!

EPILOGUE TO THE RASH CONJUROR.
AN UNCOMPOSED POEM.

WE ask and urge-(here ends the story!)
All Christian Papishes to pay

That this unhappy conjuror may,
Instead of Hell, be put in Purgatory,—

For then there's hope ;

Long live the Pope!

241

1805.