ORIGINAL POETRY. On Sentiments exprest by Mr. COLERIDGE, in the Preface* to his THOU, who hast amply quaff'd the Muses' Rill, COLERIDGE, which can to her high Praise refuse; II. Her various, cadenc'd, regularity HE, who o'er Epic heights hath soar'd sublime, Have Followers, haply to Posterity Not unendear'd.-O! scorn not these, who led, Cantubr.-6 Febr. 1804. TO THE NYMPH OF THE FOUNTAIN OF TEARS. Oh! lachrymarum fons! tenero Sacros Felix! in imo qui scatentem Pectore, te pia Nympha! sensit. GRAY. MILD, pious Nymph! of birth divine, To thee the tears of Melody belong, From brighter spheres and aëry powers. To the third edition of his Poems. Which wanton in the rainbow's robe, To thee belong those chrystal showers, Or when with love, the tender soul Those tears which we delight to pour? And those are thine! which copious flow, When with a placid, tranquil brow, 1 We view the spot our youth has lov'd. Or when, at eve, with silent ear, What transport mild! how sweet the tear Soft, tender streams! sweet gushing rills! From rocks of living love distils, And warbling touch each mellow string. Oh! Nymph! into my heart infuse, Grant me to heave the pensive sigh, At early morn, at coming eve; At Music's fall, at Beauty's eye, At woes which Vice delights to weave. Lovely, tender, pious Nymph! Most beauteous! take my sad adieu; And as thou spar'st the precious lymph, Remember me as I love you. Abergavenny. BB VOL. XVII. LAOCOON. DISCONTENT OVERCOME ONLY BY HOPE. DISCONTENT. HENCE ev'ry joy before me fly! But this I've singled for my prey. Away! begone! nor dare remain, Let nought but cheerless sorrow low'r. Ha! who is this that braves my force, HOPE. Fell monster! source of care and grief, 'Tis I that bring the wretch relief, Too well thou know'st, that when the rest Where thou in vain would'st fix thy seat. Hope, is the grateful name I own, My office is to soothe mankind; Seek then again thy Stygian cave, E'er thou by force art thither hurl'd; EUMENES. THE TRAVELLER. WRITTEN AT PEMBROKE. FULL blest is he who wand'ring on the shore, And tow'rds th' enchanting scene admiring turns his view. And oft beneath the canopy of woods, Tastes the sweet banquet, envied by the gods, Of berries gather'd from the livid sloe, His beverage sweet, and pure as snów, Which from the mountain sides in streams nectareous flow. Oft in the fragrance of the verdant shade, While high-o'erarch'd the woodbine, or the rose, While evening's mellow music undulating flows. Or on the side of some gigantic hill, Whose secret cells a murmuring sweet distil; Enjoys the flying hour, nor thinks on aught that's past. Sometimes a fragment of impending rocks Sublimely fissur'd by convulsive shocks, Invites at eve his sinking soul to sleep, A friendly watch ne least he falls into the deep. So shaggy goats that o'er high mountains climb, Unconscious of impending woe, Unheeding crop the flowers that blushing round him grow. And when from slumber th' early birds awake, The smiling Flora, and in transport shake He wild with wonder starts, and hails the opening morn. O'er heath, o'er wood, uncumber'd he pursues When 'neath an ivied tower he hails the risen day. Ah! then what interesting thoughts arise! The mould'ring walls dictate to swell th' historic page. Or, if perchance the convent's sad retreat, How many a swelling tear delicious falls, He thinks how many a pang the inmates' bosom thralls. And as the anthem floats along the gale, High mid the wood, or deep adown the dale, How many a sigh usurp its power, Wak'd for the fate of those whose pleasures are no more. Like sinuous serpents which in China* live, With such an undefined skill, That lost in sweet surprise sensation has her fill. LINES Occasioned by the unfortunate Death of Lieutenant J, who was killed by a Pistol accidentally discharged by his Friend Captain B. WITH horror dumb, tho' guiltless, stood Beside his dying friend, The hapless wretch, who made his blood * See Philosophical Transactions, 1665. |