ORIGINAL POETRY.

On Sentiments exprest by Mr. COLERIDGE, in the Preface* to his
Sonnets," adverse to the PETRARCAN MODEL.

THOU, who hast amply quaff'd the Muses' Rill,
And bath'd thy Locks in pure poetic Dews;
Canst thou disparage the PETRARCAN Muse :-
To her sweet voice deaf, cold, fastidious still?
Examine if unprejudic'd the Will

COLERIDGE, which can to her high Praise refuse;
And of perverseness her fair Laws accuse,
Which through the enchanted ear the bosom fill.

II.

Her various, cadenc'd, regularity

HE, who o'er Epic heights hath soar'd sublime,
And magic SPENSER, lov'd.-The mighty Dead

Have Followers, haply to Posterity

Not unendear'd.-O! scorn not these, who led,
In many a graceful niaze, the full harmonious Rhime.

Cantubr.-6 Febr. 1804.

TO THE NYMPH OF THE FOUNTAIN OF TEARS.

Oh! lachrymarum fons! tenero Sacros
Ducentium ortus ex animo; quater

Felix! in imo qui scatentem

Pectore, te pia Nympha! sensit.

GRAY.

MILD, pious Nymph! of birth divine,
Who, wakeful, guardst this hallow'd brim
Of flowing tears, whose stream is thine
To drink, or on its surface swim!

To thee the tears of Melody belong,
Which oft is heard at midnight hours,
Descending in harmonious song,

From brighter spheres and aëry powers.

To the third edition of his Poems.

Which wanton in the rainbow's robe,
Surcharg'd with honey, or with myrrh;
And hovering o'er this nether globe,
As zephyrs on the gossamer.

To thee belong those chrystal showers,
Which start in Youth's impulsive eye;
When, fraught with blue-ey'd Pity's powers,
It lends an ear to Liberty.

Or when with love, the tender soul
Has Friendship's absence to deplore;
Alas! what reasoning dare control

Those tears which we delight to pour?

And those are thine! which copious flow,
With tender recollections mov'd;

When with a placid, tranquil brow,

1

We view the spot our youth has lov'd.

Or when, at eve, with silent ear,
We listen to the Nightingale ;

What transport mild! how sweet the tear
Awaken'd by her piteous tale!

Soft, tender streams! sweet gushing rills!
Whose balmy and nectareous spring,

From rocks of living love distils,

And warbling touch each mellow string.

Oh! Nymph! into my heart infuse,
(While loitering near thy cells I stray,)
In copious draughts, the pensive hues
Of wakeful Sensibility.

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!
And leave me undisputed sway!
Your arts on other bosoms try,

But this I've singled for my prey.

Away! begone! nor dare remain,
Where I alone have sov'reign pow'r;
Within the precincts of my reign,

Let nought but cheerless sorrow low'r.

Ha! who is this that braves my force,
That boldly loiters still behind;
The only prop, the last resource,
Of this forlorn, corroded mind?

HOPE.

Fell monster! source of care and grief,
'Tis I, that dare to loiter here!

'Tis I that bring the wretch relief,
And ease his sorrows, free from fear.

Too well thou know'st, that when the rest
Of joys bright train from thee retreat;
I still can sooth the human breast,

Where thou in vain would'st fix thy seat.

Hope, is the grateful name I own,

My office is to soothe mankind;
To thee dire hate I've ever shewn,
And ever will, as thou shalt find.

Seek then again thy Stygian cave,

E'er thou by force art thither hurl'd;
There, in thine own dark counsels rave,
But ne'er presume to vex the world!

EUMENES.

THE TRAVELLER.

WRITTEN AT PEMBROKE.

FULL blest is he who wand'ring on the shore,
Of classic Arno hears the torrents roar,
And when the purple evening melts with dew,
To th' envious world he bids adieu,

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,
Or 'neath the forests awful frown he's laid;

While high-o'erarch'd the woodbine, or the rose,
Its sweetest, softest, fragrance throws,

While evening's mellow music undulating flows.

Or on the side of some gigantic hill,

Whose secret cells a murmuring sweet distil;
He lays him down in pensive fancy cast,
And brooding o'er ideas vast,

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,
While guards ærial keep

A friendly watch ne least he falls into the deep.

So shaggy goats that o'er high mountains climb,
Hanging on some torn precipice sublime,
Undaunted view unfathom'd caves below,

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
The pearly dew-drop from the quiv'ring thorn,
How as Aurora spreads the dawn,

He wild with wonder starts, and hails the opening morn.

O'er heath, o'er wood, uncumber'd he pursues
Unstudied paths, and courts the picturing Muse,
O'er plain, or valley winds his devious way,
Till mid-day pours its sultry sway,

When 'neath an ivied tower he hails the risen day.

Ah! then what interesting thoughts arise!
To trace with memory's recollective eyes,
What woes, what miseries, what religious rage,
(The fatal offspring of an iron age)

The mould'ring walls dictate to swell th' historic page.

Or, if perchance the convent's sad retreat,
Bosom❜d in trees attract his weary feet,

How many a swelling tear delicious falls,
As in its ancient sacred walls,

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,
Or on the stream re-echoing to the shore,

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,
Extract the subtle poison which they give;
To woe such melancholy joys distill,

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
From out his side descend;

* See Philosophical Transactions, 1665.