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APRIL, 1793.

O HARMONY! thou tenderest nurse of pain,

If that thy note's sweet magic e'er can heal Whose was that gentle voice, that whispering Griefs which the patient spirit oft may feel, sweet,

0! let me listen to thy songs again, Promised methought long days of bliss sincere ? Till memory her fairest tints shall bring, Soothing it stole on my deluded ear,

Hope wake with brighter eye, and listening seem Most like soft music, that might sometimes cheat With smiles to think on some delightful dream, Thoughts dark and drooping! 'Twas the voice of That waved o'er the charm'd sense its gladsome hope.

wing: Of love, and social scenes, it seem'd to speak, For when thou leadest all thy soothing strains

Of truth, of friendship, of affection meek; More smooth along, the silent passions meet That, 0! poor friend, might to life's downward in one suspended transport, sad and sweet, slope

And naught but sorrow's softest touch remains, Lead us in peace, and bless our latest hours. That, when the transitory charm is o'er,

Ah me! the prospect sadden'd as she sung; Just wakes a tear, and then is felt no more.

Loud on my startled ear the death-bell rung; Chill darkness wrapt the pleasurable bowers, Whilst horror, pointing to yon breathless clay,

SONNET. “ No peace be thine,” exclaim'd ; "away, away !”

MAY, 1793.


MAY, 1793.

As o'er these hills I take my silent rounds,

Still on that vision which is flown I dwell!

On images I loved (alas, how well!)
Now past, and but remember'd like sweet sounds
Of yesterday! yet in my breast I keep

Such recollections, painful though they seem,

And hours of joy retrace, till from my dream
I wake, and find them not: then I could weep
To think that time so soon each sweet devours;

To think so soon life's first endearments fail,

And we are still misled by hope's smooth tale ! Who, like a flatterer, when the happiest hours Are past, and most we wish her cheering lay, Will fly as faithless and as fleet as they !

How shall I meet thee, summer, wont to fill

My heart with gladness, when thy pleasant tide

First came, and on each coomb's romantic side
Was heard the distant cuckoo's hollow bill?
Fresh flowers shall fringe the wild brink of the

As with the songs of joyance and of hope

The hedge-rows shall ring loud, and on the slope
The poplars sparkle in the transient beam;
The shrubs and laurels which I loved to tend,

Thinking their May-tide fragrance might delight,
With many a peaceful charm, thee, my best friend,
Shall put forth their green shoot, and cheer the

sight! But I shall mark their hues with sickening eyes, And weep for her who in the cold grave lies !


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How blest with thee the path could I have trod

Of quiet life, above cold want's hard fate, SONNET.

(And little wishing more,) nor of the great NETLEY ABBEY.

Envious, or their proud name! but it pleased God

To take thec to his mercy: thou didst go FALL'n pile! I ask not what has been thy fate; In youth and beauty, go to thy death-bed; But when the weak winds, wafted from the E’en whilst on dreams of bliss we fondly fed, main,

Of years to come of comfort !-Be it so. Through each rent arch, like spirits that com

Ere this I have felt sorrow; and e'en now plain,

(Though sometimes the unbidden thought must Come hollow to my ear, I meditate

start, On this world's passing pageant, and the lot

And half unman the miserable heart) Of those who once full proudly in their prime

The cold dew I shall wipe from my sad brow, And beauteous might have stood, till bow'd by And say, since hopes of bliss on earth are vain, time

“ Best friend, farewell, till we do meet again?” Or injury, their early boast forgot, They may have fall’n like thee: Pale and forlorn, Their brow, besprent with thin hairs, white as

SONNET. snow, They lift, majestic yet; as they would scorn

This short-lived scene of vanity and wo; I NEVER hear the sound of thy glad bells, Whilst on their sad looks smilingly they bear Oxford ! and chime harmonious, but I say The trace of creeping age, and the dim hue of (Sighing to think how time has worn away,) care !

“ Some spirit speaks in the sweet tone that swells


Heard after years of absence, from the vale Didst soothe me, bidding my poor heart rejoice, Where Cherwell winds.” Most true it speaks Though smitten sore: 0, I did little think the tale

That thou, my friend, wouldst the first victim fall Of days departed, and its voice recalls

To the stern king of terrors! thou didst ily, Hours of delight and hope in the gay tide

By pity prompted, at the poor man's cry; Of life, and many friends now scatter'd wide

And soon thyself wert stretch'd beneath the pall, By many fates. Peace be within thy walls ! Livid infection's prey. The deep distress I have scarce heart to visit thee; but yet,

Of her, who best thy inmost bosom knew, Denied the joys sought in thy shades,-denied To whom thy faith was vow'd, thy soul was true,

Each better hope, since my poor died, What powers of faltering language shall express What I have owed to thee, my heart can ne'er forget! As friendship bids, I feebly breathe my own,

And sorrowing say, “ Pure spirit, thou art gone !"


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Thou camest with kind looks, when on the brink
Almost of death I strove, and with mild voice I SHALL behold far off thy towering crest,

Proud mountain! from thy heights as slow I stray * The following elegant inscription to the memory of

Down through the distant vale my homeward way, this amiable and excellent young man is prefixed to the I shall behold, upon thy rugged breast, chancel of Caversham church, near Reading, and does The parting sun sit smiling: me the while merly justice to the many valuable qualifications of him

Escaped the crowd, thoughts full of heaviness whose virtues and graces it records :

May visit, as life's bitter losses press
Near this Chancel are deposited

Hard on my bosom: but I shall “ beguile
The Remains of the REV. WILLIAM BENWELL,

The thing I am," and think, that e’en as thou Late Fellow of Trinity College, Oxford, Who died of a contagious fever, the consequence of

Dost lift in the pale beam thy forehead high, his charitable endeavours to relieve and comfort the Proud mountain! (whilst the scatter'd vapours fly inhabitants of the village in which he resided. Unheeded round thy breast,) so, with calm brow, From early youth

The shades of sorrow I may meet, and wear
He was remarkable for correctness of taste,

The smile unchanged of peace, though prest by care! and variety of knowledge;

Simple, modest, and retired; In manners and conversation he possesseda natural grace; a winning courtesy, truly expressive of the heavenly serenity of his mind, and of the meekness, low

SONNET. liness and benevolence of his heart. To his Relations, and to his Companions whom he loved, ON REVIEWING THE FOREGOING. SEPT. 21, 1797.

he was most tenderly and consistently atfectionate: To the poor a zealous friend, a wise and patient instrucler; I TURN these leaves with thronging thoughts, and By his mildness cheering the sorrowful;

say, And, by the pure and amiable sanctity which beamed in

“ Alas ! how many friends of youth are dead,
his countenance, repressing the licentious.
Habitually pious,

How many visions of fair hope have fled,
He appeared in every instance of life

Since first, my muse, we met:”-So speeds away to act, to speak, and to think,

Life, and its shadows; yet we sit and sing, as in the sight of God.

Stretch'd in the noontide bower, as if the day He died Sept. 6th, 96, in his 32d year:

Declined not, and we yet might trill our lay His soul pleased the Lord, therefore hasted He to take

Beneath the pleasant morning's purple wing This Tablet was erected to his Memory, with heart- That fans us, while aloft the gay clouds shine! fell grief, and the tenderest affection,

0, ere the coming of the long cold night, By Pexelope, eldest daughter of John LOVEday, Esq.;

RELIGION, may we bless thy purer light, and Penelope his wife,

That still shall warm us, when the tints decline Who, after many years of the most ardent friendship,

O’er earth's dim hemisphere, and sad we gaze became his wife and his widow in the course of eleven weeks!"

On the vain visions of our passing days !

him away.



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE was born at Bris- | maps with which he was reported to have supplied tol, about 1770, where he received the earliest por- the French government, in aid of their plans of in. tion of his education. He was afterwards sent to vasion. Christ's Hospital, London, where, he says, in his A perusal of Bowles's Sonnets appears to have Biographia Literaria, “I enjoyed the inestimable first inspired him with a taste for poetry, of which advantage of a very sensible, though, at the same his earliest specimen was given to the public in a time, a very severe master, the Rev. James Bowyer, small volume, published previously to the forewho early moulded my taste to the preference of going incident, in which publication a monody on Demosthenes to Cicero, of Homer and Theocritus to the death of the unfortunate Chatterton was uniVirgil, and again of Virgil to Ovid, &c.” From versally admired. In 1795, he published some antiChrist's Hospital he was sent to Jesus College, ministerial pamphlets; and in the following year, Cambridge, where he obtained the Sir William made an unsuccessful attempt to establish a periBrown's gold medal, for the best Greek ode, inodical paper, called The Watchman, at the pers:121792. About the same time, he became acquainted sion, he says, of sundry philanthropists and antiwith Southey, then a student of Baliol College, polemists. His next publication was a poem on the Oxford, and, like himself, imbued with ardent pre- prospect of peace; he shortly afterwards accompa. dilections for poesy and liberty. With him and nied Sir Alexander Ball, governor of Malta, as his some other young men, he entered into a scheme, secretary ; and, on his return from this employe which want of means alone prevented them from ment, became entitled to a pension. This so far putting into execution, for settling on the Susque- improving his circumstances as to leave hin at hannah river, in North America, under a panti- full liberty to pursue his literary designs, he ensocratic form of society. About 1794, he retired to gaged in the publication of a variety of works, and Alforton, in Somersetshire, where he was joined delivered two public courses of lectures, one on the by his friend Wordsworth, with whom he passed plays of Shakspeare, and another on poetry and the his time in literary pursuits, and in wandering about belles lettres, which gained him a reputation for the Quantock hills, with such an air of mystery, considerable oratorical powers. In 1813, be pubthat they became objects of suspicion to the neigh- lished Remorse, a tragedy ; followed, in 1817, by bourhood. A spy was set upon their conduct, and Sibylline Leaves; A Collection of Poems ; his an examination actually appears to have taken Biographia Literaria, or biographical sketches of bis place, by the village authorities, of a poor rustic life and opinions ; and other works, poetical and who was supposed to have discovered their dan-political. In 1818, he commenced The Friend, a gerous designs. Our author has given a ludicrous series of essays, that extended to three volumes ; account of this in the work before quoted from, and and in the tenth and eleventh numbers of which, the conclusion is worth extracting, as developing he says, he has left a record of his principles. In somewhat of his habits and character. “ Has not 1825, he published Aids to Reflection, in the for this Mr. Coleridge been wandering on the hills mation of a manly character, &c.; and, in 1830, his towards the channel, and along the shore, with Treatise on the Constitution of the Church and books and papers in his hand, taking charts and State, according to the idea of each : with aids tomaps of the country ?”—“ Why, as to that, your wards a right judgment of the late Catholic bill. honour," was the rustic's reply; “I am sure I Mr. Coleridge towards the close of life resided at would not wish to say ill of anybody; but it is Highgate, where he occasionally received his litecertain that I have heard—” “Speak out, man rary friends, and passed his time in reading, and don't be afraid: you are doing your duty to your the amusements of his garden. He was said to king and government. What have you heard?” excel all his contemporaries in powers of argue “Why, folks do say, your honour, as how that he ment; and, when once fairly launched on any fais a poet ; and that he is going to put Quan- vourite topic, to be possessed of the faculty of rivettock, and all about here, in print; and as they ing for hours, the attention of his audience by the (Wordsworth and Coleridge) be so much together, charm of his eloquence alone. He died July 25th, I suppose that the strange gentleman (Wordsworth) 1834. has some consarn in the business.” The business In addition to the works already mentioned, which engaged him was the composition of a poem, he wrote, during the peace of Amiens, essays to be called The Brook, which, had he finished, it for The Morning Post and Courier. Mr. Fox is was his intention to have dedicated to the commit- said to have pointed his allusion to these contributec of public safety, as containing the charts and I tions, when he declared, that the war, which fol

lowed the above treaty, was a war raised by The thor upon this subject, to solve the riddle which Morning Post. Whilst Mr. Coleridge was staying is appended as a conclusion to Christabel. He at Rome, Bonaparte is said to have sent an order might as well attribute deficiency of capacity to a for his arrest, from which he was rescued, partly, by beholder of his countenance, who should fail, in its the forbearance of the late pope, Pius the Seventh. workings, to discover the exact emotions of his Our poet, however, has never displayed any evi- mind; for Mr. Coleridge has afforded no clearer clue dence of his having been guided by any fixed poli- to the generality of his poetical arcana. This is tical creed ; and he altogether disowns, as was particularly manifest in his singularly wild and hinted by The Morning Chronicle, that he ever striking poem of The Ancient Mariner, on which he bettered his fortune by his labours as a political is said to have written the following epigram, adwriter. Indeed, it is as a poet only that he will dressed to himself : be known by posterity ; however zealously his friends may labour to procure a reputation for him

“Your poem must eternal be,

Dear sir! it cannot fail; as the founder of a sect in morals or philosophy.

For, 'tis incomprehensible, The chief fault of Coleridge's poetry lies in the style,

And without head or lail." which has been justly objected to on account of its obscurity, general turgidness of diction, and a pro- Mr. Coleridge is unquestionably at the head of fusion of new-coined double epithets. With regard | the Lake school of poetry, and excels all his fraterto its obscurity, he says, in the preface to a late nity of that class in feeling, fancy, and sublimity. edition of his poems, that where he appears un- Some of his minor poems will bear comparison with intelligible," the deficiency is in the reader.” This those of the bards of this or any other age or counis nothing more or less than to suppose his readers try; and his verses on Love appear to us the most endowed with the powers of divination; for we touching, delicate, and beautiful delineation of that defy any one who is not in the confidence of the au- passion that ever was penned.


who died of an apoplexy on the 17th of November, 1790; having just concluded a subsidiary treaty with tho kings combined against France. The first and second antistrophe describe the image of the departing year, etc. as in a vision. The second epode prophesies, in anguish of spirit, the downfall of this country,



When I have borne in memory what has lamed
Great nations, how ennobling thoughts depart
When men change swords for legers, and desert
The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed
I had, my country! Am I to be blamed ?
But, when I think of thee, and what thou art,
Verily, in the bottom of my heart,
or those unfilial fears I am ashamed.
But dearly must we prize thee; we who find
In thee a bulwark of the cause of men;
And I by my affection was beguiled.
What wonder if a poet, now and then,
Among the many movements of his mind,
Felt for thee as a lover or a child.



Ind, ioù, w kará.


δεινός ορθομαντείας πόνος Στροβεί, ταράσσων φροιμίοις εφημίοις: Το μέλλον ήξει. Και ου μην πάχει παρών 'Αγαν γ' αληθόμαντιν μ' έρείς.

AESCHYL. Agam. 1225.

The Ode commences with an address to the Divine Pro-

vidence, that regulates into one vast harmony all the
events of time, however calamitous some of them may
appear to mortals. The second strophe calls on men
to suspend their private joys and sorrows, and devote
them for a while to the cause of human nature in gene.
ral. The first epode speaks of the Empress of Russia,

SPIRIT who sweepest the wild harp of time!

It is most hard with an untroubled ear

Thy dark inwoven harmonies to hear !
Yet, mine eye fix'd on heaven's unchanging clime,
Long when I listen’d, free from mortal fear,

With inward stillness, and submitted mind;

When lo! its folds far waving on the wind, I saw the train of the departing year!

Starting from my silent sadness,

Then with no unholy madness,
Ere yet the enter'd cloud foreclosed my sight,
I raised th' impetuous song, and solemnized his

Hither, from the recent tomb,

From the prison's direr gloom,

From distemper's midnight anguish;
And thence, where poverty doth waste and languish,

Or where, his two bright torches blending,

Love illumines manhood's maze ;
Or where, o'er cradled infants bending,
Hope has fix'd her wishful gaze,

Hither, in perplexed dance,
Ye woes! ye young-eyed joys! advance !
By time's wild harp, and by the hand

Whose indefatigable sweep

Raises its fateful strings from sleep,
I bid you haste, a mix'd, tumultuous band !
From every private bower,

And each domestic hearth,
Haste for one solemn hour ;

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And with a loud and yet a louder voice,

But chief by Afric's wrongs,
O'er nature struggling in portentous birth

Strange, horrible, and foul !
Weep and rejoice!

By what deep guilt belongs
Still echoes the dread name that o'er the earth

To the deaf synod, full of gifts and lies!"
Let slip the storm, and woke the brood of hell: By wealth's insensate laugh! by torture's bowl!
And now advance in saintly jubilee

Avenger, rise!
Justice and truth! They too have heard thy spell, For ever shall the thankless island scowl,
They too obey thy name,
divinest Liberty!

Her quiver full, and with unbroken bow?

Speak! from thy storm black heaven, O speak aloud! III.

And on the darkling foe I mark'd Ambition in his war array !

Open thine eye of fire from some uncertain cloud! I heard the mailed monarch's troublous cry

O dart the flash! O rise and deal the blow! « Ah! wherefore does the northern conqueress

The past to thee, to thee the future cries! stay!

Hark! how wide nature joins her groans below! Groans not her chariot on its onward way?

Rise, God of nature ! rise.”
Fly, mailed monarch, fly!
Stunn'd by death's twice mortal mace,

No more on murder's lurid face

The voice had ceased, the vision filed; Th'insatiate bag shall gloat with drunken eye! Yet still I gasp'd and reel'd with dread. Manes of the unnumber'd slain!

And ever, when the dream of night Ye that gasp'd on Warsaw's plain!

Renews the phantom to my sight, Ye that erst at Ismail's tower,

Cold sweat-drops gather on my limbs ; When human ruin choked the streams,

My ears throb hot; my eyeballs start; Fell in conquest's glutted hour,

My brain with horrid tumult swims; 'Mid women's shrieks and infant's screams!

Wild is the tempest of my heart; Spirits of the uncoffin'd slain,

And my thick and struggling breath Sudden blasts of triumph swelling,

Imitates the toil of death! Oft, at night, in misty train,

No stronger agony confounds Rush around her narrow dwelling!

The soldier on the war-field spread, The exterminating fiend is filed

When all foredone with toil and wounds, (Foul her life, and dark her doom)

Death-like he dozes among heaps of dead! Mighty armies of the dead

(The strife is o’er, the daylight fied, Dance like death-fires round her tomb!

And the night-wind clamours hoarse! Then with prophetic song relate,

See! the starting wretch's head
Each some tyrant murderer's fate!

Lies pillow'd on a brother's corse!)

Departing year! 'twas on no earthly shore

Not yet enslaved, not wholly vile, My soul beheld thy vision ! where alone,

O Albion ! O my mother isle ! Voiceless and stern, before the cloudy throne, Thy valleys, fair as Eden's bowers, Aye Memory sits: thy robe inscribed with gore, Glitter green with sunny showers; With many an unimaginable groan

Thy grassy uplands' gentle swells Thou storied’st thy sad hours ! Silence ensued, Echo to the bleat of flocks, Deep silence o'er th' ethereal multitude,

(Those grassy hills, those glittering dells Whose locks with wreaths, whose wreaths with Proudly ramparted with rocks ;) glories shone,

And ocean, 'mid his uproar wild, Then, his eye wild ardours glancing,

Speaks safely to his island child! From the choired gods advancing,

Hence, for many a fearless age The Spirit of the earth made reverence meet,

Has social quiet loved thy shore ! And stood up, beautiful, before the cloudy seat. Nor ever proud invader's rage

Or sack'd thy towers, or stain'd thy fields with gore. V. Throughout the blissful throng:

VIII. Hush'd were harp and song:

Abandon’d of Heaven! mad avarice thy guide, Till wheeling round the throne the Lampads seven At cowardly distance, yet kindling with pride(The mystic words of heaven)

'Mid thy herds and thy corn-fields secure thou hast Permissive signal make:

stood, The fervent spirit bow'd, then spread his wings And joind the wild yelling of faroine and blood ! and spake!

The nations curse thee! They with eager wondering 66 Thou in stormy blackness throning

Shall hear destruction, like a vulture, scream! Love and uncreated light,

Strange-eyed destruction! who with many a By the earth's unsolaced groaning,

dream Seize thy terrors, Arm of might!

Of central fires through nether seas upthundering By peace with proffer'd insult scared,

Soothes her fierce solitude; yet, as she lies
Masked hate and envying scorn!

By livid fount, or red volcanic stream,
By years of havoc yet unborn!

If ever to her lidless dragon-eyes,
And hunger's bosom to the frost winds bared! O Albion ! thy pre ned ruins rise,

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