That the roofs of Olympus may echo my lyre!

Hah! we mount! on their pinions they waft up my soul! O give me the nectar!

O fill me the bowl!

Give him the nectar!

Pour out for the poet,

Hebe! pour free!

Quicken his eyes with celestial dew,

That Styx the detested no more he may view,
And like one of us Gods may conceit him to be!
Thanks, Hebe! I quaff it! Io Pæan, I cry!

The wine of the Immortals

Forbids me to die!

A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

I.

THE shepherds went their hasty way,
And found the lowly stable-shed
Where the Virgin-Mother lay:

And now they checked their eager tread,
For to the Babe, that at her bosom clung,
A mother's song the Virgin-Mother sung.

II.

They told her how a glorious light, Streaming from a heavenly throng, Around them shone, suspending night! While sweeter than a mother's song, Blest Angels heralded the Saviour's birth, Glory to God on high! and Peace on Earth.

1798.

III.

She listened to the tale divine,

And closer still the Babe she prest; And while she cried, the Babe is mine!

The milk rushed faster to her breast:

Joy rose within her, like a summer's morn;
Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born.

IV.

Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace,
Poor, simple, and of low estate !
That strife should vanish, battle cease,
O why should this thy soul elate?
Sweet music's loudest note, the poet's story,-
Didst thou ne'er love to hear of fame and glory?

V.

And is not War a youthful king,
A stately hero clad in mail?
Beneath his footsteps laurels spring;

Him Earth's majestic monarchs hail

Their friend, their playmate! and his bold bright eye Compels the maiden's love-confessing sigh.

VI.

"Tell this in some more courtly scene, To maids and youths in robes of state! and mean,

I am a woman poor

And therefore is my soul elate.

War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled,
That from the aged father tears his child!

VII..

"A murderous fiend, by fiends adored,

He kills the sire and starves the son;

The husband kills, and from her board

Steals all his widow's toil had won;

Plunders God's world of beauty; rends away
All safety from the night, all comfort from the day.

VIII.

"Then wisely is my soul elate,

That strife should vanish, battle cease:

I'm poor and of a low estate,

The Mother of the Prince of Peace.

Joy rises in me, like a summer's morn:

Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born."

1799.

LINES TO W. L.

WHILE HE SANG A SONG TO PURCELL'S MUSIC.

WHILE my young cheek retains its healthful hues,
And I have many friends who hold me dear;
L- ! methinks, I would not often hear
Such melodies as thine, lest I should lose
All memory of the wrongs and sore distress,
For which my miserable brethren weep!
But should uncomforted misfortunes steep

My daily bread in tears and bitterness;
And if at death's dread moment I should lie
With no beloved face at my bed-side,

To fix the last glance of my closing eye,

Methinks, such strains, breathed by my angel-guide, Would make me pass the cup of anguish by,

Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died!

THE KNIGHT'S TOMB.

WHERE is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?
Where may the grave of that good man be?—
By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn,
Under the twigs of a young birch tree!

The oak that in summer was sweet to hear,
And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year,
And whistled and roared in the winter alone,
Is gone, and the birch in its stead is grown.-
The Knight's bones are dust,

And his good sword rust;—

His soul is with the saints, I trust.

1802.

METRICAL FEET. LESSON FOR A BOY.

TROCHEE trips from lōng to shōrt;

From long to long in solemn sort

Slow Spōndée stalks; strong foot! yet ill able

Evěr to come up with Dactyl trisyllable.

Iambics march from short to long;

With ǎ leap and a bound the swift Anǎpæests throng; One syllable long, with one short at each side, Amphibrǎchys hastes with a stately stride;

First and last being lõng, middle shōrt, Amphimacer Strikes his thundering hoofs like a proud high bred Racer.

If Derwent be innocent, steady, and wise,

And delight in the things of earth, water, and skies;

Tender warmth at his heart, with these metres to show it, With sound sense in his brains, may make Derwent a

poet,―

May crown him with fame, and must win him the love Of his father on earth and his Father above.

Could

My dear, dear child!

you stand upon Skiddaw, you would not from its whole ridge

See a man who so loves you as your fond S. T. COLERIDGE.

A CHILD'S EVENING PRAYER.

ERE on my bed my limbs I lay,

God grant me grace my prayers to say:
O God! preserve my mother dear
In strength and health for many a year;
And, O! preserve my father too,
And may I pay him reverence due;
And may I my best thoughts employ
To be my parents' hope and joy;
And, O! preserve my brothers both
From evil doings and from sloth,
And may we always love each other,
Our friends, our father, and our mother:
And still, O Lord, to me impart
An innocent and grateful heart,
That after my great sleep I may
Awake to thy eternal day!

1807.

Amen.