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Rich was his bed of clouds, and wide beneath
Expecting Ocean smiled with dimpled face.

For the Hymn on the Moon. In a cave in the mountains of Cashmeer there is an image of ice, which makes its appearance thus : Two days before the new moon there appears a bubble of ice, which increases in size every day till the fifteenth, by which time it is an ell or more in height;—then as the moon wanes, the image decreases till it vanishes away.

In darkness I remain'd ;--the neighbouring clock
Told me that now the rising sun at dawn
Shone lovely on my garden.

These be staggerers that, made drunk by power, Forget thirst's eager promise, and presume, Dark dreamers ! that the world forgets it too!

-Perish warmth, Unfaithful to its seeming!

Old age, 'the shape and messenger of death,'
His wither'd fist still knocking at death's door.

-God no distance knows All of the whole possessing.

With skill that never alchemist yet told,
Made drossy lead as ductile as pure gold.

Guess at the wound and heal with secret hand.

The broad-breasted rock Glasses his rugged forehead in the sea.

I mix in life, and labour to seem free,

With common persons pleased and common things, While every thought and action tends to thee,

And every impulse from thy influence springs.

Grant me a patron, gracious Heaven! whene er
My unwash'd follies call for penance drear:
But when more hideous guilt this heart infests

Instead of fiery coals upon my pate,

O let a titled patron be my fate;That fierce compendium of Egyptian pests! Right reverend Dean, right honourable Squire, Lord, Marquis, Earl, Duke, Prince, or if aught higher, However proudly nicknamed, he shall be Anathema Maranatha to me!

His own fair countenance, his kingly forehead,
His tender smiles, love's day-dawn on his lips,
The sense, and spirit, and the light divine,
At the same moment in his steadfast eye
Were Virtue's native crest, th' immortal soul's
Unconscious meek self-heraldry,—to man
Genial, and pleasant to his guardian angel.
He suffer'd nor complain'd;—though oft with tears
He mourn’d th’ oppression of his helpless brethren,-
Yea, with a deeper and yet holier grief
Mourn’d for the oppressor. In those sabbath hours

His solemn grief, like the slow cloud at sunset,
Was but the veil of purest meditation
Pierced thro' and saturate with the rays of mind.

Within these circling hollies, woodbine-clad-
Beneath this small blue roof of vernal sky-
How warm, how still ! Though tears should dim mine

Yet will my heart for days continue glad,
For here, my love, thou art, and here am I !

Each crime that once estranges from the virtues
Doth make the memory of their features daily
More dim and vague, till each coarse counterfeit
Can have the passport to our confidence
Sign'd by ourselves. And fitly are they punish'd
Who prize and seek the honest man but as
A safer lock to guard dishonest treasures.
A Sober Statement of Human Life, or the

True Medium.
A chance may win what by mischance was lost;

The net that holds not great, takes little fish;
In some things all, in all things none are crost;

Few all they need, but none have all they wish :
Unmingled joys to no one here befall;
Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all !

Translation of a Latin Inscription by the Rev.

W. L. Bowles in Nether Storey Church.* Depart in joy from this world's noise and strife To the deep quiet of celestial life!

* Literary Remains of S.T.C., vol. i. p. 50.

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 !

Epilogue to The Rash Conjuror,

An Uncomposed Poem.
We ask and urge—(here ends the story!)

All Christian Papishes to pray

That this unhappy Conjuror may,
Instead of Hell, be but in Purgatory,–

For then there's hope ;

Long live the Pope ! * 1805.

The rose that blushes like the morn

Bedecks the valleys low;
And so dost thou, sweet infant corn,

My Angelina's toe.

But on the rose there grows a thorn

That breeds disastrous woe;
And so dost thou, remorseless corn,

On Angelina's toe. 1825.

The Alternative.t
This way or that, ye Powers above me !

I of my grief were rid-
Did Enna either really love me,

Or cease to think she did. 1826.

* Literary Remains of S.T.C., vol. i. p. 52. + Ib. vol. i. p. 59.

Written on a Ay-leaf of a copy of “Field on the Church,folio, 1628, under the name of a former

possessor of the volume inscribed thus : Hannah Scollock, her book, February 10, 1787." This, Hannah Scollock! may have been the case; Your writing therefore I will not erase. But now this book, once yours, belongs to me, The Morning Post's and Courier's S.T.C. ;Elsewhere in College, knowledge, wit and scholarage To friends and public known as S. T. Coleridge. Witness hereto my hand, on Ashly Green, One thousand, twice four hundred, and fourteen Year of our Lord-and of the month November The fifteenth day, if right I do remember.*

Translation of a Fragment of Heraclitus.
Μαινομένω στόματι άμυριστά και ακαλλώπιστα

φθεγγομένη, &c.

-Not hers
To win the sense by words of rhetoric,
Lip-blossoms breathing perishable sweets;
But by the power of the informing Word
Roll sounding onward through a thousand years
Her deep prophetic bodements.t

“ The angel's like a flea,

The devil is a bore;—"
No matter for that! quoth S.T.C.,

I love him the better therefore. I
* Literary Remains of S.T.C., vol. iii. pp. 57, 58.
+ 1b., vol. iii. p. 419.

Ib., vol. iv. p. 52. Written in a copy of Luther's Tabletalk. VOL. II.


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