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truth. It tells of his profound learning and discursive genius; his worth ; his social and Christian virtues; and adds, that his disposition was unalterably sweet and angelic: that he was an ever. enduring, ever-loving friend : the gentlest and kindest teacherthe most engaging home companion.

Hazlitt, who knew him in his youth, describes him as rather above the middle size, inclining to corpulency; as having a dreamy countenance, a forehead broad and high, with large projecting eyebrows, and “eyes rolling like a sea with darkened lustre.” The description applies with almost equal accuracy to the Poet in age. The wonderful eloquence of his conversation is a prominent theme with all who have written or spoken of him; it was full of matter : his bookish lore, and his wide and intimate acquaintance with men and things were enlivened by a grace and sprightliness abso. lutely startling ;-his manner was singularly attractive, and the tones of his voice were perfect music.

Few have obtained greater celebrity in the world of letters; yet few have so wasted the energies of a naturally great mind; few, in short, have done so LITTLE of the purposed and promised much, Some of the most perfect examples that our language can supply, are to be found among his Poems, full of the simplest and purest nature, yet pregnant with the deepest and most subtle philosophy. * His judgment and taste were sound and refined to a degree ; and when he spoke of the “little he had published" as being of " little importance,” it was because his conception of excellence exceeded even his power to convey it. Those who read his wildest productions-Christabel, and the Ancient Mariner_will readily appreciate the fertile imagination and prodigious strength of the writer; and if they turn to the gentler efforts of his genius, they will find so inany illustrations of a passage which prefaces an edition of his Juvenile Verses: “Poetry has been to me its "exceed. ing great reward;' it has soothed my afflictions; it has multiplied and refined my enjoyments; it has endeared solitude; and it has given me the habit of wishing to discover the good and the beauti. ful in all that meets and surrounds me."

* A complete and beautifully printed edition of the Poems of S. T. Cole. ridge, in 3 vols. was published by Pickering, revised and arranged by the Poet, shortly before his death.

COLERIDGE.

THE GARDEN OF BOCCACCIO.

THANKS, gentle artist ! now I can descry
Thy fair creation with a mastering eye,
And all awake! And now in fix'd gaze stand,
Now wander through the Eden of thy hand;
Praise the green arches, on the fountain clear
See fragment shadows of the crossing deer;
And with that serviceable nymph I stoop,
The crystal from its restless pool to scoop.
I see no longer! I myself am there,
Sit on the ground-sward, and the banquet share.
”Tis I, that sweep that lute's love-echoing strings,
And gaze upon the maid who gazing sings:
Or

pause and listen to the tinkling bells
From the high tower, and think that there she dwells.
With old Boccaccio's soul I stand possest,
And breathe an air like life, that swells my chest.

The brightness of the world, O thou once free,
And always fair, rare land of courtesy!
0, Florence! with the Tuscan fields and hills !
And famous Arno fed with all their rills;
Thou brightest star of star-bright Italy !
Rich, ornate, populous, all treasures thine,
The golden corn, the olive, and the vine.
Fair cities, gallant mansions, castles old,
And forests, where beside his leafy hold

The sullen boar hath heard the distant horn,
And whets his tusks against the gnarled thorn;
Palladian palace, with its storied halls;
Fountains, where Love lies listening to their falls;
Gardens, where flings the bridge its airy span,
And Nature makes her happy home with man;
Where many a gorgeous flower is duly fed
With its own rill, on its own spangled bed,
And wreathes the marble urn, or leans its head,
A mimic mourner, that with veil withdrawn
Weeps liquid gems, the presents of the dawn,
Thine all delights, and every muse is thine:
And more than all, the embrace and intertwine
Of all with all in gay and twinkling dance !

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All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of Love,

And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I lay

Beside the ruined tower.

The moonshine stealing o'er the scene
Had blended with the lights of eve;
And she was there, my hope, my joy,

My own dear Genevieve !

She lean'd against the armed man,
The statue of the armed knight:
She stood and listened to my harp

Amid the ling’ring light.

Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope, my joy, my Genevieve !
She loves me best, whene'er I sing

The songs that make her grieve.

I played a soft and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story-
An old rude song that fitted well

The ruin wild and hoary.

She listened with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;
For well she knew, I could not choose

But gaze upon her face.

I told her of the Knight, that wore
Upon his shield a burning brand ;
And that for ten long years he wooed

The Lady of the Land.

I told her how he pined : and, ah! The low, the deep, the pleading tone, With which I sang another's love,

Interpreted my own.

She listened with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;
And she forgave me that I gazed

Too fondly on her face!

But when I told the cruel scorn
Which crazed this bold and lovely Knight,
And that he crossed the mountain woods,

Nor rested day nor night!

That sometimes from the savage den,
And sometimes from the darksome shade,
And sometimes starting up at once,
In
green

and

sunny glade,

There came, and looked him in the face,
An angel beautiful and bright;
And that he knew it was a fiend,

This miserable Knight!

And how, unknowing what he did,
He leap'd amid a murd'rous band,
And saved from outrage worse than death

The Lady of the Land;

And how she wept and clasped his knees,
And how she tended him in vain,
And ever strove to expiate

The scorn, that crazed his brain;

And that she nursed him in a cave;
And how his madness went away
When on the yellow forest leaves

A dying man he lay;

His dying wordsBut when I reached
That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
My falt'ring voice and pausing harp

Disturbed her soul with pity!

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