And dallied thus, till from the shore
The tide retreating more and more
Had sucked, and sucked him in.
And there he is in face of Heaven.
How rapidly the Child is driven !
The fourth part of a mile I ween
He thus had gone, ere he was seen
By any human eye.

But when he was first seen, oh me
What shrieking and what misery!
For many saw; among the rest
His mother, she who loved him best,
She saw her poor blind Boy.

But for the Child, the sightless Boy,
It is the triumph of his joy!
The bravest Traveller in balloon,
Mounting as if to reach the moon,
Was never half so bless'd.

155

160

165

170

175

But now the passionate lament,
Which from the crowd on shore was sent,
The cries which broke from old and young
In Gaelic, or the English tongue,

Are stifled-all is still.

And quickly with a silent crew
A Boat is ready to pursue;

180

And from the shore their course they take,
And swiftly down the running Lake
They follow the blind Boy.

But soon they move with softer pace,
So have ye seen the fowler chase
On Grasmere's clear unruffled breast
A Youngling of the wild-duck's nest
With deftly-lifted oar.

Or as the wily Sailors crept
To seize (while on the Deep it slept)
The hapless Creature which did dwell
Erewhile within the dancing Shell,
They steal upon their prey.

With sound the least that can be made
They follow, more and more afraid,
More cautious as they draw more near;
But in his darkness he can hear,
And guesses their intent.
'Lei-gha-Lei-gha'-then did he cry,
'Lei-gha-Lei-gha'-most eagerly;

185

Thus did he cry, and thus did pray,
And what he meant was, 'Keep away,
And leave me to myself!'

Alas! and when he felt their hands

You've often heard of magic Wands,
That with a motion overthrew

A palace of the proudest shew,
Ör melt it into air.

So all his dreams, that inward light

205

210

With which his soul had shone so bright,
All vanish'd;-'twas a heartfelt cross
To him, a heavy, bitter loss,

As he had ever known.

But hark! a gratulating voice

With which the very hills rejoice:
"Tis from the crowd, who tremblingly
Had watch'd the event, and now can see
That he is safe at last.

And then, when he was brought to land,
Full sure they were a happy band,
Which gathering round did on the banks
Of that great Water give God thanks,
And welcomed the poor Child.

And in the general joy of heart
The blind Boy's little Dog took part;
He leapt about, and oft did kiss
His master's hands in sign of bliss,
With sound like lamentation.

She who had fainted with her fear,
But most of all, his Mother dear,
Rejoiced when waking she espies
The Child; when she can trust her eyes,
And touches the blind Boy.

She led him home, and wept amain,
When he was in the house again:

190 Tears flowed in torrents from her eyes;
She could not blame him, or chastise:

195

200

She was too happy far.

Thus, after he had fondly braved
The perilous Deep, the Boy was saved;
And, though his fancies had been wild,
Yet he was pleased, and reconciled

To live in peace on shore.

And in the lonely Highland Dell
Still do they keep the Turtle shell;
And long the Story will repeat

Of the blind Boy's adventurous feat,
And how he was preserved.

215

220

225

230

235

240

245

250

Herrig, British Auth.

26

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the Methinks a man's courage would now be

a

We saw
She had a baby at her back, and another
at her breast.

woman sitting down upon a
stone to rest;

I asked her why she loitered there, when
the night-wind was so chill, 15
She turned her head, and bade the child

that screamed behind be still.

She told us that her husband served, a soldier, far away,

And therefore to her parish she was beg-
ging back her way.

I turned me to the rich man then, for
silently stood he;-
'You asked me why the poor complain, and

these have answered thee.' 20

LORD WILLIAM AND EDMUND.
No eye beheld when William plunged
Young Edmund in the stream:
No human ear but William's heard

Young Edmund's drowning scream. 'I bade thee with a father's love

My orphan Edmund guard-
Well, William, hast thou kept thy charge?
Now take thy due reward.'

He started up, each limb convulsed

With agonising fear

He only heard the storm of night'Twas music to his ear!

When lo! the voice of loud alarm

His inmost soul appals

10

"What, ho! Lord William, rise in haste! 15
The water saps thy walls!'

He rose in haste-beneath the walls
He saw the flood appear;

It hemmed him round-'twas midnight now—
No human aid was near.

He heard the shout of joy! for now
A boat approached the wall;

And eager to the welcome aid

They crowd for safety all.

'My boat is small,' the boatman cried,
Twill bear but one away;

Come in, Lord William, and do ye
In God's protection stay.'

20

50

'O God! Lord William, dost thou know 45
How dreadful 'tis to die?
And canst thou, without pity, hear
A child's expiring cry?
How horrible it is to sink
To stretch the powerless arms in vain!
Beneath the chilly stream:
In vain for help to scream!'
The shriek again was heard: it came
More deep, more piercing loud.
That instant, o'er the flood, the moon
Shone through a broken cloud;
And near them they beheld a child;
Upon a crag he stood,

A little crag, and all around

Was spread the rising flood.
The boatman plied the oar, the boat
Approached his resting-place;

The moonbeam shone upon the child,
And showed how pale his face.

55

'Now reach thy hand,' the boatman cried,
'Lord William, reach and save!'
The child stretched forth his little hands,
To grasp the hand he gave.

Then William shrieked; the hand he
touched

Was cold, and damp, and dead!
He felt young Edmund in his arms,
A heavier weight than lead!
'Help! help! for mercy, help,' he cried,
"The waters round me flow.'
'No-William-to an infant's cries
No mercy didst thou show.'

The boat sunk down-the murderer sunk
Beneath the avenging stream;

25 He rose-he screamed-no human ear
Heard William's drowning scream.

75

THE EVENING RAINBOW.

Mild arch of promise! on the ev'ning
sky
Thou shinest fair, with many a lovely ray,
Each in the other melting. Much mine
Delights to linger on thee; for the day,

eye

5

Changeful and many-weather'd, seem'd to
smile,
Flashing brief splendour through its clouds
a while.

That deepen'd dark anon, and fell in rain:
But pleasant it is now to pause, and view
Thy various tints of frail and wat'ry hue,
And think the storm shall not return again.

SAMUEL TAYLOR

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE was born at Ottery

St. Mary in Devonshire in the year 1772. After having been educated in Christ Church, he entered Cambridge University in his nineteenth year, but on account of his Socinian opinions in religion, he was not allowed to take his degree; so he started for London and enlisted in a regiment of dragoons. He was however recalled by his friends, and after leaving Cambridge went to live at the Lakes, where also Southey and Wordsworth took up their residence, thus giving origin to the denomination of 'Lakers' and the Lake School. Coleridge appeared before the world as an author for the first time in 1796, and soon afterwards published separately his 'Ode to the Departing Year,' in 1797, the poem entitled 'France,' 1798, his 'Fears in Solitude: and after having translated Schiller's Wallenstein, he associated as a poet and author with Wordsworth, in an edition of whose works appeared

COLERIDGE.

several of his compositions. Coleridge has not given us an extensive collection of poetry, but what he has written is of exquisite beauty and high poetical worth; it only lacks quantity to make him the greatest poetical writer of his day: but although he possessed an immense stock of materials, yet he seems to have left everything unfinished. He died in 1834. Of his poetical works we may mention The ancient Mariner,' 'Christabel,' 'Love,' 'Foster-Mother's Tale,' 'Dejection,' 'The Nightingale. His prose works embrace the subjects,— theology, history, politics, the principles of society, literature and its criticism, logic and metaphysics, and of them may be mentioned the following: The Friend,' Lay Sermons,' 'Aids to Reflection,' &c., but they all convey the same idea of incompleteness. Coleridge lived in the future, and always seems to have thought he would have time to give a finishing stroke to them at some future period.

And he shone bright, and on the right
Went down into the sea.

Higher and higher every day,
Till over the mast at noon-
For he heard the loud bassoon.
The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast,

The bride hath paced into the hall,

Red as a rose is she;

Nodding their heads before her goes
The merry minstrelsy.

The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast,
Yet he cannot choose but hear;

And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner.

And now the storm-blast came, and he
Was tyrannous and strong:

30

35

40

And listens like a three years' child:

He struck with his o'ertaking wings,

The Mariner hath his will.

And chased us south along.

The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared, The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,

Merrily did we drop

Below the kirk, below the hill,
Below the light-house top.

The sun came up upon the left,
Out of the sea came he!

50

And now there came both mist and snow,
And it grew wondrous cold:

25 And ice, mast-high, came floating by,
As green as emerald.

And forward bends his head,

And southward aye we fled.