Where he who conquered, he who fell,
Was deemed a dead or living Tell.
Such virtue had that patriot breathea,
So to the soil his soul bequeathed,
That wheresoe'er his arrows flew,
Heroes in his own likeness grew,
And warriors sprang from every sod
Which his awakening footstep trod.
And now the work of life and death
Hung on the passing of a breath;
The fire of conflict burned within,
The battle trembled to begin;

Yet while the Austrians held their ground.
Point for assault was nowhere found;
Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed,
The unbroken line of lances blazed;
That line 'twere suicide to meet,

And perish at their tyrants' feet :

How could they rest within their graves,
To leave their homes the haunts of slaves*
Would they not feel their children tread,
With clanking chains, above their head?
It must not be ;-this day, this hour,
Annihilates the invader's power;
All Switzerland is in the field,
She will not fly, she cannot yield,—
She must not fall; her better fate
Here gives her an immortal date.
Few were the numbers she could boast,
Yet every freeman was a host,

And felt as 'twere a secret known,

That one should turn the scale alone.

While each unto himself was he

On whose sole arm hung victory!

Tell where the bolt would strike, and how.
But 'twas no sooner thought than done!
The field was in a moment won:-
"Make way for Liberty!" he cried,
Then ran, with arms extended wide,
As if his dearest friend to clasp ;-
Ten spears he swept within his

grasp;

"Make way for Liberty!" he cried;

Their keen points crossed from side to side;

He bowed amidst them like a tree,
And thus made way for Liberty!

Swift to the breach his comrades Aly;
"Make way for Liberty !" they cry,
And through the Austrian phalanx dart,
As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart,
While, instantaneous as his fall,
Rout, ruin, panic seized them all;
An earthquake could not overthrow
A city with a surer blow.

Thus Switzerland again was free,-
Thus death made way for Liberty!

It was remarked by Wordsworth, that many great men of this age had done wonderful things, but that COLERIDGE was the only wonderful man he ever knew and this opinion was shared by many others who visited the author of The Ancient Mariner. His character has been compared to a vast unfinished cathedral or palace,— beautiful in its decoration and gigantic in its proportions, but incomplete. Coleridge is said to have left behind him a prodigious amount of treatises-unfinished. Lamb informs us that, two days before his death, he wrote to a bookseller, proposing an epic poem, on The Wanderings of Cain, to be in twenty-four books: His early devotion to metaphysical studies continued with him through life, as

well as his love of poesy, which he tells us had been to him "its own exceeding great reward." This is seen, indeed, in the gush of poetic joy which pervades the following beautiful retrospect :—

Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying,

Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee,—
Both were mine! Life went a-Maying
With nature, hope, and poesy,
When I was young!

When I was young?-Ah, woful when!
Ah! for the change 'twixt now and then!
This breathing house not built with hands,
This body that does me grievous wrong,
O'er aëry cliffs and glittering sands,

How lightly then it flashed along;
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,
On winding lakes and rivers wide,
That ask no aid of sail or oar,

That fear no spite of wind or tide!
Naught cared this body for wind or weather
When Youth and I lived in't together.

Flowers are lovely; love is flower-like;
Friendship is a sheltering tree;

Oh, the joys that came down shower-like,
Of friendship, love, and liberty,
Ere I was old!

Ere I was old?-Ah, woful ere!

Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!
O Youth! for years so many and sweet
'Tis known that thou and I were one;

I'll think it but a fond conceit

It cannot be that thou art gone!

Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd-
And thou wert aye a masker bold.
What strange disguise hast now put on,
To make believe that thou art gone?
I see these locks in silvery slips,

This drooping gait, this altered size:
But spring-tide blossoms on thy lips,

And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!
Life is but thought; so think I will,

That Youth and I are house-mates still.

Coleridge was an impressive talker. On one occasion he asked Charles Lamb if he ever heard him preach? "I never heard you do any thing else," was his reply. His changeful career exhibits many phases of character; but to us he is most interesting as a poet. After leaving the Lakes-the neighbourhood of Southey, and the birth-place of Christabel-he took up his abode at Highgate, near London, ostensibly for medical treatment of his passion for opium, an indulgence for which he paid a fearful penalty. This habit of intoxication accounts for the strange mystery of his poetry; which has caused him, indeed, to be styled "a magnificent dreamer." Yet his wildest and most mystic poems are so thoughtful, dulcet, and fascinating, that they hold us spell-bound. His Ancient Mariner, Christabel, and Kubla Khan, are of this class. The last named, which is so remarkable for its rich delicacy of colouring, as well as its melody, owes its origin to the following incident :-The author relates that, in the summer of 1797, he was residing in a lonely farm-house, where, being unwell, he took an anodyne, from the effects of which he fell asleep in his chair, at the moment he was reading the following sentence in Purchas's Pilgrims :—“ Here the Khan Kubla commanded a palace to be built, and a stately garden thereunto; and thus ten miles of fertile ground were enclosed with a wall." He continued asleep for three hours, during which he vividly remembered having composed from two to three hundred