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Farewell! and when thy days are told,
Ill-fated Ruth, in hallowed mould
Thy corpse shall buried be;
For thee a funeral bell shall ring,
And all the congregation sing
A Christian psalm for thee.

To a Highland Girl.

[At Inversneyde, upon Loch Lomond.]

Sweet Highland girl! a very shower
Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
Twice seven consenting years have shed
Their utmost bounty on thy head:

And those gray rocks; that household lawn ;
Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn ;
This fall of water, that doth make
A murmur near the silent lake;
This little bay, a quiet road
That holds in shelter thy abode
In truth, unfolding thus, ye seem
Like something fashioned in a dream;
Such forms as from their covert peep
When earthly cares are laid asleep!
Yet, dream or vision as thou art,
I bless thee with a human heart:
God shield thee to thy latest years!
I neither know thee nor thy peers;
And yet my eyes are filled with tears.
With earnest feeling I shall pray
For thee when I am far away:
For never saw I mien or face,
In which more plainly I could trace
Benignity and home-bred sense
Ripening in perfect innocence.
Here scattered, like a random seed,
Remote from men, thou dost not need
The embarrassed look of shy distress
And maidenly shamefacedness:
Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear
The freedom of a mountaineer:
A face with gladness overspread!
Soft smiles, by human kindness bred!
And seemliness complete, that sways
Thy courtesies, about thee plays;
With no restraint, but such as springs
From quick and eager visitings
Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach
Of thy few words of English speech:
A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife
That gives thy gestures grace and life!
So have I, not unmoved in mind,
Seen birds of tempest-loving kind,
Thus beating up against the wind.
What hand but would a garland cull
For thee who art so beautiful?
O happy pleasure! here to dwell
Beside thee in some heathy dell;
Adopt your homely ways, and dress
A shepherd, thou a shepherdess!
But I could frame a wish for thee
More like a grave reality:
Thou art to me but as a wave

Of the wild sea; and I would have
Some claim upon thee, if I could,
Though but of common neighbourhood.
What joy to hear thee, and to see!
Thy elder brother I would be-
Thy father-anything to thee!

Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace
Hath led me to this lonely place.
Joy have I had; and going hence,
I bear away my recompense.

In spots like these it is we prize

Our memory, feel that she hath eyes:

Then, why should I be loath to stir?
I feel this place was made for her;
To give new pleasure like the past,
Continued long as life shall last.
Nor am I loath, though pleased at heart,
Sweet Highland girl! from thee to part;
For I, methinks, till I grow old,
As fair before me shall behold,
As I do now, the cabin small,
The lake, the bay, the waterfall;
And thee, the spirit of them all!

Laodamia.

'With sacrifice before the rising morn,
Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired;
And from the infernal gods, 'mid shades forlorn
Of night, my slaughtered lord have I required:
Celestial pity I again implore;

Restore him to my sight-great Jove, restore!'

So speaking, and by fervent love endowed

With faith, the suppliant heavenward lifts her hands;
While, like the sun emerging from a cloud,
Her countenance brightens and her eye expands;
Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows;
And she expects the issue in repose.

O terror! what hath she perceived?-O joy!
What doth she look on whom doth she behold?
Her hero slain upon the beach of Troy?
His vital presence? his corporeal mould?
It is if sense deceive her not-'tis he!
And a god leads him, winged Mercury!

Mild Hermes spake, and touched her with his wand
That calms all fear, 'Such grace hath crowned thy

prayer,

Laodamia! that at Jove's command

Thy husband walks the paths of upper air;
He comes to tarry with thee three hours' space;
Accept the gift, behold him face to face!'

Forth sprang the impassioned queen her lord to clasp;
Again that consummation she essayed;
But unsubstantial Form eludes her grasp
As often as that eager grasp was made.
The phantom parts-but parts to re-unite,
And re-assume his place before her sight.
'Protesiláus, lo! thy guide is gone!
Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice.
This is our palace-yonder is thy throne;
Speak, and the floor thou tread'st on will rejoice.
Not to appal me have the gods bestowed
This precious boon; and blest a sad abode.'

'Great Jove, Laodamia! doth not leave
His gifts imperfect. Spectre though I be,
I am not sent to scare thee or deceive;
But in reward of thy fidelity.
And something also did my worth obtain;
For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain.

Thou knowest, the Delphic oracle foretold
That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strand
Should die: but me the threat could not withhold:
A generous cause a victim did demand;
And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain;
A self-devoted chief-by Hector slain.'

'Supreme of heroes; bravest, noblest, best!
Thy matchless courage I bewail no more,
Which then, when tens of thousands were deprest
By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore;
Thou found'st-and I forgive thee-here thou art-
A nobler counsellor than my poor heart.

But thou, though capable of sternest deed,
Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave;
And he, whose power restores thee, hath decreed
That thou shouldst cheat the malice of the grave.
Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair
As when their breath enriched Thessalian air.
No spectre greets me-no vain shadow this;
Come, blooming hero, place thee by my side!
Give, on this well known couch, one nuptial kiss
Το me, this day, a second time thy bride!'

Jove frowned in heaven; the conscious Parcæ threw
Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue.

"This visage tells thee that my doom is past;
Nor should the change be mourned, even if the joys
Of sense were able to return as fast

And surely as they vanish. Earth destroys
Those raptures duly-Erebus disdains;
Calm pleasures there abide-majestic pains.
Be taught, O faithful consort, to control
Rebellious passion; for the gods approve
The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul;
A fervent, not ungovernable love.

Thy transports moderate; and meekly mourn
When I depart, for brief is my sojourn.'
'Ah, wherefore? Did not Hercules by force
Wrest from the guardian monster of the tomb
Alcestis, a reanimated corse,

Given back to dwell on earth in vernal bloom?
Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years,
And son stood a youth 'mid youthful peers.
The gods to us are merciful; and they
Yet further may relent; for mightier far
Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway
Of magic potent over sun and star,
Is love, though oft to agony distrest,

And though his favourite seat be feeble woman's breast.
But if thou goest, I follow.' 'Peace!' he said;
She looked upon him, and was calmed and cheered;
The ghastly colour from his lips had fled.
In his deportment, shape, and mien appeared
Elysian beauty, melancholy grace,
Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
He spake of love, such love as spirits feel
In worlds whose course is equable and pure;
No fears to beat away, no strife to heal,
The past unsighed for, and the future sure;
Spake of heroic arts in graver mood
Revived, with finer harmony pursued.

Of all that is most beauteous-imaged there
In happier beauty; more pellucid streams,
An ampler ether, a diviner air,
And fields invested with purpureal gleams;
Climes which the sun, who sheds the brightest day
Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey.

Yet there the soul shall enter which hath earned
That privilege by virtue. 'Ill,' said he,
"The end of man's existence I discerned,
Who from ignoble games and revelry
Could draw, when we had parted, vain delight,
While tears were thy best pastime, day and night:
And while my youthful peers before my eyes
(Each hero following his peculiar bent)
Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise
By martial sports; or, seated in the tent,
Chieftains and kings in council were detained-
What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained.
The wished-for wind was given: I then revolved
The oracle upon the silent sea;
And, if no worthier led the
way, resolved
That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be
The foremost prow in pressing to the strand-
Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand.

Yet bitter, ofttimes bitter was the pang,
When of thy loss I thought, beloved wife!
On thee too fondly did my memory hang,
And on the joys we shared in mortal life;
The paths which we had trod-these fountains, flowers;
My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers.
But should suspense permit the foe to cry,
"Behold they tremble! haughty their array;
Yet of their number no one dares to die!"
In soul I swept the indignity away:

Old frailties then recurred; but lofty thought,
In act embodied, my deliverance wrought.
And thou, though strong in love, art all too weak
In reason, in self-government too slow;
I counsel thee by fortitude to seek

Our blest reunion in the shades below.
The invisible world with thee hath sympathised;
Be thy affections raised and solemnised.
Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend-
Seeking a higher object. Love was given,
Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end;
For this the passion to excess was driven,
That self might be annulled: her bondage prove
The fetters of a dream, opposed to love.'
Aloud she shrieked; for Hermes reappears!
Round the dear shade she would have clung; 'tis vain;
The hours are past-too brief had they been years;
And him no mortal effort can detain:
Swift toward the realms that know not earthly day,
He through the portal takes his silent way,
And on the palace-floor a lifeless corse she lay.
By no weak pity might the gods be moved:
She who thus perished, not without the crime
Of lovers that in reason's spite have loved,
Was doomed to wear out her appointed time
Apart from happy ghosts, that gather flowers
Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers.
-Yet tears to human suffering are due;
And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown
Are mourned by man, and not by man alone,
As fondly he believes. Upon the side
Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained)
A knot of spiry trees for ages grew
From out the tomb of him for whom she died;
And ever, when such stature they had gained,
That Ilium's walls were subject to their view,
The tree's tall summits withered at the sight-
A constant interchange of growth and blight!

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One of the most enthusiastic admirers of Wordsworth was Coleridge, so long his friend and associate, and who looked up to him with a sort of filial veneration and respect. He has drawn his poetical character at length in the Biographia Literaria, and if we consider it as applying to the higher characteristics of Wordsworth, without reference to the absurdity or puerility of some of his early fables, incidents, and language, it will be found equally just and felicitous. First, An austere purity of language, both grammatically and logically; in short, a perfect appropriateness of the words to the meaning. Secondly, A correspondent weight and sanity of the thoughts and sentiments won, not from books, but from the poet's own meditations. They are fresh, and have the dew upon them. Even throughout his smaller poems, there is not one which is not rendered valuable by some just and original reflection. Thirdly, The sinewy strength and originality of single lines and paragraphs; the frequent curiosa felicitas of his diction. Fourthly, The perfect truth of nature in his images and descriptions, as taken immediately from nature, and proving a long and genial intimacy with the very spirit which gives

a physiognomic expression to all the works of nature. Fifthly, A meditative pathos, a union of deep and subtle thought with sensibility: a sympathy with man as man; the sympathy, indeed, of a contemplator rather than a fellow-sufferer and co-mate (spectator, haud particeps), but of a contemplation from whose view no difference of rank conceals the sameness of the nature; no injuries of wind or weather, or toil, or even of ignorance, wholly disguise the human face divine. Last, and pre-eminently, I challenge for this poet the gift of imagination in the highest and strictest sense of the word. In the play of fancy, Wordsworth, to my feelings, is always graceful, and sometimes recondite. The likeness is occasionally too strange, or demands too peculiar a point of view, or is such as appears the creature of predetermined research, rather than spontaneous presentation. Indeed, his fancy seldom displays itself as mere and unmodified fancy. But in imaginative power he stands nearest of all modern writers to Shakspeare and Milton, and yet in a mind perfectly unborrowed, and his own. To employ his own words, which are at once an instance and an illustration, he does indeed, to all thoughts and to all objects

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Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

daily drudgery for the periodical press, and in nightly dreams distempered and feverish, he wasted, to use his own expression, the prime and manhood of his intellect.' The poet was a native of Devonshire, being born on the 20th of October 1772 at Ottery St Mary, of which parish his father was vicar. He received the principal part of his education at Christ's hospital, where he had Charles Lamb for a schoolfellow. He describes himself as being, from eight to fourteen, a playless day-dreamer, a helluo librorum;' and in this instance the child was father of the man,' for such was Coleridge to the end of his life. A stranger whom he had accidentally met one day on the streets of London, and who was struck with his conversation, made him free of a circulating library, and he read through the catalogue, folios and all. At fourteen, he had, like Gibbon, a stock of erudition that might have puzzled a doctor, and a degree of ignorance of which a schoolboy would have been ashamed. He had no ambition; his father was dead, and he actually thought of apprenticing himself to a shoemaker who lived near the school. The head master, Bowyer, interfered, and prevented this additional honour to the craft of St Crispin, already made illustrious by Gifford and Bloomfield. Coleridge became deputyGrecian, or head scholar, and obtained an exhibition or presentation from Christ's hospital to Jesus' college, Cambridge, where he remained from 1791 to 1793. He quitted college abruptly, without taking a degree, having become obnoxious to his superiors from his attachment to the principles of the French Revolution.

When France in wrath her giant-limbs upreared,

And with that oath which smote air, earth, and sea,
Bear witness for me, how I hoped and feared!
Stamped her strong foot, and said she would be free,
With what a joy my lofty gratulation

Unawed I sang, amid a slavish band:
And when to whelm the disenchanted nation,
Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand,
The monarchs marched in evil day,
And Britain joined the dire array;
Though dear her shores and circling ocean,
Though many friendships, many youthful loves
Had swollen the patriot emotion,

And flung a magic light o'er all her hills and groves,
Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang defeat

To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance,
And shame too long delayed and vain retreat!
For ne'er, O Liberty! with partial aim

I dimmed thy light, or damped thy holy flame;
But blessed the peans of delivered France,
And hung my head, and wept at Britain's name.
France, an Ode.

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In London, Coleridge soon felt himself forlorn and destitute, and he enlisted as a soldier in the 15th, Elliot's Light Dragoons. On his arrival at the quarters of the regiment,' says his friend and biographer Mr Gillman, 'the general of the district inspected the recruits, and looking hard at Coleridge, with a military air, inquired, "What's your name, sir ?" "Comberbach." (The name he had assumed.) "What do you come here for, sir?" as if of grace, tenderness, and majesty, seem ever to have doubting whether he had any business there. "Sir," haunted him. Some of these he embodied in exquisite said Coleridge, "for what most other persons come verse; but he wanted concentration and steadiness of-to be made a soldier." "Do you think," said the purpose to avail himself sufficiently of his intellectual general, "you can run a Frenchman through the riches. A happier destiny was also perhaps wanting; body?" "I do not know," replied Coleridge," as I for much of Coleridge's life was spent in poverty and never tried; but I'll let a Frenchman run me through dependence, amidst disappointment and ill-health, the body before I'll run away." "That will do," and in the irregularity caused by an unfortunate and said the general, and Coleridge was turned into the excessive use of opium, which tyrannised over him ranks.' The poet made a poor dragoon, and never for many years with unrelenting severity. Amidst advanced beyond the awkward squad. He wrote.

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letters, however, for all his comrades, and they generous and munificent patronage' of Messrs attended to his horse and accoutrements. After Josiah and Thomas Wedgewood, Staffordshire, enfour months' service (December 1793 to April 1794), abled the poet to proceed to Germany to complete the history and circumstances of Coleridge became his education, and he resided there fourteen months. known. He had written under his saddle, on the At Ratzburg and Gottingen he acquired a wellstable wall, a Latin sentence (Eheu! quam in- grounded knowledge of the German language and fortunii miserrimum est fuisse felicem !') which led literature, and was confirmed in his bias towards to an inquiry on the part of the captain of his troop, philosophical and metaphysical studies. On his who had more regard for the classics than Ensign return in 1800, he found Southey established at Northerton in Tom Jones. Coleridge was dis- Keswick, and Wordsworth at Grassmere. He went charged, and restored to his family and friends. to live with the former, and there his opinions The same year he published his Juvenile Poems, and underwent a total change. The Jacobin became a a drama on the Fall of Robespierre. He was then an royalist, and the Unitarian a warm and devoted ardent republican and a Socinian-full of high hopes believer in the Trinity. In the same year he puband anticipations, the golden exhalations of the lished his translation of Schiller's Wallenstein,' into dawn.' In conjunction with two other poetical en- which he had thrown some of the finest graces of his thusiasts-Southey and Lloyd-he resolved on emi-own fancy. The following passage may be considered grating to America, where the party were to found, a revelation of Coleridge's poetical faith and belief, amidst the wilds of Susquehanna, a Pantisocracy, conveyed in language picturesque and musical:— or state of society in which all things were to be Oh! never rudely will I blame his faith in common, and neither king nor priest could In the might of stars and angels! "Tis not merely mar their felicity. From building castles in the The human being's pride that peoples space air,' as Southey has said, 'to framing commonWith life and mystical predominance; wealths, was an easy transition.' The dream was Since likewise for the stricken heart of love never realised (it is said from a very prosaic causeThis visible nature, and this common world, the want of funds), and Coleridge, Southey, and Is all too narrow: yea, a deeper import Lloyd married three sisters-the Miss Frickers of Lurks in the legend told my infant years, Bristol. Coleridge, still ardent, wrote two political Than lies upon that truth we live to learn. pamphlets, concluding that truth should be spoken For fable is love's world, his house, his birthplace; at all times, but more especially at those times when Delightedly dwells he 'mong fays, and talismans, to speak truth is dangerous.' He established also a And spirits; and delightedly believes periodical in prose and verse, entitled The Watchman, Divinities, being himself divine. with the motto, 'that all might know the truth, and The intelligible forms of ancient poets, that the truth might make us free.' He watched in The fair humanities of old religion, vain. Coleridge's incurable want of order and puncThe power, the beauty, and the majesty, tuality, and his philosophical theories, tired out and disgusted his readers, and the work was discontinued after the ninth number. Of the unsaleable nature of this publication, he relates an amusing illustration. Happening one day to rise at an earlier hour than usual, he observed his servant girl putting an extravagant quantity of paper into the grate, in order to light the fire, and he mildly checked her for her wastefulness. 'La, sir, (replied Nanny) why, it is only Watchmen.' He went to reside in a cottage at Nether Stowey, at the foot of the Quantock hills, Somersetshire, which he has commemorated in his poetry. And now, beloved Stowey! I behold

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Thy church tower, and, methinks, the four huge elms
Clustering, which mark the mansion of my friend;
And close behind them, hidden from my view,
Is my own lowly cottage, where my babe
And my babe's mother dwell in peace! With light
And quickened footsteps thitherward I tread.

Mr Wordsworth lived at Allfoxden, about two miles from Stowey, and the kindred feelings and pursuits of the two poets bound them in the closest friendship. At Stowey, Coleridge wrote some of his most beautiful poetry-his Ode on the Departing Year; Fears in Solitude; France, an Ode; Frost at Midnight; the first part of Christabel; the Ancient Mariner; and his tragedy of Remorse. The luxuriant fulness and individuality of his poetry show that he was then happy, no less than eager, in his studies. The two or three years spent at Stowey seem to have been at once the most felicitous and the most illustrious of Coleridge's literary life. He had established his name for ever, though it was long in struggling to distinction. During his residence at Stowey, Coleridge officiated as Unitarian preacher at Taunton, and afterwards at Shrewsbury.* In 1798 the

That had their haunts in dale, or piny mountain,
Or forest, by slow stream, or pebbly spring,
Or chasms and watery depths; all these have vanished.
They live no longer in the faith of reason!
But still the heart doth need a language; still
Doth the old instinct bring back the old names;
And to yon starry world they now are gone,
Spirits or gods, that used to share this earth
With man as with their friend; and to the lover,
Yonder they move, from yonder visible sky
Shoot influence down; and even at this day
'Tis Jupiter who brings whate'er is great,
And Venus who brings everything that's fair.

Mr Coleridge rose and gave out his text-" He departed again
into a mountain himself alone." As he gave out this text, his
voice rose like a stream of rich distilled perfumes; and when he
came to the two last words, which he pronounced loud, deep,
and distinct, it seemed to me, who was then young, as if the
sounds had echoed from the bottom of the human heart, and
as if that prayer might have floated in solemn silence through
the universe. The idea of St John came into my mind, of one
crying in the wilderness, who had his loins girt about, and
whose food was locusts and wild honey. The preacher then
The sermon was upon peace and war-upon church and state
launched into his subject like an eagle dallying with the wind,

not their alliance, but their separation on the spirit of the world and the spirit of Christianity, not as the same, but as opposed to one another. He talked of those who had inscribed the cross of Christ on banners dripping with human gore! He made a poetical and pastoral excursion-and to show the fatal effects of war, drew a striking contrast between the simple shepherd-boy driving his team a-field, or sitting under the hawthorn, piping to his flock, as though he should never be old, and the same poor country lad, crimped, kidnapped, brought into town, made drunk at an alehouse, turned into a wretched drummer-boy, with his hair sticking on end with powder and pomatum, a long cue at his back, and tricked out in the finery of the profession of blood:

* Mr Hazlitt has described his walking ten miles in a winter day to hear Coleridge preach. When I got there,' he says, 'the organ was playing the 100th Psalm, and when it was done, I heard the music of the spheres."

"Such were the notes our once loved poet sung:" and, for myself, I could not have been more delighted if I had

The lines which we have printed in Italics are an expansion of two of Schiller's, which Mr Hayward (another German poetical translator) thus literally renders:

The old fable-existences are no more;

The fascinating race has emigrated (wandered out or away).

And even as life returns upon the drowned,
Life's joy rekindling roused a throng of pains-
Keen pangs of love, awakening as a babe
Turbulent, with an outcry in the heart;
And fears self-willed, that shunned the eye of hope;
And hope that scarce would know itself from fear;
Sense of past youth, and manhood come in vain ;
And all which I had culled in wood-walks wild,
And genius given, and knowledge won in vain ;
And all which patient toil had reared, and all
Commune with thee had opened out-but flowers
Strewed on my corse, and borne upon my bier,
In the same coffin, for the self-same grave! .
These were prophetic breathings, and should be a
warning to young and ardent genius. In such mag-
nificent alternations of hope and despair, and in
discoursing on poetry and philosophy-sometimes
committing a golden thought to the blank leaf of a
book or to a private letter, but generally content
with oral communication-the poet's time glided
past. He had found an asylum in the house of a
private friend, Mr James Gillman, surgeon, High-
gate, where he resided for the last nineteen years of
his life. Here he was visited by numerous friends

As a means of subsistence Coleridge reluctantly consented to undertake the literary and political department of the Morning Post, in which he supported the measures of government. In 1804 we find him in Malta, secretary to the governor, Sir Alexander Ball, with a salary of £800 per annum. He held this lucrative office only nine months, having disagreed with the governor; and, after a tour in Italy, returned to England to resume his precarious labours as an author and lecturer. The desultory irregular habits of the poet, caused partly by his addiction to opium, and the dreamy indolence and procrastination which marked him throughout life, seem to have frustrated every chance and opportunity of self-advancement. Living again at Grassmere, he issued a second periodical, The Friend, which extended to twenty-seven numbers. The essays were sometimes acute and eloquent, but as often rhapsodical, imperfect, and full of German mysticism. In 1816, chiefly at the recommendation of Lord Byron, the wild and wondrous tale' of 'Christabel' was published. The first part, as we have mentioned, was written at Stowey as far back as 1797, and a second had been added on his return from Germany in 1800. The poem was still unfinished; but it would have been almost as difficult to complete the Faëry Queen, as to continue in the same spirit that witching strain of supernatural fancy and melodious verse. Another drama, Zapoyla (founded on the Winter's Tale), was published by Coleridge in 1818, and, with the exception of some minor poems, completes his poetical works. He wrote several characteristic prose disquisitionsThe Statesman's Manual, or the Bible the Best Guide to Political Skill and Foresight; a Lay Sermon (1816); a Second Lay Sermon, addressed to the Higher and Middle Classes on the existing Distresses and Discontents (1817); Biographia Literaria, two volumes, 1817; Aids to Reflection (1825); On the Constitution of the Church and State (1830); &c. He meditated a great theological and philosophical work, his magnum opus, on Christianity as the only revelation of permanent and universal validity,' which was to reduce all knowledge into harmony'-to unite the insulated fragments of truth, and therewith to frame a perfect mirror.' He planned also an epic poem on the destruction of Jerusalem, which he considered the only subject now remaining for an epic poem; a subject which, like Milton's Fall of Man, should interest all Christendom, as the Homeric War of Troy Mr Gillman's House, Highgate, the last residence of Coleridge. interested all Greece. Here,' said he, 'there would and admirers, who were happy to listen to his inbe the completion of the prophecies; the termination spired monologues, which he poured forth with of the first revealed national religion under the vio-exhaustless fecundity. We believe,' says one of lent assault of paganism, itself the immediate fore- these rapt and enthusiastic listeners, it has not been runner and condition of the spread of a revealed the lot of any other literary man in England, since mundane religion; and then you would have the Dr Johnson, to command the devoted admiration character of the Roman and the Jew; and the awful- and steady zeal of so many and such widely-differing ness, the completeness, the justice. I schemed it at disciples-some of them having become, and others twenty-five, but, alas! venturum expectat.' This being likely to become, fresh and independent sources ambition to execute some great work, and his consti- of light and moral action in themselves upon the tutional infirmity of purpose, which made him defer principles of their common master. One half of or recoil from such an effort, he has portrayed with these affectionate disciples have learned their lessons great beauty and pathos in an address to Words- of philosophy from the teacher's mouth. He has worth, composed after the latter had recited to him been to them as an old oracle of the academy or a poem on the growth of an individual mind:'Lyceum. The fulness, the inwardness, the ultimate scope of his doctrines, has never yet been published in print, and, if disclosed, it has been from time to

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Ah! as I listened with a heart forlorn,
The pulses of my being beat anew:

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