II.

TO SIMPLICITY.

O! I do love thee, meek Simplicity!
For of thy lays the lulling simpleness

Goes to my heart and soothes each small distress,
Distress though small, yet haply great to me!
'Tis true on Lady Fortune's gentlest pad
I amble on; yet, though I know not why,
So sad I am !-but should a friend and I
Grow cool and miff, O! I am very sad!
And then with Sonnets and with sympathy
My dreamy bosom's mystic woes I pall;
Now of my false friend plaining plaintively,
Now raving at mankind in general;

But, whether sad or fierce, 'tis simple all,
All very simple, meek Simplicity!

NEHEMIAH HIGGINBOTTOM.

were borrowed entirely from my own poems, on the indiscriminate use of elaborate and swelling language and imagery. So general at that time and so decided was the opinion concerning the characteristic vices of my style that a celebrated physician, speaking of me in other respects with his usual kindness to a gentleman who was about to meet me at a dinner-party, could not, however, resist giving him a hint not to mention The House that Jack built in my presence, for that I was as sore as a boil about that sonnet, he not knowing that I was myself the author of it."

III.

ON A RUINED HOUSE IN A ROMANTIC COUNTRY.

AND this reft house is that the which he built,
Lamented Jack! And here his malt he piled,
Cautious in vain! These rats that squeak so wild
Squeak not unconscious of their father's guilt.
Did ye not see her gleaming thro' the glade?
Belike 'twas she, the maiden all forlorn.
What though she milk no cow with crumpled horn,
Yet aye she haunts the dale where erst she stray'd;
And aye beside her stalks her amorous knight !
Still on his thighs their wonted brogues are worn,
And thro' those brogues, still tatter'd and betorn,
His hindward charms gleam an unearthly white;
As when thro' broken clouds at night's high noon
Peeps in fair fragments forth the full-orb'd harvest-

moon!

NEHEMIAH HIGGINBOTTOM.

ON THE CHRISTENING OF A FRIEND'S

CHILD.*

THIS day among the faithful placed
And fed with fontal manna,

O with maternal title graced,

Dear Anna's dearest Anna!

While others wish thee wise and fair,
A maid of spotless fame,

I'll breathe this more compendious prayer-
Mayst thou deserve thy name!

Thy mother's name, a potent spell,
That bids the Virtues hie
From mystic grove and living cell,
Confess'd to Fancy's eye;

Meek Quietness without offence;
Content in homespun kirtle;

True Love; and True Love's Innocence,
White Blossom of the Myrtle !

Associates of thy name, sweet Child!
These Virtues mayst thou win ;

With face as eloquently mild

To say, they lodge within.

* Printed in the Supplement to the Second Edition of Coleridge's Early Poems, published in 1797.

So, when her tale of days all flown,

Thy mother shall be miss'd here;

When Heaven at length shall claim its own And Angels snatch their Sister;

Some hoary-headed friend, perchance,
May gaze with stifled breath;
And oft in momentary trance,
Forget the waste of death.

Even thus a lovely rose I've view'd
In summer-swelling pride;

Nor mark'd the bud, that green and rude
Peep'd at the rose's side.

It chanced I pass'd again that way
In Autumn's latest hour,

And wondering saw the selfsame spray
Rich with the selfsame flower.

Ah fond deceit ! the rude green bud
Alike in shape, place, name,

Had bloom'd where bloom'd its parent stud,
Another and the same!

216

TO A PRIMROSE

THE FIRST SEEN IN THE SEASON.*

Nitens et roboris expers

Turget et insolida est: et spe delectat.

OVID. METAM.

THY smiles I note, sweet early flower,
That peeping from thy rustic bower
The festive news to earth dost bring,
A fragrant messenger of spring.

But, tender blossom, why so pale ?
Dost hear stern winter in the gale?
And didst thou tempt the ungentle sky
To catch one vernal glance and die?

Such the wan lustre sickness wears
When health's first feeble beam appears;
So languid are the smiles that seek
To settle on the care-worn cheek

When timorous hope the head uprears,
Still drooping and still moist with tears,
If, through dispersing grief, be seen
Of bliss the heavenly spark serene.

And sweeter far the early blow,
Fast following after storms of woe,
Than (comfort's riper season come)

Are full-blown joys and pleasure's gaudy bloom.

* Printed in The Watchman, April 27, 1796.