Led by the wandering fires astray
Thro' the dank horrors of thy way!
While they their mud-lost sandals hunt
May all the curses, which they grunt
In raging moan like goaded hog,
Alight upon thee, damned Bog!

1790.

INSIDE THE COACH.

IS hard on Bagshot Heath to try
Unclosed to keep the weary eye;
But ah! Oblivion's nod to get
In rattling coach is harder yet.

Slumbrous god of half-shut eye!
Who lovest with limbs supine to lie;
Soother sweet of toil and care,

Listen, listen to my prayer;

And to thy votary dispense

Thy soporific influence!

What tho' around thy drowsy head

The seven-fold cap of night be spread,

Yet lift that drowsy head awhile,

And yawn propitiously a smile;

In drizzly rains poppean dews

O'er the tired inmates of the coach diffuse; And when thou'st charm'd our eyes to rest,

Pillowing the chin upon the breast, Bid many a dream from thy dominions

Wave its various-painted pinions,

Till ere the splendid visions close

We snore quartettes in ecstasy of nose.
While thus we urge our airy course,
O may no jolt's electric force

Our fancies from their steeds unhorse
And call us from thy fairy reign
To dreary Bagshot Heath again!

1790.

MONODY ON A TEA-KETTLE.

MUSE who sangest late another's pain,

To griefs domestic turn thy coalblack steed!

With slowest steps thy funeral steed must go, Nodding his head in all the pomp of woe: Wide scatter round each dark and deadly weed,

And let the melancholy dirge complain, (While bats shall shriek and dogs shall howling run)

The tea-kettle is spoilt and Coleridge is undone!

Your cheerful songs, ye unseen crickets,

cease!

Let songs of grief your alter'd minds engage!

For he who sang responsive to your lay, What time the joyous bubbles 'gan to play, The sooty swain, has felt the fire's fierce rage;―

Yes, he is gone, and all my woes increase; I heard the water issuing from the wound :No more the tea shall pour its fragrant steams around!

O Goddess best beloved, delightful Tea! With thee compared what yields the maddening vine?

Sweet power! who know'st to spread the calm delight,

And the pure joy prolong to midmost night! Ah! must I all thy varied sweets resign? Enfolded close in grief thy form I see;

No more wilt thou extend thy willing arms, Receive the fervent Jove and yield him all thy charms!

How sink the mighty low by Fate opprest!Perhaps, O Kettle! thou by scornful toe Rude urged to ignoble place with plaintive din,

May'st rust obscure midst heaps of vulgar

tin ;

As if no joy had ever seized my breast When from thy spout the streams did arching

fly;

1

As if infused thou ne'er hadst known to in

spire

All the warm raptures of poetic fire!

1 Fly.] Clearly a misprint for " flow," to rhyme with "toe." It is to be regretted that Coleridge did not live to revise the edition of 1834.

But hark! or do I fancy the glad voice ?— "What tho' the swain did wondrous charms disclose,

(Not such did Memnon's sister sable-drest,) Take these bright arms with royal face imprest;

A better kettle shall thy soul rejoice, And with Oblivion's wings o'erspread thy woes !"

Thus Fairy Hope can soothe distress and toil; On empty trivets she bids fancied kettles boil!

1790.

WITH FIELDING'S AMELIA.

IRTUES and woes alike too great

for man

In the soft tale oft claim the useless

sigh;

For vain the attempt to realize the plan,—
On Folly's wings must Imitation fly.
With other aim has Fielding here display'd
Each social duty and each social care;
With just yet vivid colouring portray'd
What every wife should be, what many are.
And sure the parent of a race so sweet
With double pleasure on the page shall dwell,
Each scene with sympathising breast shall

meet,

While Reason still with smiles delights to tell Maternal hope, that her loved progeny

In all but sorrows shall Amelias be!

ON RECEIVING AN ACCOUNT

THAT HIS ONLY SISTER'S DEATH WAS INEVITABLE.

HE tear which mourn'd a brother's fate' scarce dry—

Pain after pain, and woe succeeding

woe

Is my heart destined for another blow?
O my sweet sister! and must thou too die?
Ah! how has Disappointment pour'd the tear
O'er infant Hope destroy'd by early frost!
How are ye gone, whom most my soul held
dear!

Scarce had I loved you ere I mourn'd you lost;
Say, is this hollow eye, this heartless pain,
Fated to rove thro' Life's wide cheerless
plain-

Nor father, brother, sister meet its ken-
My woes, my joys unshared! Ah! long ere

then

On me thy icy dart, stern Death, be proved;Better to die, than live and not be loved!

1 A brother's fate.] "My only sister, Ann, died at twenty-one, a little after my brother Luke."-C. Luke Herman Coleridge, whose son became Bishop of Barbadoes in 1824, died in 1790. This brother and sister were the nearest to Coleridge in age, except Francis, who died in 1792.