While my unnumbered brethren toiled and bled, That I should dream away the entrusted hours On rose-leaf beds, pampering the coward heart With feelings all too delicate for use? Sweet is the tear that from some Howard's eye Drops on the cheek of one he lifts from earth: And he that works me good with unmoved face, Does it but half: he chills me while he aids, My benefactor, not my brother man ! Yet even this, this cold beneficence Praise, praise it, O my Soul! oft as thou scann'st The sluggard Pity's vision-weaving tribe! Who sigh for wretchedness, yet shun the wretched, Their slothful loves and dainty sympathies ! Yet oft when after honourable toil Rests the tired mind, and waking loves to dream, TO THE REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE A OF OTTERY ST. MARY, DEVON. WITH SOME POEMS. Notus in fratres animi paterni. HOR. Carm. lib. 1. 2. BLESSED lot hath he, who having passed His youth and early manhood in the stir And turmoil of the world, retreats at length, With cares that move, not agitate the heart, To the same dwelling where his father dwelt; And haply views his tottering little ones Embrace those aged knees and climb that lap, On which first kneeling his own infancy Lisped its brief prayer. Such, O my earliest Friend! Thy lot, and such thy brothers too enjoy. At distance did ye climb life's upland road, Yet cheered and cheering: now fraternal love Hath drawn you to one centre. Be your days Holy, and blest and blessing may ye live! To me the Eternal Wisdom hath dispensed A different fortune and more different mindMe from the spot where first I sprang to light Too soon transplanted, ere my soul had fixed Its first domestic loves; and hence through life Chasing chance-started friendships. A brief while Some have preserved me from life's pelting ills; But, like a tree with leaves of feeble stem, If the clouds lasted, and a sudden breeze Ruffled the boughs, they on my head at once Dropped the collected shower; and some most false, False and fair foliaged as the Manchineel, Have tempted me to slumber in their shade Yet at times My soul is sad, that I have roamed through life Thee, who didst watch my boyhood and my youth; That being knows, how I have loved thee ever, To talk of thee and thine: or when the blast Sit on the tree crooked earth-ward; whose old boughs, That hang above us in an arborous roof, Nor dost not thou sometimes recall those hours, When with the joy of hope thou gav'st thine ear Το my wild firstling-lays. Since then my song Hath sounded deeper notes, such as beseem Or that sad wisdom folly leaves behind, Or such as, tuned to these tumultuous times, These various strains, Which I have framed in many a various mood, Should meet thing ear, think thou that riper age INSCRIPTION FOR A FOUNTAIN ON A HEATH. HIS Sycamore, oft musical with bees,— TH Such tents the Patriarch's loved! O long un- With soft and even pulse! Nor ever cease Which at the bottom, like a Fairy's page, As merry and no taller, dances still, Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the Fount. Thy Spirit, listening to some gentle sound, A TOMBLESS EPITAPH. IS true, Idoloclastes Satyrane! (So call him, for so mingling blame with praise; Its worthless idols! learning, power, and time, |