First he tried his hand at lecturing, then at the publication of a weekly miscellany, The Watchman. For his third venture he issued a volume of "Juvenile Poems," receiving in compensation thirty guineas. These poems, some fifty in number, many of them dating from undergraduate days, represent rather the byplay of Coleridge's pen than any sustained exertion of his genius; and yet, though more often eloquent and graceful than highly imaginative, these youthful poems, above and beyond their wealth of diction, ease of rhythm, breadth of thought and dignity of tone, bear upon them that indefinable something which we recognize as the pure poetic impress. Meanwhile the poet had turned preacher and was delivering impassioned discourses, usually upon the political topics of the time, in the Unitarian chapels about Bristol. Hazlitt thus records his impressions on hearing Coleridge preach, "As he gave out his text, 'He departed again into a mountain, himself alone,' 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 preacher then launched into his subject, like an eagle dallying with the wind. . . For myself, I could not have been more delighted if I had heard the music of the spheres." Seventeen hundred and ninety-six was ushered out by Coleridge with his "Ode to the Departing Year." With 1797 dawned the annus mirabilis of his genius. His poetic activity, stimulated by his new friendship with Wordsworth, touched its zenith then. It was the year of the "Rime of the Ancient Mariner," and "Christabel;" of "Love," and the "Ode to France;" of "Remorse," and "Kubla Khan." His poet comrade, "Friend of the wise and teacher of the good," has sketched us one last picture of a blithe-hearted "That summer, under whose indulgent skies From these joyous rambles sprang a rich poetic harvest. "The thought," says Coleridge, "suggested itself (to which of us I do not recollect) that a series of poems might be composed, of two sorts. In the one the incidents and agents were to be, in part at least, supernatural; and the interest aimed at was to consist in the interesting of the affections by the dramatic truth of such emotions as would naturally accompany such situations, supposing them real. For the second class, subjects were to be chosen from ordinary life; the characters and incidents were to be such as will be found in every village and its vicinity, where there is a meditative and feeling mind to seek after them, or to notice them when they present themselves." Thus originated 1 1 the Lyrical Ballads, a joint volume of poems, prepared in accordance with this idea, save that the division of labor proved to be unequal, Wordsworth contributing nearly five times as many poems as his fitful companion. This little book appeared in the spring of 1798, its publication, though productive at the time of small fame and less profit to the brother authors, marking an epoch in the history of English poetry. In the autumn of this same year, the two poets, with Wordsworth's sister Dorothy, took a trip to Germany, the poetic outcome being, for Coleridge, his masterly translation of Schiller's "Wallenstein." But over the onward path of the young poet, still in the radiant sunrise of his genius, the menacing clouds had gathered; and the annals of his later life are but "the tragic story of a high endowment with an insufficient will.” The troubles that were fast closing about Coleridge, to stifle his exquisite song, sprang mainly from two sources: the overthrow of his early, passionate faith in a dawning era of liberty and love, and the slavery of the opium habit. For to the young poets of England, who had thrown the purest enthusiasm of their hearts into the French Revolution, came bitter disappointment and paralyzing sorrow. When the France in whom they had trusted, once freed from her own tyrants, exchanged her pledges of love for deeds of hate, her theories of universal brotherhood for acts of selfish injustice, her psalms to the Goddess of Liberty for the battle-cry raised against the free mountains of Switzerland; when England herself was threatened with invasion; when the oppressed became the oppressor; when the Republic passed into the Empire; when Napoleon's wars of conquest drenched Europe with blood; - then it was that, bewildered, betrayed, despairing of humanity, liberals turned conservatives, lovers of the race were driven back on the narrower virtue of patriotism and, for visions of the Golden Age and inspired songs to Freedom, came disbelief in visions, and loss of the power to sing. Wordsworth's stronger nature, on which the shock of disillusion fell at first with crushing force, rose from the blow chastened and serene, though never the same again. Henceforth he cared little for popular movements, trusted little in political agitations, but dwelt apart from cities, among the rustic poor, regaining his faith in mankind as he lingered in cottage doorways and heard, "From mouths of men obscure and lowly, truths Replete with honor." His wounded heart found healing in the dear, familiar touch of nature; and his broken hopes for society were re-united in a deeper reverence for humanity. The ideal that made the glory of his youth was darkened; but, year by year, a calm-thoughted philosopher, he wrought steadily at his art, presenting his life to God as "An oblation of divine tranquillity;" and bequeathing to his fellow-men a noble body of poetry, instinct with "Love and hope and faith's transcendent dower." But with the death of his aspiration for man, died the poet-life of Coleridge. "For Coleridge," says a keensighted critic, "wanted will; and with will, perseverance and continuance. Nothing gave his will force but highpitched enthusiasm; and with its death within him, with the perishing of his youthful dream, the enduring energy of life visited him no more. And this is specially true of him as Poet. Almost all his best poetic work is coincident with the Revolution; afterwards, everything is incomplete. Yet it is possible that the poetic power, even after this benumbing shock, might yet have rallied, had not Coleridge suffered himself to become enslaved by the opium-habit. "Sickness, 'tis true, Whole years of weary days, besieged him close, but the remedy was worse than the disease. Recognizing to the full the shame and misery entailed upon him by this bondage, which made lethargy of his days and torture of his nights, he nevertheless lacked the manliness to break his chain. "Sad lot, to have no hope! Though lowly kneeling Though nature forced; though like some captive guest, An alien's restless mood but half concealing, |