Royal Institution, in the spring of 1808; in one this question, and always will do so, when it is of which he astonished his auditory by thanking recollected what he has had the power to effect. his Maker, in the most serious manner, for so or- It will not forgive him for writing upon party, ind dering events, that he was totally ignorant of a in support of principles that even now are pretty single word of "that frightful jargon, the French nearly exploded, "what was meant for mankind." language!" And yet, notwithstanding this public Coleridge mistook his walk when he set up for a avowal of his entire ignorance of the language, politician, and it is to be feared the public have a Mr. C. is said to have been in the habit, while great deal to regret on account of it. He vill not conversing with his friends, of expressing the ut- be known hereafter by his Morning Post articles, most contempt for the literature of that country! but by his verses. Whatever pains his political Whelmed in the wild mazes of metaphysics, papers may have cost him, and from his own ac and for ever mingling its speculations with all he count they were laboriously composed, they will does or says, Coleridge has of late produced nothing avail him nothing with posterity. The verses of equal to the power of his pen. A few verses in an Coleridge give him his claim to lasting celebrity, annual, or a sonnet in a magazine, are the utmost and it is in vain that he would have the world of his efforts. He resides at Hampstead, in the think otherwise. He says, "Would hat the crihouse of a friend having a good garden, where he terion of a scholar's utility were the number and walks for hours together enwrapped in visions of moral value of the truths which he has been the new theories of theology, or upon the most abstruse means of throwing into the general arculation, or of meditations. He goes into the world at times, to the number and value of the minds whom, by his the social dinner-party, where he gratifies his self-conversation or letters, he has excited into activity, love by pouring out the stores of his mind in con- and supplied with the germs of their after-growth! versation to admiring listeners. Were he not apt A distinguished rank might not indeed then be to be too profound, he would make an excellent awarded to my exertions, but I should dare look talker, or rather un grand causeur for a second forward to an honorable acquittal." Madame de Sévigné, if such an accomplished fe- In temper and disposition Coleridge is kind and male is to be found in the nineteenth century, amiable. His person is bulky and his physiogeither in England or France. The fluency of nomy is heavy, but his eye is remarkably fine; Coleridge's language, the light he throws upon and neither envy nor uncharitableness have his subjects, and the pleasure he feels in commu- made any successful impression in attacking his nicating his ideas, and his knowledge, innate or moral character. His family have long resided acquired, are equally remarkable to the stranger. with Mr. Southey's in the north of England; the He has been accused of indolence, not perhaps narrow pecuniary circumstances of our poet are with reason: the misdirection of his distinguished assigned as the reason. It is ardently desired talents would be a better explanation of that for by all lovers of the Muses, that the author of the which he has been blamable. He attempts to "Ancient Mariner," and of "Genevieve," may justify himself on the score of quantity, by assert- see life protracted to a green old age, and yet ing that some of his best things were published in produce works which may rival those of his denewspapers. The world differs with him upon parted years. 10 impelled to seek for sympathy; but a Poet's feelings are all strong. Quicquid amet valde amat. Akenside therefore speaks with philosophical accuracy when he classes Love and Poetry, as producing the same effects: Love and the wish of Poets when their tongue Pleasures of Imagination. COMPOSITIONS resembling those here collected are not unfrequently condemned for their querulous Egotism. But Egotism is to be condemned then only when it offends against time and place, as in a History or an Epic Poem. To censure it in a Monody or Sonnet is almost as absurd as to dislike a circle for being round. Why then write Sonnets or MonoThere is one species of Egotism which is truly dies? Because they give me pleasure when perhaps disgusting; not that which leads us to communicate nothing else could. After the more violent emotions our feelings to others but that which would reduce of Sorrow, the mind demands amusement, and can the feelings of others to an identity with our own. find it in employment alone: but, full of its late suf- The Atheist, who exclaims “ ferings, it can endure no employment not in some glances his eye on the praises of Deity, is an Egotist: pshaw!" when he measure connected with them. Forcibly to turn an old man, when he speaks contemptuously of Loveaway our attention to general subjects is a painful verses, is an Egotist: and the sleek Favorites of and most often an unavailing effort. Fortune are Egotists, when they condemn all "melancholy, discontented" verses. Surely, it would be candid not merely to ask whether the poem pleases ourselves, but to consider whether or no there may not be others, to whom it is well calculated to give an innocent pleasure. But O! how grateful to a wounded heart Shaw. The communicativeness of our Nature leads us to describe our own sorrows; in the endeavor to de- I shall only add, that each of my readers will, I scribe them, intellectual activity is exerted; and hope, remember, that these Poems on various subfrom intellectual activity there results a pleasure, jects, which he reads at one time and under the inwhich is gradually associated, and mingles as a cor-fluence of one set of feelings, were written at differrective, with the painful subject of the description. ent times and prompted by very different feelings; "True!" (it may be answered) "but how are the and therefore that the supposed inferiority, of one PUBLIC interested in your sorrows or your Descrip- Poem to another may sometimes be owing to the tion?" We are for ever attributing personal Unities temper of mind in which he happens to peruse it. to imaginary Aggregates. What is the PUBLIC, but a term for a number of scattered individuals? of whom as many will be interested in these sorrows, as have experienced the same or similar. Holy be the lay My poems have been rightly charged with a profusion of double-epithets, and a general turgidness. I have pruned the double-epithets with no sparing hand; and used my best efforts to tame the swell and glitter both of thought and diction.* This latter Which mourning soothes the mourner on his way. If I could judge of others by myself, I should not hesitate to affirm, that the most interesting passages * Without any feeling of anger, I may yet be allowed to are those in which the Author develops his own express some degree of surprise, that after having run the feelings? The sweet voice of Cona* never sounds a too ornate and elaborately poetic diction, and nothing havcritical gauntlet for a certain class of faults, which I had, viz. So sweetly, as when it speaks of itself; and I should ing come before the judgment-seat of the Reviewers during almost suspect that man of an unkindly heart, who the long interval, I should for at least seventeen years, quarter could read the opening of the third book of the Paradise Lost without peculiar emotion. By a Law of our Nature, he, who labors under a strong feeling, is * Ossian. after quarter, have been placed by them in the foremost rank ridicule for faults directly opposite, viz. bald and prosaic language, and an affected simplicity both of matter and manner of the proscribed, and made to abide the brunt of abuse and -faults which assuredly did not enter into the character of my compositions.-Literary Life, i. 51. Published 1817. fault however had insinuated itself into my Religious Musings with such intricacy of union, that sometimes I have omitted to disentangle the weed from the fear of snapping the flower. A third and heavier accusation has been brought against me, that of obscurity; but not, I think, with equal justice. An Author is obscure, when his conceptions are dim and imperfect, and his language incorrect, or unappropriate, or involved. A poem that abounds in allusions, like the Bard of Gray, or one that impersonates high and abstract truths, like Collins's Ode on the poetical character, claims not to be popular— but should be acquitted of obscurity. The deficiency is in the Reader. But this is a charge which every poet, whose imagination is warm and rapid, must expect from his contemporaries. Milton did not escape it; and it was adduced with virulence against Gray and Collins. We now hear no more of it: not that their poems are better understood at present, than they were at their first publication; but their fame is established; and a critic would accuse himself of frigidity or inattention, who should profess not to understand them. But a living writer is yet sub judice; and if we cannot follow his conceptions or enter into his feelings, it is more consoling to our pride to consider him as lost beneath, than as soaring above us. If any man expect from my poems the same easiness of style which he admires in a drinking-song, for him I have not written. Intelligibilia, non intellectum adfero. I expect neither profit nor general fame by my writings; and I consider myself as having been amply repaid without either. Poetry has been to me its own "exceeding great reward:" it has soothed my afflictions; it has multiplied and refined my enjoyments; it has endeared solitude: and it has given me the habit of wishing to discover the Good and the Beautiful in all that meets and surrounds me. S. T. C. JUVENILE POEMS. GENEVIEVE. MAID of my Love, sweet Genevieve! SONNET. TO THE AUTUMNAL MOON. MILD Splendor of the various-vested Night! And when thou lovest thy pale orb to shroud TIME, REAL AND IMAGINARY. AN ALLEGORY. ON the wide level of a mountain's head This far outstript the other; For he, alas! is blind! O'er rough and smooth with even step he pass'd, And knows not whether he be first or last. MONODY ON THE DEATH OF CHATTERTON. O WHAT a wonder seems the fear of death, Away, Grim Phantom! Scorpion King, away,! For coward Wealth and Guilt in robes of state! Made each chance knell from distant spire or dome Thee, Chatterton! these unblest stones protect Yet oft, perforce ('t is suffering Nature's call,) Now indignation checks the feeble sigh, And now his cheeks with deeper ardors flame, But that Despair and Indignation rose, Ye woods! that wave o'er Avon's rocky steep, Poor Chatterton! he sorrows for thy fate Who would have praised and loved thee, ere too late. Poor Chatterton! farewell! of darkest hues Sweet Flower of Hope! free Nature's genial child! And the stern Fate transpierced with viewless dart That didst so fair disclose thy early bloom, within! Ah! where are fled the charms of vernal Grace, Such were the struggles of the gloomy hour, On scenes that well might melt thy soul; See, see her breast's convulsive throe, Ah! dash the poison'd chalice from thy hand! The last pale Hope that shiver'd at my heart! Hence, gloomy thoughts! no more my soul shall On joys that were! No more endure to weigh O Chatterton! that thou wert yet alive! Alas vain Phantasies! the fleeting brood * Avon, a river near Bristol; the birth place of Chatterton. Muse on the sore ills I had left behind. 13 SONGS OF THE PIXIES. The Pixies, in the superstition of Devonshire, are a race of beings invisibly small, and harmless or friendly to man. At a small distance from a village in that county, half-way up a O'er his hush'd soul our soothing witcheries shed, V. When Evening's dusky car, wood-covered hill, is an excavation called the Pixies' Parlor. Steals o'er the fading sky in shadowy flight, The roots of old trees form its ceiling; and on its sides are innumerable ciphers, among which the author discovered his own cipher and those of his brothers, cut by the hand of their childhood. At the foot of the hill flows the river Otter. To this place the Author conducted a party of young Ladies, during the Summer months of the year 1793; one of whom, of stature elegantly small, and of complexion colorless yet clear, was proclaimed the Faery Queen. On which occasion the following irregular Ode was written. I. WHOM the untȧught Shepherds call Builds its nest and warbles well; II. When fades the moon all shadowy-pale, III. But not our filmy pinion Aye from the sultry heat We to the cave retreat O'ercanopied by huge roots intertwined IV. Thither, while the murmuring throng Gazing with tearful eye, As round our sandy grot appear To pensive Memory dear! Weaving gay dreams of sunny-tinctured hue, On leaves of aspen trees Veil'd from the grosser ken of mortal sight. Or, haply, at the visionary hour, Along our wildly-bower'd sequester'd walk, Or guide of soul-subduing power VI. Or through the mystic ringlets of the vale VII. Hence, thou lingerer, Light! Mother of wildly-working dreams! we view And clouds, in watery colors drest, VIII. Welcome, Ladies! to the cell Where the blameless Pixies dwell: But thou, sweet Nymph! proclaim'd our Faery With what obeisance meet Thy presence shall we greet? For lo! attendant on thy steps are seen And meek-eyed Pity eloquently fair, |