POEMS OF HARTLEY COLERIDGE. 66 403 human sympathy. The same pure feeling towards the sex pervades the volume, and finds expression in some elegiac pieces of a very touching character. There is evidence in the volume of a susceptibility to other emotions than the passion of love, and we are glad of it, for we have no great partiality for the poet amatory exclusively, whom we are tempted to fancy a sort of " Master Slender,”- a softlysprighted man, with a little yellow beard," who has but one thought, "Sweet Anne Page!" and no other recollections than "stewed prunes and the bear-garden. Love-poets find their profit in the easy access they gain to the soft hearts that abound all the world over. But the true poet must deal with other feelings beside the one masterpassion,-kindly affections, and calm and placid impulses. As far as a writer's character may be conjectured from his writings, Hartley Coleridge must be a gentle and right-hearted being. Omitting those instances in which he speaks dramatically, there is an air of sincerity in his expressions of feeling which mightily wins his reader's goodwill. We must except his expressions of mirth, which have not a real or healthy tone; and, although there are in the volume words which, as Jeremy Taylor says, are as light as the skirt of a summer-garment," yet they seem to be rather the relief of a heavy heart than the ventings of a light one. Passing them by, the beauty of sincerity is not the least of the beauties of the following lines: "SENSE, IF YOU CAN FIND IT. "Those sweet, sweet snatches of delight Although they pass away. "They come and go, and come again; They 're ours, whatever time they stay: "But whither go they? No one knows Their home; but yet they seem to say We feel as if we should be missing a rare opportunity for appropriate quotation, considering the approaching season, if we passed by the stanzas on "New Year's Day." We are pretty confident that the year will come to its close without producing anything conceived in better feeling, and that many a New Year's sermon will be preached to duller ears. At all events, the stanzas will be less likely than the sermons to be applied by those to whom they are addressed, away from themselves, to their neighbours. We have ventured to call attention, by means of italics, to some of the lines which show the exuberance of the poet's fancy: : "NEW YEAR'S DAY. "While the bald trees stretch forth their long lank arms, And starving birds peck nigh the reeky farms; To join its parent in eternity; At such a time the merry year is born, Like the bright berry from the naked thorn. "The bell rings out; the hoary steeple rocks; "The year departs. A blessing on its head! We mourn not for it, for it is not dead. ls with us yet, another and the same. POEMS OF HARTLEY COLERIDGE. "And are the thoughts that evermore are fleeing, And let our spirits feel a New Year's day. "A New Year's day! 't is but a term of art,— Of time's unbounded sea,-fond Fancy's creature, "And we, whom many New Year's days have told Kind hearts can make December blithe as May, 405 Hartley Coleridge is an egotist; and gracefully does his egotism sit upon him. It is one of the poet's privileges. There are expressions throughout the volume calculated to excite commiseration and somewhat of curiosity in some breasts,—murmurings of self-reproach,―repinings after misspent time and neglected talent, together with intimations of domestic griefs. We know not what it may all mean, but certain are we that there is an air of sad reality about it: it is no fantastic woe,— none of the old fashion of melancholy that may be traced from the days of Ben Jonson's "Master Stephen” down to the times of Lord Byron. It is not possible to suspect Hartley Coleridge of playing any such small game,—of following the worn-out device of enacting" Il Penseroso” for effect. His allusions to his poverty do him honour, and we cannot believe that one who has learned to depict nature with the delicacy and fidelity which mark this volume has been idle, or unprofitably employed. At all events, he has before him the time and the power of self-recovery. Throwing aside all distrust of the poetic power of the English tongue, let him not waver or be drawn down by any despondency. Let him call to mind "the labour and intense study " which Milton looked upon as his portion in life, when he conceived the thought of “a work not to be raised from the heat of youth, nor to be obtained by the invocation of Dame Memory and her siren daughters, but by devout prayer to that eternal Spirit who can enrich with all utterance and knowledge, and sends out his seraphim, with the hallowed fire of his altar, to touch and purify the lips of whom he pleases." Let him look to his favourite Wordsworth, and see what that career is which befits him who meditates the great achievements in verse, and we have no fear but that at some future day we shall behold him on higher ground than the beautiful effusions in the present volume. It has been our object to make our readers acquainted with a name that is well worth the knowing, and we have thus, we flatter ourselves, been helping Mr. Hartley Coleridge to gain some of his distant fame,- —a commodity that loses none of its value because it comes from far away. We take our leave of him, for the present, by quoting a poem of exquisite finish and beauty, which we have reserved for a final impression :— "THE SABBATH DAY'S CHILD. TO ELIZABETH, INFANT DAUGHTER OF THE REV. SIR RICHARD FLEMING, BART. "Pure precious drop of dear mortality,— Untainted fount of life's meandering stream, Of morn, a visible reality, Holy and quiet as a hermit's dream, Unconscious witness to the promised birth Of perfect good, that may not grow on earth Nor be computed by the worldly worth And stated limits of morality, Fair type and pledge of full redemption given, Through Him that saith, 'Of such is the kingdom of heaven.' "Sweet infant, whom thy brooding parents love For what thou art, and what they hope to see thee, Unhallow'd spirits and earth-born phantoms flee thee; Thy soft simplicity-a hovering dove, That still keeps watch, from blight and bane to free thee; Fanning invisibly thy pillow'd head Strikes evil powers with reverential dread Beyond the sulphurous bolts of fabled Jove, Or whatsoe'er of amulet or charm Fond Ignorance devised to save poor souls from harm. POEMS OF HARTLEY COLERIDGE. "To see thee sleeping on thy mother's breast, A bliss, my babe, how much unlike to thine, Say, rather, image of a happy death; Are far unlike that slumber's perfect peace Or change of hue, proportion, shape, or feature ; "A star reflected in a dimpling rill That moves so slow it hardly moves at all,- Of Fancy may suggest,―cannot supply "Calm art thou as the blessed Sabbath eve, The blessed Sabbath eve when thou wast born; Fit music this a stranger to receive; And, lovely child, it rung to welcome thee, Announcing thy approach with gladsome minstrelsy. "So be thy life,-a gentle Sabbath, pure From worthless strivings of the work-day earth! 407 |