SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. COLERIDGE was perhaps the most wonderful genius of the nineteenth century. His mind was essentially philosophical, in the highest sense of the word. In all his studies, and in all his teachings, he fastened upon the leading principles involved in his subject, and traced them with a logical power and a metaphysical skill seldom equalled in any age. Doubtless, his most enduring claim to the gratitude and recollection of the world grows out of his agency in first making the English mind ac! quainted with the spiritual philosophy which has since his day, and in a great degree through his efforts, entirely supplanted the sensuous system of LOCKE and other materialists. But it is only with his life and poetry that we are now concerned. He was born on the twentieth of October, 1773, at Ottery St. Mary's, in Devonshire, and was the youngest of eleven children. His father was a clergyman of sound learning and ability. At school, young COLERIDGE was the wonder and delight of all who knew him. Even in boyhood he was famous for his wonderful acquirements, and still more for those remark able powers of conversation which gained for him from his school-fellow, the inimitable CHARLES LAMB, the name of the "inspired charity boy." He was from the earliest age extremely fond of philosophical and theological discussions; and he pursued his studies with so much ardour that he became by far the best scholar in the school. In 1791 he was entered at Jesus College, Cambridge, which he left, however, without taking his degree. In a thoughtless mood he enlisted in the army, and astonished his fellow-soldiers by learned and eloquent lectures on Greek verse and Greek philosophy; and his careless display of his learning led to his discharge from the service and his restoration to his friends. In 1794 he published a small volume of poems, which included also some by WORDSWORTH. In common with many of the most gifted and enthusiastic young men of the time, he became greatly interested in the French revolution, then in progress, and delivered lectures at Bristol on human rights and kindred topics involved in the events of the time. His views then were extremely radical, and were soon after entirely rejected as the offspring of heated, unthinking enthusiasm. In 1795 he married, and in 1798 went to Germany, where he spent some time in making himself familiar with the language and philosophical literature of that land of scholars. In 1800 he returned to England, and became a firm and consistent Christian, maintaining the doctrines of the evangelical churches, and devoting a great portion of his thoughts to the evolution of a system which should reconcile Philosophy and Christianity. Its great leading principles are scattered throughout his works; but he did not live to combine them into a regular system, or to set them forth as clearly and connectedly as he designed to do. For a time, and for lack of other employment, he wrote leading articles for the "London Morning Post;" and he passed the last nineteen years of his life in the family of his ardent and devoted friend, Dr. GILMAN, of Highgate. He was afflicted for a long period with most severe and painful illness, which would have crushed the mental power of inferior men; but through it all he laboured incessantly, and without "abating one jot of heart or hope." He had a large circle of friends, among whom were some of his most gifted cotemporaries, who regarded him with a reverence seldom accorded to any man: and he was in their midst a philosophic teacher, expounding the highest truths with an eloquence and persuasive beauty which PLATO might have envied. His conversation is universally acknowledged to have been of the most wonderful character. To a scholarship surpassing that of nearly all the men of his age, he added an attractive manner and a musical voice; and those who were in the habit of hearing him, have spoken of the nature and effect of his conversation, in terms which seem wild and extravagant, but which we have every reason to believe fall short of the truth. Many critics have spoken of COLERIDGE as having promised much and accomplished. little. But whether we look at the actual number of works he wrote, at the profound and weighty character of his productions, or at the influence he exerted upon the world, he will be found to have done more than any of his cotemporaries. His prose writings occupy some eight or ten large volumes, and contain more thought than twice the number of the works of any of his fellows. They constitute a perfect treasure of philosophical truth; and we know of no books in the language better adapted to implant the seeds of true and noble character in the heart than his. His poems are comprised in three volumes, and contain some of the most exquisitely beautiful productions which an age prolific in great poets has produced. They all exhibit a wonderfully gorgeous and powerful imagination, and a perfect command of language and its harmonies. His taste was most exquisite, and his knowledge of the spiritual, in man and in nature, clear and calm. He was greatly in the habit of blending philosophy with poetry, and the tragedy of "Remorse" is a most admirable philosophical development of his conception of the nature of conscience, as well as a powerful production of the imagination and the poetic faculty. The life of COLERIDGE is uniformly described as having been adorned by the sweetest temper and all the social virtues. The late distinguished WASHINGTON ALLSTON, who was for a considerable period his intimate associate, declared his disposition to be angelic. He was a close and ardent friend, a profound scholar, and in every respect a great and good man. "Poetry," he said, "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." He died on the twenty-third of July, 1834. m DEJECTION. WELL!-if the bard was weather-wise, who made I see the old moon in her lap-foretelling The coming on of rain and squally blast. And oh! that even now the gust were swelling, And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast! Those sounds-which oft have raised me, whilst they awed, And sent my soul abroad,— A grief without a pang-void, dark, and drear- Oh, lady in this wan and heartless mood,- And its peculiar tint of yellow-green; Those stars, that glide behind them or between, I see, not feel, how beautiful they are! And what can these avail To lift the smothering weight from off my breast? It were a vain endeavour, Though I should gaze for ever On that green light that lingers in the west :- within! Oh, lady! we receive but what we give, Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth And from the soul itself must there be sent : Joy, virtuous lady!-joy, that ne'er was given Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,Life, and life's effluence-cloud at once and shower, Joy, lady! is the spirit and the power And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,— Whence fancy made me dreams of happiness. But oh! each visitation From my own nature all the natural man,— This was my sole resource-my only plan: Till that which suits a part infects the whole, And now is almost grown the habit of my soul. Hence! viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,Reality's dark dream! I turn from you; and listen to the wind, Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream Of agony, by torture lengthen'd out, [without,That lute sent forth! Thou wind, that ravest Bare crag, or mountain-tarn, or blasted tree, Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb, Or lonely house long held the witches' home, Methinks, were fitter instruments for thee! Mad lutanist! who, in this month of showers, Of dark-brown gardens and of peeping flowers, Makest devils' yule, with worse than wintry song, The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among! Thou actor, perfect in all tragic sounds! Thou mighty poet, e'en to frenzy bold ! What tell'st thou now about? "Tis of the rushing of a host in rout, With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds At once they groan with pain and shudder with the cold! But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence! And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, With groans, and tremulous shudderings—all is over! It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and A tale of less affright, And temper'd with delight, [loud; Visit her, gentle sleep! with wings of healing! And may this storm be but a mountain-birth! May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling, Silent as though they watch'd the sleeping earth! With light heart may she rise, Gay fancy, cheerful eyes, Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice! To her may all things live, from pole to pole,Their life the eddying of her living soul! Oh, simple spirit! guided from above.— Dear lady!-friend devoutest of my choice,Thus mayst thou ever, evermore rejoice! YOUTH AND AGE. VERSE, a breeze mid blossoms straying,, Where hope clung feeding like a beeBoth were mine! Life went a-maying, With nature, hope and poesy, When I was young! When I was young?—Ah, woful when! How lightly then it flash'd along!- That fear no spite of wind or tide,— Naught cared this body for wind or weather, When Youth and I lived in't, together! Flowers are lovely-love is flower-like; Friendship is a sheltering tree;— Oh! the joys that came down, shower-like, Of friendship, love and liberty, Ere I was old! Ere I was old?-Ah, woful ere, Which tells me, Youth's no longer here! It cannot be that thou art gone! And tears take sunshine from thine eyes! But the tears of mournful eve! RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. IN SEVEN PARTS PART I. Ir is an ancient mariner, 66 And he stoppeth one of three. By thy long gray beard and glittering eye, Now wherefore stopp'st thou me? "The bridegroom's doors are open'd wide, And I am next of kin ; The guests are met, the feast is set; He holds him with his skinny hand: "There was a ship," quoth he. "Hold off! unhand me, greybeard loon!" Eftsoons his hand dropt he. He holds him with his glittering eye- The wedding-guest sat on a stone; "The ship was cheer'd, the harbour clear'd, Merrily did we drop Below the kirk, below the hill, Below the light-house top. "The sun came up upon the left, And he shone bright, and on the right "Higher and higher every day, Till over the mast at noon"- The bride hath paced into the hall, The wedding-guest he beat his breast, "And now the storm-blast came, and he "With sloping masts and dipping prow, And forward bends his head, The ship drove fast, loud roar'd the blast, "And now there came both mist and snow, And it grew wonderous cold: And ice, mast-high, came floating by, "And through the drifts the snowy clift Did send a dismal sheen: Nor shapes of men nor beasts we kenThe ice was all between. "The ice was here, the ice was there, The ice was all around: It crack'd and growl'd, and roar'd and howl'd, Like noises in a swound! "At length did cross an Albatross ; Through the fog it came; As if it had been a Christian soul, "It ate the food it ne'er had eat, The helmsman steer'd us through! "And a good south wind sprung up behind; The Albatross did follow, And every day, for food or play, Came to the mariner's hollo! "In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, It perch'd for vespers nine; Whilst all the night, through fog-smoke white, Glimmer'd the white moonshine." "God save thee, ancient mariner ! From the fiends that plague thee thus !— Why look'st thou so?"- With my cross-bow I shot the Albatross!" PART II. "THE sun now rose upon the right: Still hid in mist, and on the left "And the good south wind still blew behind, But no sweet bird did follow, Nor any day for food or play Came to the mariner's hollo! "Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, They all averr'd I had kill'd the bird That brought the fog and mist. 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, That bring the fog and mist. "The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, The furrow stream'd off free: We were the first that ever burst "Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, «All in a hot and copper sky, The bloody sun, at noon, Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the moon. «Day after day, day after day, We stuck, nor breath nor motion, As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean. Water, water, every where, And all the boards did shrink; «The very deep did rot: O Christ! "About, about, in reel and rout The death-fires danced at night; The water, like a witch's oils, Burnt green, and blue, and white. "And some in dreams assured were Of the spirit that plagued us so: Nine fathom deep he had follow'd us From the land of mist and snow. "And every tongue, through utter drought, Was wither'd at the root; We could not speak, no more than if "Ah! well-a-day! what evil looks Instead of the cross, the Albatross PART III. "THERE pass'd a weary time. Each throat A weary time! a weary time! When, looking westward, I beheld "At first it seem'd a little speck, And then it seem'd a mist: It moved and moved, and took at last "A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! "With throat unslack'd, with black lips baked, And cried, A sail! a sail! "With throat unslack'd, with black lips baked, As they were drinking all. "See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more! She steddies with upright keel! "The western wave was all a flame, When that strange shape drove suddenly "And straight the sun was fleck'd with bars, (Heaven's mother send us grace !) As if through a dungeon grate he peer'd, "Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) How fasts she nears and nears! Are those her sails that glance in the sun, "Are those her ribs through which the sun "Her lips were red, her looks were free, "The naked hulk alongside came, "A gust of wind sterte up behind And whistled through his bones; Through the holes of his eyes and the hole of his mouth, Half-whistles and half-groans. "The sun's rim dips; the stars rush out: With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, "We listen'd and look'd sideways up! Fear at my heart, as at a cup, My life-blood seem'd to sip! The stars were dim, and thick the night, Till clombe above the eastern bar "One after one, by the star-dogg'd moon, Each turn'd his face with a ghastly pang, "Four times fifty living men, (And I heard nor sigh nor groan,) With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, They dropp'd down one by one. |