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A sunshine of good will and cheerfulness
Enlivened all around. Oh! marvel not,
If, in the morning of his fair career,

Which promised all that honour could bestow
On high desert, the youth was summoned hence!
His soul required no farther discipline,
Pure as it was, and capable of heaven.—
Upon the spot from whence he just had seen
His General borne away, the appointed ball
Reached him. But not in that Gallician ground
Was it his fate, like many a British heart,
To mingle with the soil; the sea received
His mortal relics,-to a watery grave
Consigned so near his native shore, so near

His father's house, that they who loved him best,
Unconscious of its import, heard the gun
Which fired his knell!-Alas! if it were known
When, in the strife of nations dreadful Death
Mows down, with indiscriminating sweep,
His thousands ten times told,—if it were known
What ties are severed then, what ripening hopes
Blasted, what virtues in their bloom cut off,
How far the desolating scourge extends,

How wide the misery spreads, what hearts beneath
Their grief are broken, or survive to feel
Always the irremediable loss,

Oh! who of woman born could bear the thought!
Who but would join with fervent piety
The prayer that asketh in our time for peace!-
Nor in our time alone!-Enable us,
Father which art in Heaven! but to receive

And keep thy word, thy kingdom then should come,
Thy will be done on earth, the victory
Accomplished over Sin as well as Death,
And the great scheme of Providence fulfilled!

LOVE.

THEY sin who tell us love can die;-
With life all other passions fly,
All others are but vanity.

In heaven ambition cannot dwell,
Nor avarice in the vaults of hell;
Earthly these passions as of earth,
They perish when they have their birth;
But love is indestructible,—

Its holy flame for ever burneth,

From heaven it came, to heaven returneth;
Too oft on earth a troubled guest,
At times deceived, at times opprest;
It here is tried and purified,
And hath in heaven its perfect rest;
It soweth here with toil and care,
But the harvest time of Love is there.
Oh when a mother meets on high
The babe she lost in infancy,
Hath she not then, for pains and fears,
The day of woe, the anxious night,
For all her sorrow, all her tears,
An over-payment of delight!

HOPE.

MAN hath a weary pilgrimage

As through the world he wends,

Yet gentle Hope on every stage,

The comforter, attends;

And if the toil-worn traveller droops With heaviness opprest,

She cheers his heart, and bids him see The distant place of rest.

To school the little exile goes,

And quits his mother's arms; What then shall soothe his earliest woes, When novelty has lost its charms, Condemned to suffer through the day Restraints that no rewards repay, And cares, where love has no concern? If memory still the present sours, Hope lightens as she counts the hours That hasten his return.

Youth comes,

and

eager fancy hails The long-expected days:

Youth comes, and he is doom'd to prove The fears and jealousies of love,

And all its long delays.

But when the passions with their might
Afflict the doubtful breast,
Hope bids him yet expect delight,
And happiness, and rest.

When manhood comes with troubles rife,
And all the toils and cares of life

Usurp the busy mind,

Where shall the tired and harass'd heart

Its consolation find?

Пlope doubts not yet the meed to obtain
Of difficulties past,

And looks beyond the toils of gain
To wealth, enjoy'd at last.

So to his journey's latter stage
Ilis pilgrim feet attain,

And then he finds in wiser age

That earthly cares are vain. Yet Hope the constant friend remains Who sooth'd his troubles past, Though oft deceiving and deceived,

The truest friend at last.

By Faith and Hope in life's last hour
Are life's last pangs relieved;
They give the expectation then
That cannot be deceived.

ODE

ON THE DEATH OF QUEEN CHARLOTTE.

DEATH has gone up into our palaces!

The light of day once more Hath visited the last abode

Of mortal royalty,

The dark and silent vault.

But not as when the silence of that vault
Was interrupted last

Doth England raise her loud lament,
Like one by sudden grief

Surprised and overcome.

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Lucy's own Puss, and Lucy's own dear Bird, Her foster'd favourites both for many a day; That which the tender-hearted girl preferr'd, She in her fonduess knew not sooth to say.

For if the Sky-lark's pipe were shrill and strong, And its rich tones the thrilling ear might please; Yet Pussybel could breathe a fireside song

As winning, when she lay on Lucy's knees.

Both knew her voice, and each alike would seek
Her eye,
her smile, her fondling touch to gain:
How faintly then may words her sorrow speak,
When by the one she sees the other slain!

The flowers fall scatter'd from her lifted hands;
A cry of grief she utters in affright;
And self-condemn'd for negligence she stands
Aghast and helpless at the cruel sight.

Come, Lucy, let me dry those tearful eyes;
Take thou, dear child, a lesson not unholy,
From one whom Nature taught to moralize
Both in his mirth and in his melancholy.

I will not warn thee not to set thy heart
Too fondly upon perishable things;
In vain the earnest preacher spends his art
Upon that theme, in vain the poet sings.

It is our nature's strong necessity,

And this the soul's unerring instincts tell: Therefore, I say, let us love worthily,

Dear Child, and then we cannot love too well.

Better it is all losses to deplore,

Which dutiful affection can sustain,
Than that the heart should, to its inmost core,
Harden without it, and have lived in vain.

This love which thou hast lavish'd, and the woe
Which makes thy lip now quiver with distress,
Are but a vent, an innocent overflow,

From the deep springs of female tenderness.

And something I would teach thee from the grief
That thus hath fill'd those gentle eyes with tears,
The which may be thy sober, sure relief,
When sorrow visits thee in after years.

I ask not whither is the spirit flown

That lit the eye which there in death is seal'd;
Our Father hath not made that mystery known;
Needless the knowledge, therefore not reveal'd.
But didst thou know, in sure and sacred truth,
It had a place assign'd in yonder skies;
There, through an endless life of joyous youth,
To warble in the bowers of Paradise.

Lucy, if then the power to thee were given
In that cold clay its life to re-engage,
Wouldst thou call back the warbler from its heaven,
To be again the tenant of a cage?

Only that thou mightst cherish it again,
Wouldst thou the object of thy love recall

To mortal life, and chance, and change, and pain,
And death, which must be suffer'd once by all?

Oh no, thou sayst,-oh surely not, not so!

I read the answer which those looks express: For pure and true affection well I know Leaves in the heart no room for selfishness.

Such love of all our virtues is the gem;

We bring with us the immortal seed at birth: Of Heaven it is, and heavenly; woe to them Who make it wholly earthly and of earth! What we love perfectly, for its own sake

We love and not our own; being ready thus Whate'er self-sacrifice is asked to make,

That which is best for it, is best for us.

O, Lucy! treasure up that pious thought;

It hath a balm for sorrow's deadliest darts, And with true comfort thou wilt find it fraught, If grief should reach thee in thy heart of hearts.

STANZAS

ADDRESSED TO J. M. W. TURNER, ESQ. R. A. ON HIS VIEW OF THE LAGO MAGGIORE, FROM ARONA.

TURNER, thy pencil brings to mind a day,
When from Laveno and the Beuscer hill,

I over Lake Verbanus held my way

In pleasant fellowship, with wind at will; Smooth were the waters wide, the skies serene, And our hearts gladden'd with the joyful scene.

Joyful, for all things minister'd delight,

The lake and land, the mountains and the vales: The Alps their snowy summits rear'd in light,

Tempering with gelid breath the summer gales; And verdant shores and woods refresh'd the eye That else had ached beneath that brilliant sky.

To that elaborate island were we bound,

Of yore the scene of Borromean pride,—
Folly's prodigious work; where all around,
Under its coronet and self belied,
Look where you will you cannot chuse but see
The obtrusive motto's proud << HUMILITY!»>

Far off the Borromean Saint was seen,
Distinct though distant, o'er his native town,
Where his Colossus with benignant mien
Looks from its station on Arona down:
To it the inland sailor lifts his eyes,
From the wide lake, when perilous storms arise.

But no storm threaten'd on that summer day;
The whole rich scene appear'd for joyance made;
With many a gliding bark the Mere was gay-

The fields and groves in all their wealth arrayed: I could have thought the sun beheld with smiles Those towns and palaces and populous isles.

From fair Arona even on such a day,

When gladness was descending like a shower, Great painter, did thy gifted eye survey

The splendid scene; and, conscious of its power, Well hath thine hand inimitable given The glories of the lake, and land, and heaven.

THE DEVIL'S WALK.'

FROM his brimstone bed, at break of day, A walking the Devil is gone,

To visit his snug little farm of the Earth, And see how his stock goes on;

And over the hill and over the dale
He walked, and over the plain,
And backwards and forwards he switched his long tail,
As a gentleman switches his cane.

And pray how was the Devil drest?

O! he was in his Sunday's best,

His coat was red, and his breeches were blue,
With a hole behind that his tail went through.
He saw a Lawyer killing a viper,

On a dunghill, beside his own stable;

And the Devil smiled, for it put him in mind
Of Cain and his brother Abel.

An Apothecary on a white horse

Rode by on his avocations,

«Oh!» says the Devil, « there's my old friend
Death in the Revelations.»>

He saw a cottage with a double coach-house,
A cottage of gentility;

And the Devil was pleased, for his darling vice
Is the pride that apes humility!

He stepp'd into a rich Bookseller's shop:

Says he,« We are both of one college;
For I myself sat, like a cormorant, once,

Hard by on the Tree of Knowledge.»
As he pass'd through Cold Bath Fields he saw
A solitary cell;

And the Devil was charm'd, for it gave him a hint
For improving the prisons in Hell.

He saw a Turnkey in a trice

Fetter a troublesome jade;

Ah! nimble, quoth he, «do the fingers move
When they're used to their trade, »

He saw the same Turnkey unfetter the same,
But with little expedition:

And the Devil thought on the long debates
On the Slave-Trade Abolition.

Down the river did glide, with wind and with tide,
A pig with vast celerity,

And the Devil grinn'd, for he saw all the while

How it cut its own throat, and he thought with a smile, Of « England's commercial prosperity!» He saw a certain Minister

(A Minister to his mind) Go up into a certain House

With a majority behind;
The Devil quoted Genesis

Like a very learned clerk,
How << Noah and his creeping things
Went up into the Ark.»
General Gascoigne's burning face

He saw with consternation,
And back to Hell his way did take

For the Devil thought, by a slight mistake,

T was the General Conflagration!

This has generally been attributed to Professor Porson; but as in the last edition of Coleridge's Works, it is given as his joint production with Mr Southey, we insert it here.

EPISTLE TO ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

WELL, Heaven be thanked! friend Allan, here I am,
Once more, to that dear dwelling-place returned,
Where I have passed the whole mid stage of life,
Not illy, certes,-not unworthily-
So let me hope; where Time upon my head
Hath laid his frore and monitory hand;
And when this poor frail earthly tabernacle
Shall be dissolved-(it matters not how soon
Or late, in God's good time;)—where I would fain
Be gathered to my children, earth to earth.

Needless it were to say how willingly

I bade the huge metropolis farewell;

Its dust and dirt and din and smoke and smut, Thames' water, pavior's ground, and London sky! Weary of hurried days and restless nights; Watchmen, whose office is to murder sleep,

So oft in spirit on thy native hills,
And yonder Solway shores; a poet thou,
Judge from thyself how strong the ties which bind

A poet to his home, when-making thus
Large recompense for all that, haply, else
Might seem perversely or unkindly done,—
Fortune hath set his happy habitacle

Among the ancient hills, near mountain streams
And Jakes pellucid; in a land sublime
And lovely, as those regions of romance,
Where his young fancy in its day dreams roamed,
Expatiating in forests wild and wide,
Loegrian, or of dearest Faery land.

Yet, Allan, of the cup of social joy

No man drinks freelier; nor with heartier thirst,
Nor keener relish, where I see around
Faces which I have known and loved so long,
That, when he prints a dream upon my brain,
Dan Morpheus takes them for his readiest types:

When sleep might else have « weighed one's eyelids | And therefore in that loathed metropolis

down;»

Rattle of carriages, and roll of carts,

And tramp of iron hoofs; and worse than all,

(Confusion being worse confounded then

Time measured out to me some golden hours. They were not leaden-footed while the clay, Beneath the patient touch of Chantrey's hand, Grew to the semblance of my lincaments.

With coachmen's quarrels, and with footmen's shouts) Lit up in memory's landscape, like green spots

My next door neighbours, in a street not yet
Macadamized (me miserable!) at home!
For then had we, from midnight until morn,
House-quakes, street thunders, and door batteries.
(0 Government, in thy wisdom and thy wants,
Tax knockers! in compassion to the sick
And those whose sober habits are not yet
Inverted, topsy-turvying night and day;

Tax them more heavily than thou hast charged
Armorial bearings and bepowdered pates!)

Escaping from all this, the very whirl

Of sunshine, are the mornings, when in talk
With him and thee and Bedford (my true friend
Of forty years) I saw the work proceed,
Subject the while myself to no restraint,
But pleasurably in frank discourse engaged;
Pleased too, and with no unbecoming pride,
To think this countenance, such as it is,
So oft by rascally mislikeness wronged,
Should faithfully to those who in his works
Have seen the inner man portrayed, be shown;
And in enduring marble should partake

Of mail-coach wheels, bound outwards from Lad Lane, Of our great Sculptor's immortality.

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More perfectly that city. Not for all

Its social, all its intellectual joys,
(Which having touched, I may not condescend
To name aught else the demon of the place,
Might as his lure hold forth); not even for these
Would I forego gardens and green fields, walks,
And hedgerow trees and stiles and shady lanes,
And orchards, were such ordinary scenes
Alone to me accessible, as those
Wherein I learnt in infancy to love

The sights and sounds of nature; wholesome sights,
Gladdening the eye that they refresh; and sounds
Which, when from life and happiness they spring,
Bear with them to the yet unhardened heart
A sense that thrills its cords of sympathy;
Or, if proceeding from insensate things,
Give to tranquillity a voice wherewith
To woo the ear and win the soul attuned.
Oh not for all that London might bestow,
Would I renounce the genial influences
And thoughts and feelings, to be found where'er
We breathe beneath the open sky, and see
Earth's liberal bosom. Judge then from thyself,
Allan, true child of Scotland; thou who art

I have been libelled, Allan, as thou knowest,
Through all degrees of calumny: but they
Who put one's name, for public sale, beneath
A set of features slanderously unlike,
Are our worst libellers. Against the wrong
Which they inflict, Time hath no remedy.
Injuries there are which Time redresseth best,
Being more sure in judgment, though perhaps
Slower in his process even than the Court,
Where Justice, tortoise-footed and mole-eyed,
Sleeps undisturbed, fanned by the lulling wings
Of harpies at their prey. We soon live down
Evil or good report, if undeserved.
Let then the dogs of faction bark and bay,-
Its bloodhounds savaged by a cross of wolf,-
Its full-bred kennel from the Blatant Beast,-
Its poodles by unlucky training marred,—
Mongrel and cur and bobtail;-let them yelp
Till weariness and hoarseness shall at length
Silence the noisy pack; meantime be sure
I shall not stoop for stones to cast among them!
So too its foumarts and its skunks may « stink
And be secure :» and its yet viler swarm,
The vermin of the press, both those that skip
And those that creep and crawl,-I do not catch
And pin them for exposure on the page;
Their filth is their defence,

But I appeal
Against the limner and the graver's wrong!
Their evil works survive them. Bilderdyk
(Whom I am privileged to call my friend),
Suffering by graphic libels in like wise,
Gave his wrath vent in verse. Would I could give
The life and spirit of his vigorous Dutch,

As his dear consort hath transfused my strains
Into her native speech, and made them known
On Rhine, and Yssel, and rich Amstel's banks,
And wheresoe'er the voice of Vondel still
Is heard; and still Hooft and Antonides
Are living agencies; and Father Cats,
The Household Poet, teacheth in his songs
The love of all things lovely, all things pure;
Best poet, who delights the happy mind

Of childhood, stores with moral strength the heart
Of youth, with wisdom maketh mid life rich,
And fills with quiet tears the eyes of age.

Hear then, in English rhyme, how Bilderdyk Describes his wicked portraits, one by one.

« A madman, who from Bedlam hath broke loose;
An honest fellow of the numskull race;
And, pappier-headed still, a very goose

Staring with eyes aghast and vacant face;
A Frenchman, who would mirthfully display
On some poor idiot his malicious wit;
And, lastly, one who, trained up in the way
Of worldly craft, hath not forsaken it,
But hath served Mammon with his whole intent,
(A thing of Nature's worst materials made),
Low minded, stupid, base, and insolent.

I-I-a poet, have been thus portrayed!
Can ye believe that my true effigy

Among these vile varieties is found?

What thought, or line, or word hath fallen from me

In all my numerous works, whereon to ground The opprobrious motion? safely I may smile

At these, acknowledging no likeness here. But worse is yet to come, so-soft a while!—

For now in potter's earth must I appear, And in such workmanship, that sooth to say, Humanity disowns the imitation,

And the dolt image is not worth its clay.

Then comes there one who will to admiration
In plastic wax the perfect face present;
And what of his performance comes at last?
Folly itself in every lineament!

Its consequential features overcast
With the coxcombical and shallow laugh

Of one who would, for condescension, hide, Yet in his best behaviour can but half

Suppress, the scornfulness of empty pride.»>

<< And who is Bilderdyk ?» methinks thou sayest:
A ready question; yet which, trust me, Allan,
Would not be asked, had not the curse that came
From Babel, clipt the wings of Poetry.
Napoleon asked him once, with cold fixed look,
« Art thou then in the world of letters known?»
And meeting his imperial look with eye
As little wont to turn away before
The face of man, the Hollander replied,

<< At least I have done that whereby I have

There to be known deserved.»>

A man he is

Who hath received upon his constant breast
The sharpest arrows of adversity.
Whom not the clamours of the multitude,
Demanding, in their madness and their might,
Iniquitous things, could shake in his firm mind;
Nor the strong hand of instant tyranny
From the straight path of duty turn aside;
But who, in public troubles, in the wreck
Of his own fortunes, in proscription, exile,
Want, obloquy, ingrate neglect, and what
Of yet severer trials Providence

Sometimes inflicteth, chastening whom it loves,-
In all, through all, and over all, hath borne
An equal heart; as resolute toward

The world, as humbly and religiously
Beneath his heavenly Father's rod resigned.
Right-minded, happy-minded, righteous man!
True lover of his country and his kind;
In knowledge and in inexhaustive stores
Of native genius rich; philosopher,
Poet, and sage. The language of a state
Inferior in illustrious deeds to none,

But circumscribed by narrow bounds, and now
Sinking in irrecoverable decline,

Hath pent within its sphere a name, with which Europe should else have rung from side to side.

Such, Allan, is the Hollander to whom
Esteem and admiration have attached
My soul, not less than pre-consent of mind
And gratitude for benefits, when being
A stranger, sick, and in a foreign land,
He took me,
like a brother, to his house,
And ministered to me, and made the weeks
Which had been wearisome and careful else,
So pleasurable, that in my kalendar

There are no whiter days. T will be a joy
For us to meet in heaven, though we should look
Upon each other's earthly face no more.

-Such is this world's complexion! «< cheerful thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind,» and these again
Give place to calm content, aud stedfast hope,
And happy faith, assured.-Return we now,
With such transition as our daily life
Imposes in its wholesome discipline,
To a lighter strain; and from the Gallery
Of the Dutch poet's misresemblances,

Pass into mine; where I will show thee, Allan,
Such an array of villanous visages,

That if among them all there were but one
Which as a likeness could be proved upon me,
It were enough to make me in mere shame
Take up an alias and forswear myself.

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