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And hark! with lessening cadence now they fall,

And now, along the white and level tide,

They fling their melancholy music wide ;

Bidding me many a tender thought recall
On these white cliffs, that, calm above the flood,

Of summer days, and those delightful years Uplift their shadowing heads, and, at their feet,

When by my native streams, in life's fair prime, Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat,

The mournful magic of their mingling chime Sure many a lonely wanderer has stood;

First waked my wondering childhood into tears ! And, whilst the lifted murmur met his ear,

But seeming now, when all those days are o'er, And o'er the distant billows the still eve

The sounds of joy once heard, and heard no more. Sail'd slow, has thought of all his heart must

leave To-morrow; of the friends he loved most dear; Of social scenes, from which he wept to part:

SONNET But if, like me, he knew how fruitless all

ON THE RIVER RHINE. The thoughts that would full fain the past recall,

'Twas morn, and beauteous on the mountain's Soon would he quell the risings of his heart,

And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide- (Hung with the beamy clusters of the vine)
The world his country, and his God his guide. Stream'd the blue light, when on the sparkling

We bounded, and the white waves round the


In murmurs parted ;-varying as we go,

Lo! the woods open, and the rocks retire,

Some convent's ancient walls or glistening spire
The orient beam illumes the parting oar-

'Mid the bright landscape's track unfolding slow. From yonder azure track, emerging white,

Here dark, with furrow'd aspect, like despair, The earliest sail slow gains upon the sight,

Frowns the bleak cliff-there on the woodland's And the blue wave comes rippling to the shore

side Meantime far off the rear of darkness flies :

The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide; Yet 'mid the beauties of the morn, unmoved,

Whilst hope, enchanted with the scene so fair, Like one for ever torn from all he loved,

Would wish to linger many a summer's day, Towards Albion's heights I turn my longing eyes,

Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away. Where every pleasure seem'd erewhile to dwell:

Yet boots it not to think, or to complain,

Musing sad ditties to the reckless main :
To dreams like these, adieu! the pealing bell

Speaks of the hour that stays not—and the day
To life's sad turmoil calls my heart away.

If chance some pensive stranger, hither led,

(His bosom glowing from majestic views,

The gorgeous dome, or the proud landscape's

hues,) AT OSTEND, JULY 22, 1787.

Should ask who sleeps beneath this lowly bedHow sweet the tuneful bells' responsive peal !* 'Tis poor Matilda !—To the cloister'd scene,

As when, at opening morn, the fragrant breeze A mourner, beauteous and unknown, she came,

Breathes on the trembling sense of wan disease, To shed her tears unmark'd, and quench the So piercing to my heart their force I feel !


Of fruitless love: yet was her look serene
* Writien on landing at Ostend, and hearing, very early As the pale moonlight in the midnight aisle ;
in the morning, the carillons.

Her voice was soft, which yet a charm could
The effect of bells has been often described, but by none lend,
more beautifully than Cowper:-

Like that which spoke of a departed friend
How soft the music of those village bells,

And a meek sadness sat upon her smile!
Falling at intervals upon the ear
In cadence sweet, now dying all away,

Now, far removed from every earthly ill,
Now pealing loud again, and louder still,

Her woes are buried, and her heart is still.
Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on!
With easy force it opens all the cells
Where memory slept. Wherever I have heard
A kindred melody, the scene recurs,

And with it all its pleasures and its pains.
Such comprehensive views the spirit lakes,

O TIME! who know'st a lenient hand to lay
That in a few short moments I retrace

Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence
(As in a map the voyager his course)
The windings of my way through many years.

(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)
Corper's Task, book vi. The faint pang stealest unperceived away ;

On thee I rest my only hope at last,

Of solace, that may bear me on serene,
And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear Till eve's last hush shall close the silent scene.

That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear,
I may look back on every sorrow past,
And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile-
As some lone bird, at day's departing hour,

Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower
Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while:--

Yet ah! how much must that poor heart endure,
Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure !

As one who, long by wasting sickness worn,
Weary has watch'd the lingering night, and


Heartiess the carol of the matin bird

Salute his lonely porch, now first at morn

Goes forth, leaving his melancholy bed ; LANGUID, and sad, and slow, from day to day

He the green slope and level meadow views, I journey on, yet pensive turn to view

Delightful bathed with slow-ascending dews; (Where the rich landscape gleams with softer hue) or marks the clouds, that o'er the mountain's head The streanis, and vales, and hills, that steal away.

In varying forms fantastic wander white; So fares it with the children of the earth:

Or turns his ear to every random song, For when life's goodly prospect opens round,

Heard the green river's winding marge along, Their spirits beat to tread that fairy ground,

The whilst each sense is steep'd in still delight. Where every vale sounds to the pipe of mirth.

With such delight, o'er all my heart I feel, But them vain hope and easy youth beguiles,

Sweet hope! thy fragrance pure and healing incense And soon a longing look, like me, they cast

steal !
Back on the pleasing prospect of the past:
Yet fancy points where still far onward smiles
Some sunny spot, and her fair colouring blends,
Till cheerless on their path the night descends.


OCTOBER, 1792.

Go then, and join the roaring city's throng!

Me thou dost leave to solitude and tears,

To busy fantasies, and boding fears,

Lest ill betide thee: but 'twill not be long,
An! from mine eyes the tears unbidden start, And the hard season shall be past: till then

As thee, my country, and the long-lost sight Live happy ; sometimes the forsaken shade

Of thy own cliffs, that lift their summits white Remembering, and these trees now left to fade; Above the wave, once more my beating heart

Nor 'mid the busy scenes and “hum of men,” With eager hope and filial transport hails !

Wilt thou my cares forget: in heaviness Scenes of my youth, reviving gales ye bring, To me the hours shall roll, weary and slow,

As when erewhile the tuneful morn of spring Till, mournful autumn past, and all the snow Joyous awoke amidst your blooming vales,

Of winter pale! the glad hour I shall bless, And fill'd with fragrance every painted plain : That shall restore thee from the crowd again,

Fled are those hours, and all the joys they gave! To the green hamlet in the peaceful plain.

Yet still I gaze, and count each rising wave
That bears me nearer to your haunts again;
If haply, 'mid those woods and vales so fair,
Stranger to peace, I yet may meet her there.




There is strange music in the stirring wind,

When lowers the autumnal eve, and all alone TO THE RIVER CHERWELL, OXFORD.

To the dark wood's cold covert thou art gone, CHERWELL! how ple along thy willow'd hedge Whose ancient trees on the rough slope reclined

Erewhile I stray'd, or when the morn began Rock, and at times scatter their tresses sear.
To tinge the distant turret's gleamy fan,

If in such shades, beneath their murmuring,
Or evening glimmer'd n'er the sighing sedge! Thou late hast passid the happier hours of spring,
And now reposing on thy banks once more,

With sadness thou wilt mark the fading year; I bid the pipe farewell, and that sad lay

Chiefly if one, with whom such sweets at morn Whose music on my melancholy way

Or eve thou'st shared, to distant scenes shall I woo'd: amid thy waving willows hoar

stray. Seeking a while to rest—till the bright sun

0, spring, return! return, auspicious May! Of joy return, as when heaven's beauteous bow But sad will be thy coming, and forlorn,

Beams on the night-storm's passing wings below : If she return not with thy cheering ray, Whate'er betide, yet something have I won Who from these shades is gone, gone far away.



O HARMONY! thou tenderest nurse of pain,
APRIL, 1793.

If that thy note's sweet magic e'er can heal WHOSE was that gentle voice, that whispering Griefs which the patient spirit oft may feel, sweet,

O! let me listen to thy songs again, Promised methought long days of bliss sincere? Till memory her fairest tints shall bring, Soothing it stole on my deluded ear,

Hope wake with brighter eye, and listening seem Most like soft music, that might sometimes cheat With smiles to think on some delightful dream, Thoughts dark and drooping! 'Twas the voice of That waved o'er the charm’d sense its gladserne hope.

wing: Of love, and social scenes, it seem'd to speak, For when thou leadest all thy soothing strains

Of truth, of friendship, of affection meek; More smooth along, the silent passions meet That, O! poor friend, might to life's downward In one suspended transport, sad and sweet, slope

And naught but sorrow's softest touch remains,
Lead us in peace, and bless our latest hours. That, when the transitory charm is o'er,
Ah me! the prospect sadden'd as she sung ;

Just wakes a tear, and then is felt no more.
Loud on my startled ear the death-bell rung;
Chill darkness wrapt the pleasurable bowers,
Whilst horror, pointing to yon breathless clay,

No peace be thine,” exclaim'd ; "away, away!”

MAY, 1793.
How shall I meet thee, summer, wont to fill

My heart with gladness, when thy pleasant tide

First came, and on each coomb's romantic side Was heard the distant cuckoo's hollow bill?

Fresh flowers shall fringe the wild brink of the As o'er these hills I take my silent rounds,

stream, Still on that vision which is flown I dwell! As with the songs of joyance and of hope On images I loved (alas, how well!)

The hedge-rows shall ring loud, and on the slope Now past, and but remember'd like sweet sounds The poplars sparkle in the transient beam; Of yesterday! yet in my breast I keep

The shrubs and laurels which I loved to tend, Such recollections, painful though they seem,

Thinking their May-tide fragrance might delight, And hours of joy retrace, till from my dream With many a peaceful charm, thee, my best friend, I wake, and find them not: then I could weep Shall put forth their green shoot, and cheer the To think that time so soon each sweet devours;

sight! To think so soon life's first endearments fail, But I shall mark their hues with sickening eyes,

And we are still misled by hope's smooth tale! And weep for her who in the cold grave lies !
Who, like a flatterer, when the happiest hours
Are past, and most we wish her cheering lay,
Will fly as faithless and as fleet as they !


MAY, 1793.

How blest with thee the path could I have trod

Of quiet life, above cold want's hard fate,

(And little wishing more,) nor of the great

Envious, or their proud name! but it pleased God NETLEY ABBEY.

To take thee to his mercy:, thou didst go FALL’n pile! I ask not what has been thy fate; In youth and beauty, go to thy death-bed; But when the weak winds, wafted from the E’en whilst on dreams of bliss we fondly fed, main,

Of years to come of comfort !-Be it so. Through each rent arch, like spirits that com- Ere this I have felt sorrow; and e'en now plain,

(Though sometimes the unbidden thought must Come hollow to my ear, I meditate

start, On this world's passing pageant, and the lot

And half unman the miserable heart)
Of those who once full proudly in their prime

The cold dew I shall wipe from my cad brow, And beauteous might have stood, till bow'd by And say, since hopes of bliss on earth aie vain, time

“ Best friend, farewell, till we do meet again?" Or injury, their early boast forgot, They may have fall’n like thee: Pale and forlorn, Their brow, besprent with thin hairs, white as

SONNET snow,

ON REVISITING OXFORD. They lift, majestic yet ; as they would scorn

This short-lived scene of vanity and wo; I NEVER hear the sound of thy glad bells, Whilst on their sad looks smilingly they bear Oxford ! and chime harmonious, but I say The trace of creeping age, and the dim hue of (Sighing to think how time has worn away,) care!

“Some spirit speaks in the sweet tone that swells

Heard after years of absence, from the vale Didst soothe me, bidding my poor heart rejoice, Where Cherwell winds.” Most true it speaks Though smitten sore: 0, I did little think the tale

That thou, my friend, wouldst the first victim fall Of days departed, and its voice recalls

To the stern king of terrors ! thou didst fly, Hours of delight and hope in the gay tide

By pity prompted, at the poor man's cry; Of life, and many friends now scatter'd wide

And soon thyself wert stretch'd beneath the pall, By many fates. Peace be within thy walls ! Livid infection's prey. The deep distress I have scarce heart to visit thee; but yet,

Of her, who best thy inmost bosom knew, Denied the joys sought in thy shades,-denied To whom thy faith was vow'd, thy soul was true,

Each better hope, since my poor ***** died, What powers of faltering language shall express What I have owed to thee, my heart can ne'er forget! As friendship bids, I feebly "reathe my own,

And sorrowing say, “ Pure spirit, thou art gone!”


THOU camest with kind looks, when on the brink

WRITTEN AT MALVERN, JULY 11, 1793. Almost of death I strove, and with mild voice I SHALL behold far off thy towering crest,

Proud mountain ! from thy heights as slow I stray The following elegant inscription to the memory of

Down through the distant vale my homeward way, this amiable and excellent young man is prefixed to the I shall behold, upon thy rugged breast, chancel of Caversham church, near Reading, and does The parting sun sit smiling: me the while merely justice to the many valuable qualifications of him

Escaped the crowd, thoughts full of heaviness wbose virtues and graces il records :

May visit, as life's bitter losses press
Near this Chancel are deposited

Hard on my bosom: but I shall “ beguile
The Remains of the REV. WILLIAM BENWELL,
Late Fellow of Trinity College, Oxford,

The thing I am," and think, that e'en as thou Who died of a contagious fever, the consequence of

Dost lift in the pale beam thy forehead high, his charitable endeavours to relieve and comfort the Proud mountain! (whilst the scatter'd vapours fly inhabitants of the village in which he resided. Unheeded round thy breast,) so, with calm brow, From early youth

The shades of sorrow I may meet, and wear
He was remarkable for correctness of taste,

The smile unchanged of peace, though prest by care ! and variety of knowledge;

Simple, modest, and retired; La manners and conversation he possessed a natural grace; a winning courtesy, truly expressive of the heavenly serenity of his mind, and of the meekness, low

SONNET liness and benevolence of his heart. To his Relations, and to his Companions whom he loved,

ON REVIEWING THE FOREGOING. SEPT. 21, 1797. he was most tenderly and consistently affectionate: To the poor a zealous friend, a wise and patient instructer; I TURN these leaves with thronging thoughts, and By his mildness cheering the sorrowful ;

say, And, by the pure and amiable sanctity which beamed in

“ Alas! how many friends of youth are dead,
his countenance, repressing the licentious.
Habitually pious,

How many visions of fair hope have fled,
He appeared in every instance of life

Since first, my muse, we met:”-So speeds away to act, to speak, and to think,

Life, and its shadows; yet we sit and sing, as in the sight of God.

Stretch'd in the noontide bower, as if the day
He died Sept. 6th, 96, in his 320


Declined not, and we yet might trill our lay His soul pleased the LORD, therefore hasted He to take him away.

Beneath the pleasant morning's purple wing This Tablet was erected to his Memory, with heart- That fans us, while aloft the gay clouds shine! felt grief, and the tenderest affection,

0, ere the coming of the long cold night, By PExeLOPE, eldest daughter of JOHN LOVBDAY, Esq.;

RELIGION, may we bless thy purer light, and PENELOPE his wife,

That still shall warm us, when the tints decline Who, after many years of the most ardent friendship,

O’er earth's dim hemisphere, and sad we gaze
became his wife and his widow in the
course of eleven weeks!

On the vain visions of our passing days !


SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE was born at Bris- | maps with which he was reported to have supplied tol, about 1770, where he received the earliest por- the French government, in aid of their plans of intion of his education. He was afterwards sent to vasion. Christ's Hospital, London, where, he says, in his A perusal of Bowles's Sonnets appears to have Biographia Literaria, “I enjoyed the inestimable first inspired him with a taste for poetry, of wbich advantage of a very sensible, though, at the same his earliest specimen was given to the public in a time, a very severe master, the Rev. James Bowyer, small volume, published previously to the forewho early moulded my taste to the preference of going incident, in which publication a monody on Demosthenes to Cicero, of Homer and Theoc tus to the death of the unfortunate Chatterton was uniVirgil, and again of Virgil to Ovid, &c.” From versally admired. In 1795, he published some antiChrist's Hospital he was sent to Jesus College, ministerial pamphlets; and in the following year, Cambridge, where he obtained the Sir William made an unsuccessful attempt to establish a periBrown's gold medal, for the best Greek ode, in odical paper, called The Watchman, at the pers ja1792. About the same time, he became acquainted sion, he says, of sundry philanthropists and antiwith Southey, then a student of Baliol College, polemists. His next publication was a poem on the Oxford, and, like himself, imbued with ardent pre- prospect of peace; he shortly afterwards accompadilections for poesy and liberty. With him and nied Sir Alexander Ball, governor of Malta, as his some other young men, he entered into a scheme, secretary ; and, on his return from this employwhich want of means alone prevented them from ment, became entitled to a pension. This so far putting into execution, for settling on the Susque- improving his circumstances as to leave him at hannah river, in North America, under a panti- full liberty to pursue his literary designs, he ensocratic form of society. About 1794, he retired to gaged in the publication of a variety of works, and Alforton, in Somersetshire, where he was joined delivered two public courses of lectures, one on the by his friend Wordsworth, with whom he passed plays of Shakspeare, and another on poetry and the his time in literary pursuits, and in wandering about belles lettres, which gained him a reputation for the Quantock hills, with such an air of mystery, considerable oratorical powers. In 1813, be pube that they became objects of suspicion to the neigh- lished Remorse, a tragedy ; followed, in 1817, by bourhood. A spy was set upon their conduct, and Sibylline Leaves; A Collection of Poems; his an examination actually appears to have taken Biographia Literaria, or biographical sketches of his place, by the village authorities, of a poor rustic life and opinions ; and other works, pvetical and who was supposed to have discovered their dan- political. In 1818, he commenced The Friend, a gerous designs. Our author has given a ludicrous series of essays, that extended to three volumes ; account of this in the work before quoted from, and and in the tenth and eleventh numbers of which, the conclusion is worth extracting, as developing he says, he has left a record of his principles. In somewhat of his habits and character. “ Has not 1825, he published Aids to Reflection, in the forthis Mr. Coleridge been wandering on the hills mation of a manly character, &c.; and, in 1830, his towards the channel, and along the shore, with Treatise on the Constitution of the Church and books and papers in his hand, taking charts and State, according to the idea of each : with aids tomaps of the country ?”—“ Why, as to that, your wards a right judgment of the late Catholic bill. honour,” was the rustic's reply; “I am sure I Mr. Coleridge towards the close of life resided at would not wish to say ill of anybody ; but it is Highgate, where he occasionally received his litecertain that I have heard—” “Speak out, man! rary friends, and passed his time in reading, and don't be afraid: you are doing your duty to your the amusements of his garden. He was said to king and government.

What have you heard ?” excel all his contemporaries in powers of argu" Why, folks do say, your honour, as how that he ment; and, when once fairly launched on any fais a poet; and that he is going to put Quan-vourite topic, to be possessed of the faculty of rivettock, and all about here, in print; and as they ing for hours, the attention of his audience by the (Wordsworth and Coleridge) be so much together, charm of his eloquence alone. He died July 25th, I suppose that the strange gentleman (Wordsworth) 1834. has some consarn in the business.” The business In addition to the works already mentioned, which engaged him was the composition of a poem, he wrote, during the peace of Amiens, essays to be called The Brook, which, had he finished, it for The Morning Post and Courier. Mr. Fox is was his intention to have dedicated to the commit- said to have pointed his allusion to these contributee of public safety, as containing the charts and I tions, when he declared, that the war, which sol

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