otherwise than aware of the intellectual homage of which he was the object; yet there he sate, talking and looking all sweet, and simple, and divine things, the very personification of meekness and humility. Now he spoke of passing occurrences, or of surrounding objects-the flowers on the table, or the dog on the hearth; and enlarged in most familiar-wise on the beauty of the one, the attachment, the almost moral nature of the other, and the wonders that were involved in each. And now, soaring upwards with amazing majesty, into those sublime regions in which his soul delighted, and abstracting himself from the things of time and sense, the strength of his wing soon carried him out of sight. And here, even in these his eagle flights, although the eye in gazing after him was dazzled and blinded, yet ever and anon a sunbeam would make its way through the loopholes of the mind, giving it to discern that beautiful amalgamation of heart and spirit, that could equally raise him above his fellow-men, or bring him down again to the softest level of humanity."-The Metropolitan.

"Coleridge was a philosopher, a poet, and, what was infinitely better, a sincere and zealous Christian. Both by the endowments of nature and the acquisitions of study, he was fitted to take the highest station in the literature of his country, could he have subdued a constitutional indolence of character, which made him always rest satisfied with doing just enough for the day that was passing over him, and no more. He would discourse volumes of rich and various philosophy, pouring forth exuberant strains of mind, with no more effort than it costs an ordinary man to talk about the loose matters that are constantly floating on the surface of life, in their way to speedy oblivion; but it was a hard task to get him

to write even a pamphlet. Hence, while his acknowledged productions are comparatively few, considering how early he commenced author, he was a large contributor (from necessity) to newspapers and periodicals, of short, perishable articles, upon purely temporary topics, which could be finished at a sitting, and which, when finished, procured him prompt means for supplying his immediate wants. Had he possessed application equal to his mental activity (which was prodigious, for he seemed made of thought), the world would have possessed treasures which are now placed beyond its reach for ever."-Canterbury Magazine.

DEDICATION.

TO THE REVEREND GEORGE COLERIDGE, OF

OTTERY ST. MARY, DEVON.

Notus in fratres animi paterni.

Hor. Carm. Lib. II. 2.

A blessed lot hath he, who having past
His youth and early manhood in the stir
And turmoil of the world, retreats at length,
With cares that move, not agitate the heart,
To the same dwelling where his father dwelt;
And haply views his tottering little ones
Embrace those aged knees and climb that lap,
On which first kneeling his own infancy
Lisp'd its brief prayer. Such, O my earliest friend!
Thy lot, and such thy brothers too enjoy.
At distance did ye climb life's upland road,
Yet cheer'd and cheering: now fraternal love
Hath drawn you to one centre. Be your days
Holy, and blest and blessing may ye live!

To me th' Eternal Wisdom hath dispens'd

A different fortune and more different mind-
Me from the spot where first I sprang to light,
Too soon transplanted, ere my soul had fix'd
Its first domestic loves; and hence through life
Chasing chance-started friendships. A brief while
Some have preserv'd me from life's pelting ills;
But, like a tree with leaves of feeble stem,
If the clouds lasted, or a sudden breeze

Ruffled the boughs, they on my head at once
Dropt the collected shower: and some most false,
False and fair-foliag'd as the manchineel,

Have tempted me to slumber in their shade

E'en mid the storm; then breathing subtlest damps,
Mix'd their own venom with the rain from heaven,
That I woke poison'd! But, all praise to Him
Who gives us all things, more have yielded me
Permanent shelter: and beside one friend,
Beneath th' impervious covert of one oak,
I've rais'd a lowly shed, and know the names
Of husband and of father; nor unhearing
Of that divine and nightly-whispering voice,
Which from my childhood to maturer years
Spake to me of predestinated wreaths,
Bright with no fading colours!

Yet at times

My soul is sad, that I have roam'd through life
Still most a stranger, most with naked heart
At mine own home and birth-place: chiefly then,
When I remember thee, my earliest friend!
Thee, who didst watch my boy-hood and my youth;

Didst trace my wanderings with a father's eye;
And boding evil, yet still hoping good,

Rebuk'd each fault and wept o'er all my woes.
Who counts the beatings of the lonely heart,
That Being knows how I have lov'd thee ever,
Lov'd as a brother, as a son rever'd thee!
O'tis to me an ever-new delight,

My earger eye glist'ning with mem'ry's tear,
To talk of thee and thine; or when the blast
Of the shrill winter, ratt'ling our rude sash,
Endears the cleanly hearth and social bowl;
Or when, as now, on some delicious eve,
We in our sweet sequester'd orchard-plot

Sit on the tree crook'd earth-ward; whose old boughs,
That hang above us in an arborous roof,
Stirr'd by the faint gale of departing May

Send their loose blossoms slanting o'er our heads!

Nor dost not thou sometimes recall those hours,
When with the joy of hope thou gav'st thine ear
To my wild firstling lays? Since then my song
Hath sounded deeper notes, such as beseem
Or that sad wisdom, folly leaves behind,
Or the high raptures of prophetic faith,
Or such, as tun'd to these tumultuous times,
Cope with the tempest's swell!

These various songs,

Which I have fram'd in many a various mood,
Accept my brother! and (for some perchance