are neither attractive nor rememberable. Remorse, a Tragedy (1812), and Zapolya, a Christmas Tale, which was written in 1815, contain beauties, 'purple patches' suitable for quotation, but as dramas they are lifeless and uninteresting. On the other hand, his one translation, Schiller's Wallenstein, rivals if it does not surpass the original. As a humourist he attempted little, but that little was first-rate. The wit of The Devil's Thoughts was Southey's wit, but the humour is Coleridge's; and as 'good, simple, savage verse,' as Byron labelled his Dedication to Don Juan, Fire, Famine, and Slaughter and The Two Round Spaces neither require nor admit of an apology. Originally mere jeux d'esprit, doggerel verses in a newspaper, they have won their place in literature.

Coleridge maintained that he owed his first inspiration as a poet to Bowles's sonnets and the 'Lewesdon Hill of Mr Crowe.' His first turn for versification was, perhaps, more immediately due to an intimate knowledge of the odes of Gray and Collins, and his first inclination towards sentiment and the poetry of the affections to Bowles and Cowper, and to Macpherson's Ossian. The Romantic School was already a power in Germany, and was touching the younger generation in England through translations or the works of such imitators as Horace Walpole, Mrs Radcliffe, 'Monk' Lewis, and William Taylor previous to the inception or publication of the Lyrical Ballads; and it is certain that before he went to Germany, in September 1798, Coleridge had read Voss's Luise in the original and was familiar with translations of Schiller's Robbers and the Ghostseer. But however responsive he may have been to 'voices in the air,' he owed the awakening and the consummation of his genius to the example and companionship of Wordsworth and of Wordsworth's sister Dorothy. We have only to compare his Ode to the Departing Year (December 1796) with the great Stowey poems, beginning with This Limetree Bower my Prison (May 1797), to understand in what degree and in what sense Wordsworth was 'the master-light of all his seeing'! There is, indeed, little or no resemblance between Coleridge's great poems and Wordsworth's great poems. The magic and the melody of Coleridge's verse are all his own, and the spirit and direction of his poetry are other and different from the spirit and direction of Wordsworth's. As a poet Coleridge 'taught us little,' and as a poet Wordsworth was essentially a teacher, but it was Wordsworth who helped Coleridge to find himself, and, as Dykes Campbell has finely expressed it, 'put a new song in his mouth.'

But art for art's sake did not satisfy Coleridge. The desire of his soul was to teach and to preach, and in order to deliver his message he expendedsome would say scattered-his intellectual activities in various directions. He was a journalist, a critic, a lecturer, a philosopher, and a divine. garded it as his mission to found a new school,

or at any rate to elaborate a new system, of philosophy, and at the same time to propound an eirenicon between faith and reason. It is held by those most competent to judge that as a philosopher he interpreted and carried on the speculations of others of Kant and Maass, of Fichte and Schelling-but failed to formulate or work out a system of his own. Of the vast preparations which he made for a work to comprehend all knowledge and all philosophy, a portion sufficient to form an introductory volume was dictated to his disciple and amanuensis, Joseph Henry Green, and remains unpublished. His influence on the religious thought and opinion of his own age and of the last sixty years is of a less questionable nature. The Aids to Reflection (1825) and the posthumous Confessions of an Inquiring Spirit (1840) have been largely instrumental in deepening and widening religious thought within. and without the pale of the Churches. Their direct and immediate influence belongs to the past, but the leaven is still at work. Finally, in his critical notes on Shakespeare's plays, originally · delivered as lectures, and in his masterly dissertation on the Tenets peculiar to Mr Wordsworth' which concludes the Biographia Literaria, he speaks not as the inspirer of others, but as a potent if not a final authority. A word which he borrowed from the Greek and applied to Shakespeare describes him best. He was 'myriadminded.'

From 'The Ancient Mariner.' 'The Sun now rose upon the right: Out of the sea came he,

Still hid in mist, and on the left
Went down into the sea.

And the good south wind still blew behind,
But no sweet bird did follow,

Nor any day for food or play
Came to the mariners' hollo!

And I had done a hellish thing,
And it would work 'em woe:
For all averred, I had killed the bird
That made the breeze to blow.

Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay,
That made the breeze to blow!

Nor dim nor red, like God's own head,
The glorious Sun uprist:

Then all averred, I had killed 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 followed free;

We were the first that ever burst
Into that silent sea.

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 'Twas sad as sad could be ;

He re

And we did speak only to break

The silence of the sea!

O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been

Alone on a wide wide sea:

So lonely 'twas, that God himself

Scarce seemed there to be.

O sweeter than the marriage-feast,
'Tis sweeter far to me,

To walk together to the kirk
With a goodly company!—

To walk together to the kirk,
And all together pray,

While each to his great Father bends,

Old men, and babes, and loving friends,
And youths and maidens gay!
Farewell, farewell! but this I tell
To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!
He prayeth well, who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast.

He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.'

The Mariner, whose eye is bright,
Whose beard with age is hoar,

Is gone and now the Wedding-Guest
Turned from the bridegroom's door.

He went like one that hath been stunned,

And is of sense forlorn :

'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,
And the owls have awakened the crowing cock!
Tu-whit!-Tu-whoo!

And hark, again! the crowing cock,
How drowsily it crew.

Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,

Hath a toothless mastiff, which

From her kennel beneath the rock

Maketh answer to the clock,

Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour;
Ever and aye, by shine and shower,
Sixteen short howls, not over loud:
Some say, she sees my lady's shroud.

Is the night chilly and dark?
The night is chilly, but not dark.
The thin gray cloud is spread on high,
It covers but not hides the sky.
The moon is behind, and at the full;
And yet she looks both small and dull.
The night is chill, the cloud is gray :
'Tis a month before the month of May,
And the Spring comes slowly up this way.

The lovely lady, Christabel,

Whom her father loves so well,

What makes her in the wood so late,

A furlong from the castle gate?
She had dreams all yesternight
Of her own betrothed knight;

And she in the midnight wood will pray

For the weal of her lover that's far away.

She stole along, she nothing spoke,

The sighs she heaved were soft and low,
And naught was green upon the oak,
But moss and rarest misletoe :
She kneels beneath the huge oak tree,
And in silence prayeth she.

The lady sprang up suddenly,

The lovely lady, Christabel!

It moaned as near, as near can be,

But what it is, she cannot tell.-
On the other side it seems to be,

Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree.
The night is chill; the forest bare;
Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?
There is not wind enough in the air
To move away the ringlet curl
From the lovely lady's cheek-
There is not wind enough to twirl
The one red leaf, the last of its clan,
That dances as often as dance it can,
Hanging so light, and hanging so high,
On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.
Hush, beating heart of Christabel !
Jesu, Maria, shield her well!

She folded her arms beneath her cloak,
And stole to the other side of the oak.

What sees she there?

There she sees a damsel bright,
Drest in a silken robe of white,

That shadowy in the moonlight shone :
The neck that made that white robe wan,
Her stately neck, and arms were bare ;
Her blue-veined feet unsandal'd were;
And wildly glittered here and there
The gems entangled in her hair.

I guess, 'twas frightful there to see
A lady so richly clad as she-
Beautiful exceedingly! . . .

They crossed the moat, and Christabel

Took the key that fitted well;

A little door she opened straight,

All in the middle of the gate;

The gate that was ironed within and without, Where an army in battle-array had marched out

The lady sank, belike through pain,

And Christabel with might and main
Lifted her up, a weary weight,
Over the threshold of the gate :
Then the lady rose again,

And moved, as she were not in pain.

So free from danger, free from fear,

They crossed the court: right glad they were. And Christabel devoutly cried

To the lady by her side,

Praise we the Virgin all divine

Who hath rescued thee from thy distress!

Alas, alas! said Geraldine,

I cannot speak for weariness.

So free from danger, free from fear,

They crossed the court: right glad they were.

They passed the hall, that echoes still,

Pass as lightly as you will!

The brands were flat, the brands were dying,

Amid their own white ashes lying;

But when the lady passed, there came

A tongue of light, a fit of flame;
And Christabel saw the lady's eye,
And nothing else saw she thereby,

Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall,
Which hung in a murky old niche in the wall.
O softly tread, said Christabel,
My father seldom sleepeth well.

Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare,
And jealous of the listening air

They steal their way from stair to stair,
Now in glimmer, and now in gloom,
And now they pass the Baron's room,
As still as death with stifled breath!

And now have reached her chamber door;
And now doth Geraldine press down
The rushes of the chamber floor.

The moon shines dim in the open air,
And not a moonbeam enters here.
But they without its light can see
The chamber carved so curiously,
Carved with figures strange and sweet,
All made out of the carver's brain,
For a lady's chamber meet:
The lamp with twofold silver chain

Is fastened to an angel's feet.

The silver lamp burns dead and dim;

But Christabel the lamp will trim.

She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright,
And left it swinging to and fro,
While Geraldine, in wretched plight,
Sank down upon the floor below.

The Nightingale.

(Part I., 1798.)

No cloud, no relique of the sunken day
Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip
Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues.
Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge!
You see the glimmer of the stream beneath,
But hear no murmuring: it flows silently,
O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still,
A balmy night! and though the stars be dim,
Yet let us think upon the vernal showers
That gladden the green earth, and we shall find
A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
And hark! the Nightingale begins its song,
'Most musical, most melancholy' bird!
A melancholy bird? Oh! idle thought!
In Nature there is nothing melancholy.

...

My Friend, and thou, our Sister! we have learnt A different lore: we may not thus profane Nature's sweet voices, always full of love And joyance! 'Tis the merry Nightingale That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates With fast thick warble his delicious notes, As he were fearful that an April night Would be too short for him to utter forth His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul Of all its music!

And I know a grove Of large extent, hard by a castle huge,

Which the great lord inhabits not; and so
This grove is wild with tangling underwood,
And the trim walks are broken up, and grass,
Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths.
But never elsewhere in one place I knew
So many nightingales; and far and near,
In wood and thicket, over the wide grove,
They answer and provoke each other's songs,
With skirmish and capricious passagings,
And murmurs musical and swift jug jug,

And one low piping sound more sweet than all—
Stirring the air with such a harmony,

That should you close your eyes, you might almost
Forget it was not day! On moon-lit bushes,
Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed,
You may perchance behold them on the twigs,
Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full,
Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade
Lights up her love-torch.

Farewell, O Warbler! till to-morrow eve,
And you, my friends! farewell, a short farewell!
We have been loitering long and pleasantly,
And now for our dear homes.

(A Conversation Poem,' April 1798.)

Frost at Midnight.

Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side, Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, Fill up the interspersed vacancies

And momentary pauses of the thought!
My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore
And in far other scenes! For I was reared
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim,
And saw naught lovely but the sky and stars.
But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language, which thy God
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Great universal Teacher! he shall mould
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.

(To Hartley Coleridge, 1798.)

From 'Dejection: an Ode.'

My genial spirits fail;

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 :

I may not hope from outward forms to win

The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.

O Lady! we receive but what we give,
And in our life alone does nature live:
Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud!
And would we aught behold, of higher worth,
Than that inanimate cold world allowed
To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,
Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth,

A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud

Enveloping the Earth

And from the soul itself must there be sent
A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,
Of all sweet sounds the life and element !

O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me
What this strong music in the soul may be!
What, and wherein it doth exist,

This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,
This beautiful and beauty-making power.

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,
Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower,
A new Earth and new Heaven,

Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud-
Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud-
We in ourselves rejoice!

And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,
All melodies the echoes of that voice,
All colours a suffusion from that light.

There was a time when, though my path was rough,
This joy within me dallied with distress,
And all misfortunes were but as the stuff

Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness:
For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,
And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine.
But now afflictions bow me down to earth :
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth;
But oh! each visitation
Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,
My shaping spirit of Imagination.
For not to think of what I needs must feel,
But to be still and patient, all I can ;
And haply by abstruse research to steal

With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, When I was young! When I was young ?-Ah, woeful when ! Ah for the Change 'twixt Now and Then! This breathing House not built with hands, This body that does me grievous wrong, O'er aery Cliffs and glittering Sands, How lightly then it flashed along: Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, On winding Lakes and Rivers wide, That ask no aid of Sail or Oar, That fear no spite of Wind or Tide ! Nought 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;

O the Joys, that came down shower-like, Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,

Ere I was old!

Ere I was old? Ah woeful Ere,
Which tells me, Youth 's no longer here!
O Youth! for years so many and sweet,
'Tis known that Thou and I were one,
I'll think it but a fond conceit-

It cannot be, that Thou art gone!
Thy Vesper-bell hath not yet tolled :-
And thou wert aye a Masker bold!
What strange disguise hast now put on,
To make believe, that thou art gone?
I see these locks in silvery slips,
This drooping gait, this altered size :
But Springtide blossoms on thy lips,
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!
Life is but Thought: so think I will
That Youth and I are House-mates still.

It is recorded in the shuddering hearts of Christians that... every Bishop but one voted for the continuance of the war [with France]. They deemed the fate of their Religion to be involved in the contest !-Not the Religion of Peace, my Brethren; not the Religion of the meek and lowly Jesus, which forbids to his Disciples all alliance with the powers of this Worldbut the Religion of Mitres and Mysteries, the Religion of Pluralities and Persecution, the Eighteen-ThousandPound-a-Year Religion of Episcopacy. . . . Alas! what room would there be for Bishops or for Priests in a Religion where Deity is the only object of Reverence, and our Immortality the only article of Faith-Immortality made probable to us by the Light of Nature, and proved to us by the Resurrection of Jesus. Him the High Priests crucified, but he has left us a Religion, which shall prove fatal to every High Priest-a Religion, of which every true Christian is the Priest, his own Heart the Altar, the Universe its Temple, and Errors and Vices its only Sacrifices. Ride on, mighty Jesus! because of thy words of Truth, of Love, and Equality! The age of Priesthood will soon be no more-that of Philosophers and Christians will succeed, and the torch of Superstition be extinguished for ever. (From 'Conciones ad Populum,' of 1795, in Essays on His Own Times, 1850.)