Aught to implore were impotence of mind!)*
That my mute thoughts are sad before his throne,-
Prepared, when He his healing ray vouchsafes,
Thanksgiving to pour forth with lifted heart,
And praise him gracious with a brother's joy!

* "I utterly recant the sentiment contained in the lines, Of whose omniscient and all-spreading love Aught to implore were impotence of mind,

1794.

it being written in Scripture, Ask, and it shall be given you! and my human reason being, moreover, convinced of the propriety of offering petitions as well as thanksgivings to Deity." S. T. C. 1797.

"I will add, at the risk of appearing to dwell too long on religious topics, that on this my first introduction to Coleridge, he reverted with strong compunction to a sentiment which he had expressed in earlier days upou prayer. In one of his youthful poems, speaking of God, he had said,

-'Of whose all-seeing eye

Aught to demand were impotence of mind.'

This sentiment he now so utterly condemned, that, on the contrary, he told me, as his own peculiar opinion, that the act of praying was the highest energy of which the human heart was capable—praying, that is, with the total concentration of the faculties; and the great mass of worldly men and of learned men he pronounced absolutely incapable of praying." Mr. De Quincey in Tait's Magazine, September, 1834, p. 515.

6

"Mr. Coleridge, within two years of his death, very solemnly declared to me his conviction upon the same subject. I was sitting by his bed-side one afternoon, and he fell—an unusual thing for him—into a long account of many passages of his past life, lamenting some things, condemning others, but complaining withal, though very gently, of the way in which many of his most innocent acts had been cruelly misrepresented. But I have no difficulty,' said he, 'in forgiveness; indeed, I know not how to say with sincerity the clause in the Lord's Prayer, which asks forgiveness as we forgive. I feel nothing answering to it in my heart. Neither do I find, or reckon, the most solemn faith in God as a real object, the most arduous act of the reason and will;-O no! my dear, it is to pray, to pray as God would have us; this is what at times makes me turn cold to my soul. Believe me, to pray with all your heart and strength, with the reason and the will, to believe vividly that God will listen to your voice through Christ, and verily do the thing he pleaseth thereupon-this is the last, the greatest achievement of the Christian's warfare on earth. Teach us to pray, O Lord!' And then he burst into a flood of tears, and begged me to pray for him. O what a sight was there!" Table Talk, vol. i. p. 162, n. Ed.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

SISTER of lovelorn poets, Philomel!
How many bards in city garret spent,
While at their window they with downward eye
Mark the faint lamp-beam on the kennell❜d mud,
And listen to the drowsy cry of watchmen,
(Those hoarse, unfeather'd nightingales of time!)
How many wretched bards address thy name,
And hers, the full-orb'd queen, that shines above.
But I do hear thee, and the high bough mark,
Within whose mild moon-mellow'd foliage hid,
Thou warblest sad thy pity-pleading strains."
O I have listen'd, till my working soul,
Waked by those strains to thousand phantasies,
Absorb'd, hath ceas'd to listen! Therefore oft
I hymn thy name; and with a proud delight
Oft will I tell thee, minstrel of the moon,
Most musical, most melancholy bird!
That all thy soft diversities of tone,
Though sweeter far than the delicious airs
That vibrate from a white-arm'd lady's harp,
What time the languishment of lonely love
Melts in her eye, and heaves her breast of snow,
Are not so sweet, as is the voice of her,

My Sara-best beloved of human kind!
When breathing the pure soul of tenderness,

She thrills me with the husband's promised name!

1794.

TO SARA.

THE stream with languid murmur creeps
In Lumin's flowery vale;
Beneath the dew the lily weeps,

Slow waving to the gale.

"Cease, restless gale," it seems to say, "Nor wake me with thy sighing: The honours of my vernal day On rapid wings are flying.

"To-morrow shall the traveller come,
That erst beheld me blooming,
His searching eye shall vainly roam
The dreary vale of Lumin."

With eager gaze and wetted cheek
My wonted haunts along,
Thus, lovely maiden, thou shalt seek
The youth of simplest song.

But I along the breeze will roll

The voice of feeble power,

And dwell, the moon-beam of thy soul,

In slumber's nightly hour.

1794.

TO JOSEPH COTTLE.

UNBOASTFUL Bard! whose verse concise, yet clear,
Tunes to smooth melody unconquer'd sense,
May your fame fadeless live, as never-sere
The ivy wreathes yon oak, whose broad defence
Embowers me from noon's sultry influence!
For, like that nameless rivulet stealing by,
Your modest verse to musing quiet dear,

Is rich with tints heaven-borrow'd ;-the charm'd eye
Shall gaze undazzled there, and love the soften'd sky.

Circling the base of the poetic mount,

A stream there is, which rolls in lazy flow
Its coal-black waters from oblivion's fount:
The vapour-poison'd birds, that fly too low,
Fall with dead swoop, and to the bottom go.
Escaped that heavy stream on pinion fleet
Beneath the mountain's lofty-frowning brow,
Ere aught of perilous ascent you meet,

A mead of mildest charm delays th' unlabouring feet.

Not there the cloud-climb'd rock, sublime and vast, That, like some giant king, o'er-glooms the hill; Nor there the pine-grove to the midnight blast Makes solemn music! but th' unceasing rill To the soft wren or lark's descending trill, Murmurs sweet undersong mid jasmine bowers. In this same pleasant meadow, at your will, I ween, you wander'd-there collecting flowers Of sober tint, and herbs of med'cinable powers!

There for the monarch-murder'd soldier's tomb You wove th' unfinish'd wreath of saddest hues; And to that holier chaplet added bloom,

Besprinkling it with Jordan's cleansing dews.
But lo! your Henderson awakes the Muse-
His spirit beckon'd from the mountain's height !
You left the plain, and soar'd mid richer views.
So Nature mourn'd, when sank the first day's light,
With stars, unseen before, spangling her robe of night!

Still soar, my friend! those richer views among,
Strong, rapid, fervent, flashing fancy's beam!
Virtue and truth shall love your gentler song;
But poesy demands th' impassion'd theme.
Wak'd by heaven's silent dews at eve's mild gleam,
What balmy sweets Pomona breathes around!
But if the vext air rush a stormy stream,

Or autumn's shrill gust moan in plaintive sound,
With fruits and flowers she loads the tempest-honour'd
ground!

1795.

CASIMIR.

IF we except Lucretius and Statius, I know no Latin poet, ancient or modern, who has equalled Casimir in boldness of conception, opulence of fancy, or beauty of versification. The Odes of this illustrious Jesuit were translated into English about 150 years ago, by a G. Hils, I think.* I never saw the translation. A few of the Odes have been translated in a very animated manner by Watts. I have sub

*The Odes of Casimire translated by G. H. [G. Hils.] London, 1646. 12mo. Ed.