And delight in the things of earth, water, and

skies;

Tender warmth at his heart, with these metres to show it,

With sound sense in his brains, may make Derwent a poet,—

May crown him with fame, and must win him the love

Of his father on earth and his Father above.
My dear, dear child!

Could

you stand upon Skiddaw, you would not from its whole ridge

See a man who so loves you as your fond S. T. COLERIDGE.

LIMBO.

IS a strange place, this Limbo!not a place,

Yet name it so ;—where Time and weary Space,

Fetter'd from flight, with night-mare sense of fleeing,

Strive for their last crepuscular half-being;Lank Space, and scytheless Time with branny

hands,

Barren and soundless as the measuring sands, Not mark'd by flit of Shades,-unmeaning they As moonlight on the dial of the day!

But that is lovely-looks like human Time,

An old man with a steady look sublime,
That stops his earthly task to watch the skies;
But he is blind—a statue hath such eyes ;-
Yet having moonward turn'd his face by chance,
Gazes the orb with moon-like countenance,
With scant white hairs, with foretop bald and
high,

He gazes still,-his eyeless face all eye!
As 'twere an organ full of silent sight,
His whole face seemeth to rejoice in light!
Lip touching lip, all moveless, bust and limb,—
He seems to gaze at that which seems to gaze
on him!

No such sweet sights doth Limbo den im

mure,

Wall'd round, and made a spirit-jail secure, By the mere horror of blank Nought-at-all, Whose circumambience doth these ghosts en

thral.

A lurid thought is growthless, dull Privation, Yet that is but a Purgatory curse;

Hell knows a fear far worse,

A fear-a future state;-'tis positive Negation!

NE PLUS ULTRA.

OLE Positive of Night!
Antipathist of Light!
Fate's only essence! primal
scorpion rod!

The one permitted opposite of God!

Condensed blackness and abysmal storm

Compacted to one sceptre

Arms the Grasp enorm,—
The Intercepter,-

The Substance that still casts the shadow
Death!-

The Dragon foul and fell,

The unrevealable,

And hidden one, whose breath

Gives wind and fuel to the fires of Hell !—
Ah! sole despair

Of both the eternities in Heaven!
Sole interdict of all-bedewing prayer,
The all-compassionate!

Save to the Lampads Seven Reveal'd to none of all the Angelic State, Save to the Lampads Seven

That watch the throne of Heaven!

SANCTI DOMINICI PALLIUM;

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN POET AND FRIEND,

Found Written on the Blank Leaf at the beginning of
Butler's Book of the Church.

POET.

NOTE the moods and feelings men betray,

And heed them more than aught they do or say;

The lingering ghosts of many a secret deed

Still-born or haply strangled in its birth; These best reveal the smooth man's inward creed !

These mark the spot where lies the treasure Worth!

made up of impudence and trick,

With cloven tongue prepared to hiss and lick,
Rome's brazen serpent,-boldly dares discuss
The roasting of thy heart, O brave John Huss!
And with grim triumph and a truculent glee
Absolves anew the Pope-wrought perfidy,
That made an empire's plighted faith a lie,
And fix'd a broad stare on the Devil's eye,-
(Pleased with the guilt, yet envy-stung at
heart,

To stand out-master'd in his own black art!)
Yet

FRIEND.

Enough of! we're agreed,

Who now defends would then have done the

deed.

But who not feels persuasion's gentle sway, Who but must meet the proffer'd hand half way, When courteous

POET (aside).

(Rome's smooth go-between!)

FRIEND.

Laments the advice that sour'd a milky

queen,

(For "bloody" all enlighten'd men confess

An antiquated error of the press :)

Who rapt by zeal beyond her sex's bounds, With actual cautery staunch'd the Church's wounds!

And tho' he deems, that with too broad a blur
We damn the French and Irish massacre,
Yet blames them both-and thinks the Pope
might err!

What think you now? Boots it with spear and

shield

Against such gentle foes to take the field

Whose beckoning hands the mild Caduceus wield?

Still I repeat;-words lead me not astray,
When the shown feeling points a different way.
Smooth
can say grace at slander's feast,
And bless each haut-gout cook'd by monk or

priest;
Leaves the full lie on 's gong to swell,
Content with half-truths that do just as well;
But duly decks his mitred comrade's flanks,
And with him shares the Irish nation's thanks!

So much for you, my friend! who own a

Church,

And would not leave your mother in the lurch! But when a Liberal asks me what I think,Scared by the blood and soot of Cobbett's ink, And Jeffrey's glairy phlegm and Connor's foam,