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SONNET.

APRIL, 1793.

WHOSE was that gentle voice, that whispering
sweet,

Promised methought long days of bliss sincere ?
Soothing it stole on my deluded ear,

Most like soft music, that might sometimes cheat
Thoughts dark and drooping! "Twas the voice of
hope.

Of love, and social scenes, it seem'd to speak,
Of truth, of friendship, of affection meek;
That, O! poor friend, might to life's downward
slope

Lead us in peace, and bless our latest hours.

Ah me! the prospect sadden'd as she sung;
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!"

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As o'er these hills I take my silent rounds,
Still on that vision which is flown I dwell!
On images I loved (alas, how well!)
Now past, and but remember'd like sweet sounds
Of yesterday! yet in my breast I keep

Such recollections, painful though they seem,
And hours of joy retrace, till from my dream
I wake, and find them not: then I could weep
To think that time so soon each sweet devours;

To think so soon life's first endearments fail,
And we are still misled by hope's smooth tale!
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!

SONNET.

NETLEY ABBEY.

FALL'N pile! I ask not what has been thy fate; But when the weak winds, wafted from the main,

SONNET.

O HARMONY! thou tenderest nurse of pain,
If that thy note's sweet magic e'er can heal
Griefs which the patient spirit oft may feel,
O! let me listen to thy songs again,

Till memory her fairest tints shall bring,
Hope wake with brighter eye, and listening seem
With smiles to think on some delightful dream,

That waved o'er the charm'd sense its gladsome

wing:

For when thou leadest all thy soothing strains
More smooth along, the silent passions meet
In one suspended transport, sad and sweet,

And naught but sorrow's softest touch remains,
That, when the transitory charm is o'er,
Just wakes a tear, and then is felt no more.

SONNET.
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
stream,

As with the songs of joyance and of hope
The hedge-rows shall ring loud, and on the slope
The poplars sparkle in the transient beam;
The shrubs and laurels which I loved to tend,

Thinking their May-tide fragrance might delight,
With many a peaceful charm, thee, my best friend,
Shall put forth their green shoot, and cheer the

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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
To take thee to his mercy: thou didst go
In youth and beauty, go to thy death-bed;
E'en whilst on dreams of bliss we fondly fed,
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

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(Though sometimes the unbidden thought must
start,

And half unman the miserable heart)
The cold dew I shall wipe from my ad brow,
And say, since hopes of bliss on earth are vain,
"Best friend, farewell, till we do meet again?"

SONNET.

ON REVISITING OXFORD.

I NEVER hear the sound of thy glad bells,
Oxford and chime harmonious, but I say
(Sighing to think how time has worn away,)
"Some spirit speaks in the sweet tone that swells

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Didst soothe me, bidding my poor heart rejoice, Though smitten sore: O, I did little think That thou, my friend, wouldst the first victim fall To the stern king of terrors! thou didst fly, By pity prompted, at the poor man's cry; And soon thyself wert stretch'd beneath the pall, Livid infection's prey. The deep distress

Of her, who best thy inmost bosom knew,

To whom thy faith was vow'd, thy soul was true, What powers of faltering language shall express As friendship bids, I feebly breathe my own, And sorrowing say, "Pure spirit, thou art gone!"

SONNET.

ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. WILLIAM BENWELL.

THOU camest with kind looks, when on the brink Almost of death I strove, and with mild voice

* The following elegant inscription to the memory of this amiable and excellent young man is prefixed to the chancel of Caversham church, near Reading, and does merely justice to the many valuable qualifications of him whose virtues and graces it records :

Near this Chancel are deposited The Remains of the REV. WILLIAM BENWELL, Late Fellow of Trinity College, Oxford, Who died of a contagious fever, the consequence of his charitable endeavours to relieve and comfort the inhabitants of the village in which he resided. From early youth

He was remarkable for correctness of taste,
and variety of knowledge;
Simple, modest, and retired;

In manners and conversation he possessed a natural grace; a winning courtesy, truly expressive of the heavenly serenity of his mind, and of the meekness, lowliness and benevolence of his heart.

To his Relations, and to his Companions whom he loved, he was most tenderly and consistently affectionate: To the poor a zealous friend, a wise and patient instructer; By his mildness cheering the sorrowful;

And, by the pure and amiable sanctity which beamed in his countenance, repressing the licentious. Habitually pious,

He appeared in every instance of life
to act, to speak, and to think,

as in the sight of God.

He died Sept. 6th, 96, in his 32d year: His soul pleased the LORD, therefore hasted He to take

him away. This Tablet was erected to his Memory, with heartfelt grief, and the tenderest affection,

By PENELOPE, eldest daughter of JOHN LOVEDAY, Esq.; and PENELOPE his wife,

Who, after many years of the most ardent friendship, became his wife and his widow in the course of eleven weeks!"

SONNET.

WRITTEN AT MALVERN, JULY 11, 1793.

I SHALL behold far off thy towering crest,
Proud mountain! from thy heights as slow I stray
Down through the distant vale my homeward way,
I shall behold, upon thy rugged breast,
The parting sun sit smiling: me the while
Escaped the crowd, thoughts full of heaviness
May visit, as life's bitter losses press
Hard on my bosom: but I shall "beguile
The thing I am," and think, that e'en as thou
Dost lift in the pale beam thy forehead high,
Proud mountain! (whilst the scatter'd vapours fly
Unheeded round thy breast,) so, with calm brow,
The shades of sorrow I may meet, and wear
The smile unchanged of peace, though prest by care!

SONNET.

ON REVIEWING THE FOREGOING. SEPT. 21, 1797.
I TURN these leaves with thronging thoughts, and

say,

"Alas! how many friends of youth are dead,
How many visions of fair hope have fled,
Since first, my muse, we met:"-So speeds away
Life, and its shadows; yet we sit and sing,
Stretch'd in the noontide bower, as if the day
Declined not, and we yet might trill our lay

Beneath the pleasant morning's purple wing
That fans us, while aloft the gay clouds shine!
O, ere the coming of the long cold night,
RELIGION, may we bless thy purer light,
That still shall warm us, when the tints decline
O'er earth's dim hemisphere, and sad we gaze
On the vain visions of our passing days!

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

the French government, in aid of their plans of invasion.

nied Sir Alexander Ball, governor of Malta, as his secretary; and, on his return from this employment, became entitled to a pension. This so far improving his circumstances as to leave him at full liberty to pursue his literary designs, he engaged in the publication of a variety of works, and delivered two public courses of lectures, one on the plays of Shakspeare, and another on poetry and the belles lettres, which gained him a reputation for considerable oratorical powers. In 1813, he pub

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE was born at Bris- | maps with which he was reported to have supplied tol, about 1770, where he received the earliest portion of his education. He was afterwards sent to 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 which 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 Theocritus 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 persua1792. 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 some other young men, he entered into a scheme, which want of means alone prevented them from putting into execution, for settling on the Susquehannah river, in North America, under a pantisocratic form of society. About 1794, he retired to Alforton, in Somersetshire, where he was joined by his friend Wordsworth, with whom he passed his time in literary pursuits, and in wandering about the Quantock hills, with such an air of mystery, 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, poetical 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, to be called The Brook, which, had he finished, it was his intention to have dedicated to the committeo of public safety, as containing the charts and

he wrote, during the peace of Amiens, essays for The Morning Post and Courier. Mr. Fox is said to have pointed his allusion to these contributions, when he declared, that the war, which fol520

lowed the above treaty, was a war raised by The Morning Post. Whilst Mr. Coleridge was staying at Rome, Bonaparte is said to have sent an order for his arrest, from which he was rescued, partly, by the forbearance of the late pope, Pius the Seventh. Our poet, however, has never displayed any evidence of his having been guided by any fixed political creed; and he altogether disowns, as was hinted by The Morning Chronicle, that he ever bettered his fortune by his labours as a political writer. Indeed, it is as a poet only that he will be known by posterity; however zealously his friends may labour to procure a reputation for him as the founder of a sect in morals or philosophy. The chief fault of Coleridge's poetry lies in the style, which has been justly objected to on account of its obscurity, general turgidness of diction, and a profusion of new-coined double epithets. With regard to its obscurity, he says, in the preface to a late edition of his poems, that where he appears unintelligible," the deficiency is in the reader." This is nothing more or less than to suppose his readers endowed with the powers of divination; for we defy any one who is not in the confidence of the au

thor upon this subject, to solve the riddle which is appended as a conclusion to Christabel. He might as well attribute deficiency of capacity to a beholder of his countenance, who should fail, in its workings, to discover the exact emotions of his mind; for Mr. Coleridge has afforded no clearer clue to the generality of his poetical arcana. This is particularly manifest in his singularly wild and striking poem of The Ancient Mariner, on which he is said to have written the following epigram, addressed to himself:

"Your poem must eternal be, Dear sir! it cannot fail; For, 'tis incomprehensible,

And without head or tail."

Mr. Coleridge is unquestionably at the head of the Lake school of poetry, and excels all his fraternity of that class in feeling, fancy, and sublimity. Some of his minor poems will bear comparison with those of the bards of this or any other age or country; and his verses on Love appear to us the most touching, delicate, and beautiful delineation of that passion that ever was penned.

SIBYLLINE LEAVES.

I. POEMS OCCASIONED BY POLITICAL EVENTS OR FEELINGS CONNECTED WITH THEM.

When I have borne in memory what has tamed
Great nations, how ennobling thoughts depart
When men change swords for legers, and desert
The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed
I had, my country! Am I to be blamed ?
But, when I think of thee, and what thou art,
Verily, in the bottom of my heart,
Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.
But dearly must we prize thee; we who find
In thee a bulwark of the cause of men;

And I by my affection was beguiled.
What wonder if a poet, now and then,
Among the many movements of his mind,
Felt for thee as a lover or a child.

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who died of an apoplexy on the 17th of November, 1790; having just concluded a subsidiary treaty with the kings combined against France. The first and second antistrophe describe the image of the departing year, etc. as in a vision. The second epode prophesies, in anguish of spirit, the downfall of this country.

SPIRIT who sweepest the wild harp of time!
It is most hard with an untroubled ear
Thy dark inwoven harmonies to hear!
Yet, mine eye fix'd on heaven's unchanging clime,
Long when I listen'd, free from mortal fear,

With inward stillness, and submitted mind;
When lo! its folds far waving on the wind,

I saw the train of the departing year!

Starting from my silent sadness,

Then with no unholy madness,

Ere yet the enter'd cloud foreclosed my sight,

I raised th' impetuous song, and solemnized his

flight.

II.

Hither, from the recent tomb,

From the prison's direr gloom,

From distemper's midnight anguish ;

And thence, where poverty doth waste and languish,
Or where, his two bright torches blending,
Love illumines manhood's maze;
Or where, o'er cradled infants bending,
Hope has fix'd her wishful gaze,
Hither, in perplexed dance,

Ye woes! ye young-eyed joys! advance!
By time's wild harp, and by the hand
Whose indefatigable sweep
Raises its fateful strings from sleep,

I bid you haste, a mix'd, tumultuous band!
From every private bower,

And each domestic hearth,
Haste for one solemn hour;

And with a loud and yet a louder voice,
O'er nature struggling in portentous birth
Weep and rejoice!

Still echoes the dread name that o'er the earth
Let slip the storm, and woke the brood of hell:
And now advance in saintly jubilee
Justice and truth! They too have heard thy spell,
They too obey thy name, divinest Liberty!
III.

I mark'd Ambition in his war array!

I heard the mailed monarch's troublous cry"Ah! wherefore does the northern conqueress stay!

Groans not her chariot on its onward way?"
Fly, mailed monarch, fly!

Stunn'd by death's twice mortal mace,
No more on murder's lurid face

Th' insatiate hag shall gloat with drunken eye!
Manes of the unnumber'd slain!

Ye that gasp'd on Warsaw's plain!

Ye that erst at Ismail's tower, When human ruin choked the streams,

Fell in conquest's glutted hour,

'Mid women's shrieks and infant's screams! Spirits of the uncoffin'd slain,

Sudden blasts of triumph swelling, Oft, at night, in misty train,

Rush around her narrow dwelling! The exterminating fiend is fled

(Foul her life, and dark her doom)— Mighty armies of the dead

Dance like death-fires round her tomb!
Then with prophetic song relate,
Each some tyrant murderer's fate!

IV.

Departing year! 'twas on no earthly shore
My soul beheld thy vision! where alone,
Voiceless and stern, before the cloudy throne,
Aye Memory sits: thy robe inscribed with gore,
With many an unimaginable groan

Thou storied'st thy sad hours! Silence ensued,
Deep silence o'er th' ethereal multitude,
Whose locks with wreaths, whose wreaths with
glories shone,

Then, his eye, wild ardours glancing,
From the choired gods advancing,

The Spirit of the earth made reverence meet,
And stood up, beautiful, before the cloudy seat.

V.

Throughout the blissful throng,
Hush'd were harp and song:

Till wheeling round the throne the Lampads seven (The mystic words of heaven)

Permissive signal make:

But chief by Afric's wrongs,

Strange, horrible, and foul!
By what deep guilt belongs

To the deaf synod, 'full of gifts and lies!"
By wealth's insensate laugh! by torture's howl!
Avenger, rise!

For ever shall the thankless island scowl,
Her quiver full, and with unbroken bow?
Speak! from thy storm black heaven, O speak aloud!
And on the darkling foe

Open thine eye of fire from some uncertain cloud!
O dart the flash! O rise and deal the blow!
The past to thee, to thee the future cries!
Hark! how wide nature joins her groans below!
Rise, God of nature! rise."

VI.

The voice had ceased, the vision fled;
Yet still I gasp'd and reel'd with dread.
And ever, when the dream of night
Renews the phantom to my sight,
Cold sweat-drops gather on my limbs;
My ears throb hot; my eyeballs start;
My brain with horrid tumult swims;

Wild is the tempest of my heart;
And my thick and struggling breath
Imitates the toil of death!
No stronger agony confounds

The soldier on the war-field spread,
When all foredone with toil and wounds,
Death-like he dozes among heaps of dead!
(The strife is o'er, the daylight fled,
And the night-wind clamours hoarse!
See the starting wretch's head

Lies pillow'd on a brother's corse!)
VII.

Not yet enslaved, not wholly vile,
O Albion! O my mother isle!
Thy valleys, fair as Eden's bowers,
Glitter green with sunny showers;
Thy grassy uplands' gentle swells

Echo to the bleat of flocks,
(Those grassy hills, those glittering dells
Proudly ramparted with rocks ;)
And ocean, 'mid his uproar wild,
Speaks safely to his island child!
Hence, for many a fearless age
Has social quiet loved thy shore!
Nor ever proud invader's rage

Or sack'd thy towers, or stain'd thy fields with gore

VIII.

Abandon'd of Heaven! mad avarice thy guide, At cowardly distance, yet kindling with pride'Mid thy herds and thy corn-fields secure thou hast stood,

The fervent spirit bow'd, then spread his wings And join'd the wild yelling of famine and blood!

and spake !

"Thou in stormy blackness throning
Love and uncreated light,

By the earth's unsolaced groaning,
Seize thy terrors, Arm of might!
By peace with proffer'd insult scared,
Masked hate and envying scorn!
By years of havoc yet unborn!

And hunger's bosom to the frost winds bared!

The nations curse thee! They with eager wondering
Shall hear destruction, like a vulture, scream!
Strange-eyed destruction! who with many a
dream

Of central fires through nether seas upthundering
Soothes her fierce solitude; yet, as she lies
By livid fount, or red volcanic stream,
If ever to her lidless dragon-eyes,
O Albion! thy predestined ruins rise,

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