by the quarrymen, passed within eighty yards to the west; while it is certain that the brook below, when swollen by winter rains, might be loud enough to be heard from the copse. This crag is known as Coldwell or Caudwell Crag, and is situated about half a mile eastsouth-east of the High Crag.

"It has this much in its favour, that a wall of considerable age crests its summit, and one can whilst sitting down on a rock close behind it be sheltered from the north and east, and yet obtain an extensive view of the subadjacent country. If it were certain that the ponies when they got to Pullwyke did not go up towards Water Barngates, and so to Hawkshead, then there is no crag in the district which would so thoroughly answer to all the needs of the boys, and to all the points of description the poet has placed on record.

"But it is just this IF that makes me decide on the Pullwyke Crag-the one first described-as being the actual spot to which, scout-like, the schoolboys clomb, on that eventful 'eve of their dear holidays;' while, at the same time, it is my firm conviction that Wordsworth—as he painted the memories of that event-had also before his mind's eye the scene as viewed from Coldwell and High Crag."

NOTE VIII.-COLERIDGE'S LINES TO WORDSWORTH ON HEARING "THE PRELUDE" RECITED AT COLEORTON IN 1806.

The following is a copy of a version of these Lines, sent by Coleridge to Sir George Beaumont, at Dunmow, Essex, in January, 1807. The variations, both in the title and in the text, from that which Coleridge finally adopted, are interesting in many ways:

LINES

To William Wordsworth: Composed for the greater part on the same night after the finishing of his recitation of the Poem, in Thirteen Books, on the growth of his own mind.

O FRIEND! O Teacher! God's great Gift to me!

Into my Heart have I received that Lay

More than historic, that prophetic Lay

Wherein (high theme by thee first sung aright)

Of the foundations and the building up
Of thine own spirit thou hast lov'd to tell
What may be told, by words revealable :
With heavenly breathings, like the secret soul
Of vernal growth, oft quickening in the heart
Thoughts, that obey no mastery of words,
Pure Self-beholdings! Theme as hard as high,
Of Smiles spontaneous and mysterious Fear!

The first born they of Reason and twin birth!
Of tides obedient to external force,

And currents self-determin'd, as might seem,
Or by some inner power! Of moments awful,
Now in thy hidden life, and now abroad,

When power stream'd from thee, and thy soul receiv'd
The light reflected, as a light bestow'd!

Of fancies fair, and milder hours of youth,
Hybloan murmurs of poetic thought
Industrious in its joy, in vales and glens
Native or outland, Lakes and famous Hills;
Or on the lonely high-road, when the stars
Were rising; or by secret mountain streams,
The guides and the companions of thy way!
Of more than Fancy-of the SOCIAL SENSE
Distending, and of Man belov'd as Man,
Where France in all her Towns lay vibrating,
Even as a Bark becalm'd on sultry seas
Quivers beneath the voice from Heaven, the burst
Of Heaven's immediate thunder, when no cloud
Is visible, or shadow on the main !

For thou wert there, thy own brows garlanded,
Amid the tremor of a Realm aglow !

Amid a mighty nation jubilant !

When from the general Heart of Human Kind
Hope sprang forth, like an armed Deity!

Of that dear Hope afflicted and struck down,

So summon'd homeward; thenceforth calm and sure,

As from the Watch-tower of Man's absolute Self,
With light unwaning on her eyes, to look

Far on-herself a Glory to behold,

The Angel of the Vision! Then (last strain)
Of Duty, chosen Laws controlling choice,

Action and Joy !-an Orphic Tale indeed,
A Tale divine of high and passionate Thoughts,
To their own Music chaunted!—

A great Bard!

Ere yet the last strain dying awed the air,
With steadfast eyes I saw thee in the choir
Of ever-enduring men. The truly Great
Have all one age, and from one visible space
Shed influence for they, both power and act,
Are permanent, and Time is not with them,
Save as it worketh for them, they in it.
Nor less a sacred Roll, than those of old,

And to be plac'd, as they, with gradual fame

Among the Archives of Mankind, thy Work
Makes audible a linked Song of Truth,

Of Truth profound a sweet continuous Song
Not learnt, but native, her own natural notes !
Dear shall it be to every human heart,

To me how more than dearest! Me, on whom
Comfort from thee, and utterance of thy Love,
Come with such Heights and Depths of Harmony,
Such sense of Wings uplifting, that its might
Scatter'd and quell'd me, till my Thoughts became
A bodily Tumult; and thy faithful Hopes,
Thy Hopes of me, dear Friend! by me unfelt!
Were troublous to me, almost as a Voice
Familiar once and more than musical;

As a dear Woman's Voice to one cast forth,*
A Wanderer with a worn-out heart forlorn,
Mid Strangers pining with untended wounds.

O Friend! too well thou know'st, of what sad years
The long suppression had benumbed my soul,
That, even as Life returns upon the Drown'd,
The unusual Joy awoke a throng of Pains-
Keen Pangs of LOVE, awakening, as a Babe,
Turbulent, with an outcry in the Heart!

And Tears self-will'd, that shunn'd the eye of Hope,
And Hope, that scarce would know itself from Fear;
Sense of past youth, and manhood come in vain,
And Genius given and Knowledge won in vain ;
And all, which I had cull'd in wood-walks wild,
And all, which patient Toil had rear'd, and all,
Commune with THEE had open'd out-but Flowers
Strew'd on my Corse, and borne upon my Bier,
In the same Coffin, for the self-same Grave!

That way no more! and ill beseems it me,
Who came a Welcomer, in Herald's Guise,
Singing of Glory and Futurity,

To wander back on such unhealthful road
Plucking the Poisons of Self-harm ! And ill
Such intertwine beseems triumphal wreaths

Strew'd before thy advancing! Thou too, Friend!
Impair thou not the memory of that hour

Of thy Communion with my nobler mind

* Different reading on same MS.—

"To one cast forth, whose Hope had seem'd to die."

By pity or grief, already felt too long!

Nor let my words import more blame than needs.
The tumult rose and ceas'd: for Peace is nigh
Where Wisdom's voice has found a list'ning Heart.
Amid the howl of more than wintry storms
The Halcyon hears the Voice of vernal Hours,
Already on the wing!

Eve following Eve

Dear tranquil Time, when the sweet sense of Home
Is sweetest! Moments, for their own sake hail'd,
And more desired, more precious for thy Song !
In silence listening, like a devout child,
My soul lay passive, by the various strain
Driven as in surges now, beneath the stars
With momentary stars of her + own birth,
Fair constellated Foam, still darting off

*

Into the Darkness; now a tranquil Sea,
Outspread and bright, yet swelling to the Moon.

And when-O Friend! my Comforter! my Guide!
Strong in thyself and powerful to give strength !—
Thy long sustained Song finally clos'd,
And thy deep voice had ceas'd-yet thou thyself
Wert still before mine eyes, and round as both
That happy Vision of beloved Faces-
(All whom, I deepliest love-in one room all!)
Scarce conscious and yet conscious of its close
I sate, my Being blended in one Thought,
(Thought was it? or aspiration? or resolve?)
Absorb'd; yet hanging still upon the Sound-
And when I rose, I found myself in Prayer.

Jany. 1807.

S. T. COLERIDGE.

It may also be interesting to record, in this connection, that in a MS. copy of Dejection, An Ode, copied out for Sir George Beaumont on the 4th of April 1802, and sent to Sir George, then living with Lord Lowther at Lowther Hall, there is evidence that the poem was originally addressed to Wordsworth.

* I annex as an illustrative note the descriptive passage in Satyrane's first Letter; THE FRIEND, p. 220, 1. 13. “A beautiful white cloud of foam," &c.

+ Different reading on same MS., "my."

Different reading on same MS., "and."

The following lines occur in this copy which can be compared with those finally adopted

"O dearest William ! in this heartless mood,
To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd
All this long eve so balmy and serene
Have I been gazing on the western sky," &c.

"O William, we receive but what we give:
And in our life alone does Nature live."

"Yes, dearest William! Yes!

There was a time when though my Path was rough

This Joy within me dallied with distress."

The MS. copy is described by Coleridge as "imperfect ;" and it breaks off abruptly at the lines

"Suspends what Nature gave me at my birth

My shaping spirit of Imagination."

And he continues

"I am so weary of this doleful poem, that I must leave off.

Another MS. copy of this poem, amongst the Coleorton papers, is signed "S. T. Coleridge

To William Wordsworth.”

ED.

TURNBULL AND SPEARS, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.

HS