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SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

COLERIDGE was perhaps the most wonderful genius of the nineteenth century. His mind was essentially philosophical, in the highest sense of the word. In all his studies, and in all his teachings, he fastened upon the leading principles involved in his subject, and traced them with a logical power and a metaphysical skill seldom equalled in any age. Doubtless, his most enduring claim to the gratitude and recollection of the world grows out of his agency in first making the English mind ac! quainted with the spiritual philosophy which has since his day, and in a great degree through his efforts, entirely supplanted the sensuous system of LOCKE and other materialists. But it is only with his life and poetry that we are now concerned.

He was born on the twentieth of October, 1773, at Ottery St. Mary's, in Devonshire, and was the youngest of eleven children. His father was a clergyman of sound learning and ability. At school, young COLERIDGE was the wonder and delight of all who knew him. Even in boyhood he was famous for his wonderful acquirements, and still more for those remark able powers of conversation which gained for him from his school-fellow, the inimitable CHARLES LAMB, the name of the "inspired charity boy." He was from the earliest age extremely fond of philosophical and theological discussions; and he pursued his studies with so much ardour that he became by far the best scholar in the school. In 1791 he was entered at Jesus College, Cambridge, which he left, however, without taking his degree. In a thoughtless mood he enlisted in the army, and astonished his fellow-soldiers by learned and eloquent lectures on Greek verse and Greek philosophy; and his careless display of his learning led to his discharge from the service and his restoration to his friends. In 1794 he published a small volume of poems, which included also some by WORDSWORTH. In common with many of the most gifted and enthusiastic young men of the time, he became greatly interested in the French revolution, then in progress, and delivered lectures at Bristol on human rights and

kindred topics involved in the events of the time. His views then were extremely radical, and were soon after entirely rejected as the offspring of heated, unthinking enthusiasm. In 1795 he married, and in 1798 went to Germany, where he spent some time in making himself familiar with the language and philosophical literature of that land of scholars. In 1800 he returned to England, and became a firm and consistent Christian, maintaining the doctrines of the evangelical churches, and devoting a great portion of his thoughts to the evolution of a system which should reconcile Philosophy and Christianity. Its great leading principles are scattered throughout his works; but he did not live to combine them into a regular system, or to set them forth as clearly and connectedly as he designed to do. For a time, and for lack of other employment, he wrote leading articles for the "London Morning Post;" and he passed the last nineteen years of his life in the family of his ardent and devoted friend, Dr. GILMAN, of Highgate. He was afflicted for a long period with most severe and painful illness, which would have crushed the mental power of inferior men; but through it all he laboured incessantly, and without "abating one jot of heart or hope." He had a large circle of friends, among whom were some of his most gifted cotemporaries, who regarded him with a reverence seldom accorded to any man: and he was in their midst a philosophic teacher, expounding the highest truths with an eloquence and persuasive beauty which PLATO might have envied. His conversation is universally acknowledged to have been of the most wonderful character. To a scholarship surpassing that of nearly all the men of his age, he added an attractive manner and a musical voice; and those who were in the habit of hearing him, have spoken of the nature and effect of his conversation, in terms which seem wild and extravagant, but which we have every reason to believe fall short of the truth.

Many critics have spoken of COLERIDGE as having promised much and accomplished.

little. But whether we look at the actual number of works he wrote, at the profound and weighty character of his productions, or at the influence he exerted upon the world, he will be found to have done more than any of his cotemporaries. His prose writings occupy some eight or ten large volumes, and contain more thought than twice the number of the works of any of his fellows. They constitute a perfect treasure of philosophical truth; and we know of no books in the language better adapted to implant the seeds of true and noble character in the heart than his. His poems are comprised in three volumes, and contain some of the most exquisitely beautiful productions which an age prolific in great poets has produced. They all exhibit a wonderfully gorgeous and powerful imagination, and a perfect command of language and its harmonies. His taste was most exquisite, and his knowledge of the spiritual, in man and in nature, clear and calm. He

was greatly in the habit of blending philosophy with poetry, and the tragedy of "Remorse" is a most admirable philosophical development of his conception of the nature of conscience, as well as a powerful production of the imagination and the poetic faculty.

The life of COLERIDGE is uniformly described as having been adorned by the sweetest temper and all the social virtues. The late distinguished WASHINGTON ALLSTON, who was for a considerable period his intimate associate, declared his disposition to be angelic. He was a close and ardent friend, a profound scholar, and in every respect a great and good man. "Poetry," he said, "has been to me 'its own exceeding great reward:' it has soothed my afflictions; it has multiplied and refined my enjoyments; it has endeared solitude; and it has given me the habit of wishing to discover the good and the beautiful in all that meets and surrounds me." He died on the twenty-third of July, 1834.

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DEJECTION.

WELL!-if the bard was weather-wise, who made
The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,
This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence
Unroused by winds that ply a busier trade
Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes,—
Or the dull sobbing draft that moans and rakes
Upon the strings of this Eolian lute,
Which better far were mute!
For lo! the new moon, winter-bright!
And, overspread with phantom-light,
(With swimming phantom-light o'erspread,
But rimm'd and circled by a silver thread,)

I see the old moon in her lap-foretelling

The coming on of rain and squally blast. And oh! that even now the gust were swelling, And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast! Those sounds-which oft have raised me, whilst they awed,

And sent my soul abroad,—
Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give,
Might startle this dull pain-and make it move
and live!

A grief without a pang-void, dark, and drear-
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassion'd grief,
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,
In word, or sigh, or tear :-

Oh, lady in this wan and 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,

And its peculiar tint of yellow-green;
And still I gaze-and with how blank an eye!
And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars,
That give away their motion to the stars-

Those stars, that glide behind them or between,
Now sparkling, now bedimm'd, but always seen-
Yon crescent moon, as fix'd as if it grew
In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue-
I see them all so excellently fair,

I see, not feel, how beautiful they are!
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!

Oh, 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, allow'd
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!
Oh, pure of heart! thou needest 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, seem'd 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

From my own nature all the natural man,— This was my sole resource-my only plan: Till that which suits a part infects the whole, And now is almost grown the habit of my soul. Hence! viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,Reality's dark dream!

I turn from you; and listen to the wind,

Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream Of agony, by torture lengthen'd out, [without,That lute sent forth! Thou wind, that ravest Bare crag, or mountain-tarn, or blasted tree, Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb, Or lonely house long held the witches' home, Methinks, were fitter instruments for thee! Mad lutanist! who, in this month of showers, Of dark-brown gardens and of peeping flowers, Makest devils' yule, with worse than wintry song, The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among! Thou actor, perfect in all tragic sounds! Thou mighty poet, e'en to frenzy bold !

What tell'st thou now about?

"Tis of the rushing of a host in rout, With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds

At once they groan with pain and shudder with the cold!

But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence! And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, With groans, and tremulous shudderings—all is over!

It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and A tale of less affright,

And temper'd with delight,

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Visit her, gentle sleep! with wings of healing!

And may this storm be but a mountain-birth! May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling, Silent as though they watch'd the sleeping earth! With light heart may she rise,

Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,

Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice! To her may all things live, from pole to pole,Their life the eddying of her living soul!

Oh, simple spirit! guided from above.— Dear lady!-friend devoutest of my choice,Thus mayst thou ever, evermore rejoice!

YOUTH AND AGE.

VERSE, a breeze mid blossoms straying,, Where hope clung feeding like a beeBoth were mine! Life went a-maying, With nature, hope and poesy,

When I was young!

When I was young?—Ah, woful 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 flash'd 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,— Naught 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;— Oh! the joys that came down, shower-like, Of friendship, love and liberty, Ere I was old!

Ere I was old?-Ah, woful ere,

Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!
Oh, 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 toll'd:-
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 alter'd 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 housemates still!
Dew-drops are the gems of morning,

But the tears of mournful eve!
Where no hope is, life's a warning
That only serves to make us grieve,
When we are old!
That only serves to make us grieve,
With oft and tedious taking leave,-
Like some poor, nigh-related guest,
That may not rudely be dismiss'd,
Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while,
And tells the jest-without the smile!

RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER.

IN SEVEN PARTS

PART I.

Ir is an ancient mariner,

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And he stoppeth one of three.

By thy long gray beard and glittering eye, Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?

"The bridegroom's doors are open'd wide, And I am next of kin ;

The guests are met, the feast is set;
May'st hear the merry din."

He holds him with his skinny hand:

"There was a ship," quoth he. "Hold off! unhand me, greybeard loon!" Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

He holds him with his glittering eye-
The wedding-guest stood still,
And listens like a three year's child:
The mariner hath his will.

The wedding-guest sat on a stone;
He cannot chuse but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed mariner.

"The ship was cheer'd, the harbour clear'd, Merrily did we drop

Below the kirk, below the hill,

Below the light-house top.

"The sun came up upon the left,
Out of the sea came he;

And he shone bright, and on the right
Went down into the sea.

"Higher and higher every day,

Till over the mast at noon"-
The wedding-guest here beat his breast,
For he heard the loud bassoon.

The bride hath paced into the hall,
Red as a rose is she;
Nodding their heads before her goes
The merry minstrelsy.

The wedding-guest he beat his breast,
Yet he cannot chuse but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed mariner.

"And now the storm-blast came, and he
Was tyrannous and strong:
He struck with his o'ertaking winds,
And chased us south along.

"With sloping masts and dipping prow,
As who pursued with yell and blow
Still treads the shadow of his foe,

And forward bends his head,

The ship drove fast, loud roar'd the blast,
And southward aye we fled.

"And now there came both mist and snow, And it grew wonderous cold:

And ice, mast-high, came floating by,
As green as emerald.

"And through the drifts the snowy clift Did send a dismal sheen:

Nor shapes of men nor beasts we kenThe ice was all between.

"The ice was here, the ice was there,

The ice was all around:

It crack'd and growl'd, and roar'd and howl'd, Like noises in a swound!

"At length did cross an Albatross ;

Through the fog it came;

As if it had been a Christian soul,
We hail'd it in God's name.

"It ate the food it ne'er had eat,
And round and round it flew.
The ice did split with a thunder-fit;

The helmsman steer'd us through! "And a good south wind sprung up behind; The Albatross did follow,

And every day, for food or play,

Came to the mariner's hollo!

"In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, It perch'd for vespers nine;

Whilst all the night, through fog-smoke white, Glimmer'd the white moonshine."

"God save thee, ancient mariner !

From the fiends that plague thee thus !— Why look'st thou so?"- With my cross-bow I shot the Albatross!"

PART II.

"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 mariner's hollo!
"And I had done an hellish thing,
And it would work 'em woe:
For all averr'd I had kill'd 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:

They all averr'd I had kill'd 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 stream'd off free:

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

"Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,
"T was sad as sad could be;
And we did speak only to break
The silence of the sea!

«All in a hot and copper sky,

The bloody sun, at noon, Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the moon.

«Day after day, day after day,

We stuck, nor breath nor motion, As idle as a painted ship

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Upon a painted ocean.

Water, water, every where,

And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to drink.

«The very deep did rot: O Christ!
That ever this should be!
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs
Upon the slimy sea.

"About, about, in reel and rout

The death-fires danced at night; The water, like a witch's oils,

Burnt green, and blue, and white.

"And some in dreams assured were

Of the spirit that plagued us so: Nine fathom deep he had follow'd us From the land of mist and snow.

"And every tongue, through utter drought, Was wither'd at the root;

We could not speak, no more than if
We had been choak'd with soot.

"Ah! well-a-day! what evil looks
Had I from old and young!

Instead of the cross, the Albatross
About my neck was hung."

PART III.

"THERE pass'd a weary time. Each throat
Was parch'd, and glazed each eye.

A weary time! a weary time!
How glazed each weary eye!

When, looking westward, I beheld
A something in the sky.

"At first it seem'd a little speck,

And then it seem'd a mist:

It moved and moved, and took at last
A certain shape, I wist.

"A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!
And still it near'd and near'd:
And as if it dodged a water-sprite,
It plunged and tack'd and veer'd.

"With throat unslack'd, with black lips baked,
We could not laugh nor wail;
Through utter drought all dumb we stood!
I bit my arm, I suck'd the blood,

And cried, A sail! a sail!

"With throat unslack'd, with black lips baked,
Agape they heard me call:
Gramercy! they for joy did grin,
And all at once their breath drew in,

As they were drinking all.

"See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more!
Hither to work us weal;
Without a breeze, without a tide,

She steddies with upright keel!

"The western wave was all a flame,
The day was well nigh done!
Almost upon the western wave
Rested the broad bright sun;

When that strange shape drove suddenly
Betwixt us and the sun.

"And straight the sun was fleck'd with bars, (Heaven's mother send us grace !)

As if through a dungeon grate he peer'd,
With broad and burning face.

"Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) How fasts she nears and nears!

Are those her sails that glance in the sun,
Like restless gossameres?

"Are those her ribs through which the sun
Did peer, as through a grate?
And is that woman all her crew?
Is that a Death? and are there two?
Is Death that woman's mate?

"Her lips were red, her looks were free,
Her locks were yellow as gold:
Her skin was as white as leprosy,
The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she,
Who thicks man's blood with cold.

"The naked hulk alongside came,
And the twain were casting dice;
The game is done! I've won, I've won!'
Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

"A gust of wind sterte up behind

And whistled through his bones; Through the holes of his eyes and the hole of his mouth,

Half-whistles and half-groans.

"The sun's rim dips; the stars rush out:
At one stride comes the dark;

With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea,
Off shot the spectre-bark.

"We listen'd and look'd sideways up!

Fear at my heart, as at a cup,

My life-blood seem'd to sip!

The stars were dim, and thick the night,
The steersman's face by his lamp gleam'd white;
From the sails the dews did drip-

Till clombe above the eastern bar
The horned moon, with one bright star
Within the nether tip.

"One after one, by the star-dogg'd moon,
Too quick for groan or sigh;

Each turn'd his face with a ghastly pang,
And cursed me with his eye.

"Four times fifty living men,

(And I heard nor sigh nor groan,) With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, They dropp'd down one by one.

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