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TO W. J. H.

WHILE PLAYING ON HIS FLUTE.

A little poem by S. T. COLERIDGE not found in his collected works, but preserved and published by his friend Mr. JOSEPH COTTLE.

HUSH! ye clamorous cares! be mute.
Again, dear harmonist, again,
Through the hollow of thy flute,
Breathe that passion-warbled strain :

Till memory each form shall bring
The loveliest of her shadowy throng;
And hope that soars on skylark wing,
Carol wild her gladdest song!

O skill'd with magic spell to roll

The thrilling tones, that concentrate the soul!
Breathe through thy flute those tender notes again,
While near thee sits the chaste-eyed maiden mild;
And bid her raise the poet's kindred strain

In soft impassion'd voice, correctly wild.

In freedom's undivided dell,

Where toil and health, with mellow'd love shall dwell, Far from folly, far from men,

In the rude romantic glen,

Up the cliff, and through the glade,
Wand'ring with the dear-loved maid,
I shall listen to the lay,

And ponder on thee far away.

ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT SON.

By an obscure poet, named SYDNEY GILES, who died prematurely in the North of England about ten years ago. There was great promise in him.

WE cannot choose but weep;

He was our dearly loved, our only one;

And brightest hopes and joys are with him gone
Within the grave to sleep.

We hoped to hear his voice

In accents sweet lisping his mother's name;
We thought when summer flowers in beauty came,
He'd pluck them and rejoice.

We hoped he would have knelt
With us, to ask a blessing on our home-
That discord might not ever near us come,
Nor woe be ever felt.

We thought he would have trod
With us the fields where we delight to rove;
And we had plann'd to guide his thoughts to love
Nature, and Nature's God.

We hoped he would have proved,
For many years, our help and joy and pride;
Then taking to himself a happy bride,
Love, e'en as we have loved.

Yet let us cease our sighs:

For he has pass'd from darkness into light,
And is united with the Infinite,

The Eternal and Allwise.

CHICK WEEDS.

One of THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY'S lively and good-tempered satires.

My dear, stay here! I'm quite in fear,
Unless you all keep very near;

My group's a little bit too large;
Nine daughters are so great a charge:
And though I know, where'er we go,
The people think us quite a show;
They say (I hate satiric tricks),
Look at the hen and her nine chicks!

Oh! there's Sir Charles; I'm certain he
Will wed one of the family;

And should he choose, let none refuse,
He's not at all the match to lose.

No wonder that he can't decide
Which daughter shall become his bride,
My charming girls, I'm bound to say,
Are all so perfect in their way.

Don't stoop like that, my sweetest Rose;
Maria, dear, turn out your toes;
It gives me pain, my angel Jane,
To see your squint come back again!
Ann, what can make your nose so red?
Constantia, do hold up your head;

I wish Kate's ancles wer'n't so thick;
Bess, keep your mouth shut, there's a chick!

How are you, dear Sir Charles, so near
Your praises did you overhear?
All female hearts you seem to touch;
My sweet girls praise you over much.
Kate in particular, poor Kate

Has looked a little pale of late

Nay, now so red! Why whisper "hush!" What have I said to make her blush?

You'll come to tea, Sir Charles, you'll see
A most harmonious family.

Bess plays the lute, Ann the guitar,
Jane learns the harp of sweet Labarre;
Rose and Maria, if they're press'd,
Make use of Broadwood's very best;
Constantia sings, indeed we all
Love music-you are musical?

"I'm musical," Sir Charles replied,

And took his hat, and hem'd and sigh'd;
"I'm musical, and charmed to view
Such harmony. Dear ma'am, adieu.
Ah, what an orchestra for me
Could I wed all the family.
Farewell, temptation let me shun,
'Twould spoil the band to marry one."

ENIGMA.

From an anonymous volume of poems published some years ago.

I'm reckon'd only fifty-yet for centuries have been
In every place, in every clime, among the living seen.
Mute, though incessantly in talk, I give to silence sound,
And single 'tis my fate to be, whilst fast in wedlock bound.
The learned place me at their head, although unknown to
fame,

And eloquence itself delights to sound abroad my name.

Though plunged in guilt, the tenant of a prison's gloomy cell; Yet twice invoked, my potent aid concludes the Wizard's

spell:

I ride upon the whirlwind-point the lightning through the storm,

And mine the power, with but a word, another world to form.
I, too, alone can kindle fame, and what, indeed, is odd,
The veriest miser can prevent from making gold his God.

I usher in the morning light, yet shun the face of day;
A stranger to the voice of mirth, yet join in every play.
The fabled liquid I, with which poor Tantalus was curs'd,
For in the proffered goblet seen, I mock the wretch's thirst.
The rich secure me for their wealth, the cunning for their
wiles!

And reft of me, ah! changed how soon were beauty's sweetest smiles.

I lurk within the brilliant glance that flashes from her eye-
Rest on her ruby lip-and in her laughing dimples lie-
I breathe the first soft sound of love in the maiden's willing

ear,

And mingle in the rising blush which tells that love is dear.
I lead the laugh, I swell the glee amid the festal-hall,
But a truant from the banquet, and a laggard in the ball.

First in the martial lists I rode, with mail, and lance, and

shield,

And foremost of the line I charge upon the battle-field;

And yet though ranked among the bold, I scarcely join the

fight,

When, foul disgrace to knighthood's race, I turn at once to

flight.

From greatness thus removed, I make companionship with

evil;

And, in your ear a word, maintain alliance with the devil.

BURNS.

A specimen of COLERIDGE's satirical powers has been preserved by Mr. Cottle, the occasion, a subscription for the family of Burns. Mr. Coleridge had often, in the keenest terms, expressed his contemptuous indignation at the Scotch patrons of the poet, in making him an exciseman; so that something biting was expected. The poem was entitled, "To a Friend, who had declared his intention of writing no more Poetry." In reading the poem immediately after it was written, the rasping force which Mr. C. gave to the following concluding lines was inimitable.

Is thy Burns dead?

And shall he die unwept, and sink to earth,
Without the meed of one melodious tear?
Thy Burns, and Nature's own beloved Bard,
Who to "the illustrious of his native land,"
So properly did look for patronage.

Ghost of Mæcenas! hide thy blushing face!
They took him from the sickle and the plough—
To gauge ale-firkins!

O, for shame return!

On a bleak rock, midway the Aonian Mount,
There stands a lone and melancholy tree,
Whose aged branches to the midnight blast
Make solemn music, pluck its darkest bough,
Ere yet th' unwholesome night-dew be exhaled,
And weeping, wreathe it round thy poet's tomb:
Then in the outskirts, where pollutions grow,
Pick stinking henbane, and the dusky flowers
Of nightshade, or its red and tempting fruit;
These, with stopped nostril, and glove-guarded hand,
Knit in nice intertexture, so to twine

Th' illustrious brows of Scotch Nobility!

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