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. Till memory each form shall bring O skill'd with magic spell to roll The thrilling tones, that concentrate the soul! 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, 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 We hoped to hear his voice In accents sweet lisping his mother's name; We hoped he would have knelt We thought he would have trod We hoped he would have proved, Yet let us cease our sighs: For he has pass'd from darkness into light, 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, My group's a little bit too large; Oh! there's Sir Charles; I'm certain he And should he choose, let none refuse, No wonder that he can't decide Don't stoop like that, my sweetest Rose; I wish Kate's ancles wer'n't so thick; How are you, dear Sir Charles, so near 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 Bess plays the lute, Ann the guitar, "I'm musical," Sir Charles replied, And took his hat, and hem'd and sigh'd; ENIGMA. From an anonymous volume of poems published some years ago. I'm reckon'd only fifty-yet for centuries have been 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 usher in the morning light, yet shun the face of day; And reft of me, ah! changed how soon were beauty's sweetest smiles. I lurk within the brilliant glance that flashes from her eye- ear, And mingle in the rising blush which tells that love is dear. 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, Ghost of Mæcenas! hide thy blushing face! O, for shame return! On a bleak rock, midway the Aonian Mount, Th' illustrious brows of Scotch Nobility! |