Puslapio vaizdai
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LOVE'S APPARITION AND EVANISHMENT.

AN ALLEGORIC ROMANCE.

LIKE a lone Arab, old and blind
Some caravan had left behind
Who sits beside a ruin'd well,

Where the shy sand-asps bask and swell;
And now he hangs his aged head aslant,
And listens for a human sound-in vain!

And now the aid, which Heaven alone can grant,
Upturns his eyeless face from Heaven to gain :-
Even thus, in vacant mood, one sultry hour,
Resting my eye upon a drooping plant,
With brow low bent, within my garden bower,
I sate upon the couch of camomile ;

And-whether 'twas a transient sleep, perchance,
Flitted across the idle brain, the while

I watch'd the sickly calm with aimless scope,
In my own heart; or that, indeed a trance,
Turn'd my eye inward-thee, O genial Hope,
Love's elder sister! thee did I behold,

Drest as a bridesmaid, but all pale and cold,
With roseless cheek, all pale and cold and dim
Lie lifeless at my feet!

And then came Love, a sylph in bridal trim,
And stood beside my seat;

She bent, and kissed her sister's lips,
As she was wont to do ;-

Alas! 'twas but a chilling breath
Woke just enough of life in death

To make Hope die anew.

Anxious to associate the name of a most dear and honored friend with my own, I solicited and obtained the permission of Professor J. H. GREEN to permit the insertion of the two following poems, by him composed.

S. T. COLERIDGE.

MORNING INVITATION TO A CHILD.

THE house is a prison, the school-room's a cell;
Leave study and books for the upland and dell;

Lay aside the dull poring, quit home and quit care;
Sally forth! Sally forth! Let us breathe the fresh air!
The sky dons its holiday mantle of blue;

The sun sips his morning refreshment of dew;
Shakes joyously laughing his tresses of light,

And here and there turns his eye piercing and bright;
Then jocund mounts up on his glorious car,

With smiles to the morn,-for he means to go far;—
While the clouds, that had newly paid court at his levee,
Spread sail to the breeze, and glide off in a bevy.
Tree, and tree-tufted hedge-row, and sparkling between
Dewy meadows enamelled in gold and in green,
With king-cups and daisies, that all the year please,
Sprays, petals, and leaflets, that nod in the breeze,
With carpets, and garlands, and wreaths, deck the way,
And tempt the blithe spirit still onward to stray,
Itself its own home;-far away! far away!

The butterflies flutter in pairs round the bower;
The humble-bee sings in each bell of each flower;
The bee hums of heather and breeze-wooing hill,
And forgets in the sunshine his toil and his skill;
The birds carol gladly!—the lark mounts on high;
The swallows on wing make their tune to the eye,
And as birds of good omen, that summer loves well,
Ever wheeling weave ever some magical spell.
The hunt is abroad :-hark! the horn sounds its note,
And seems to invite us to regions remote.

The horse in the meadow is stirred by the sound,

And neighing impatient o'erleaps the low mound;

Then proud in his speed o'er the champaign he bounds,

To the whoop of the huntsmen and tongue of the hounds.

Then stay not within, for on such a blest day

We can never quit home, while with Nature we stray; far away,

far away!

CONSOLATION OF A MANIAC.

THE feverous dream is past! and I awake,
Alone and joyless in my prison-cell,

Again to ply the never-ending toil,

And bid the task-worn memory weave again
The tangled threads, and ravell'd skein of thought
Disjointed fragments of my care-worn life!
The mirror of my soul,-ah! when again
To welcome and reflect calm joy and hope!—
Again subsides, and smooths its turbid swell,
Late surging in the sweep of frenzy's blast,—
And the sad form of scenes and deeds long past
Blend into spectral shapes and deathlike life,
And pass in silent, stern procession !—
The storm is past; but in the pause and hush,
Nor calm nor tranquil joy, nor peace are mine;
My spirit is rebuk'd !—and like a mist,
Despondency, in gray cold mantle clad,
In phantom form gigantic floats!-

That dream,

That dream, that dreadful dream, the potent spell,
That calls to life the phantoms of the past,-

Makes e'en oblivion memory's register,

Still swells and vibrates in my throbbing brain!
Again I wildly quaff'd the maddening bowl,
Again I stak'd my all-again the die

Prov'd traitor to my hopes ;-and 'twas for her,

Whose love more madden'd than the bowl, whose love,

More dear than all, was treacherous as the die :-
Again I saw her with her paramour,

Again I aim'd the deadly blow, again

I senseless fell, and knew not whom I struck,
Myself, or her, or him :-I heard the shriek,
And mingled laugh, and cry of agony :
I felt the whirl of rapid motion,—
And hosts of fiendish shapes, uncertain seen
In murky air, glared fiercely as I pass'd ;-

They welcom'd me with bitter laughs of scorn, They pledged me in the brimming cup of hate.

But stay your wild career, unbridled thoughts,
Or frenzy must' unseat my reason's sway,—
Again give license to my lawless will!-
And yet I know not, if that demon rout
Be fancy stirred by passion's power, or true ;-
Or life itself be but a shadowy dream,
The act and working of an evil will!—
Dread scope of phantasy and passion's power!
Oh God! take back the boon, the precious gift
Of will mysterious.-Give me, give again,
The infliction dire, fell opiate of my griefs;
Sharp wound, but in the smart the panoply
And shield against temptations, that assail
My weak and yielding spirit !-Madness come!
The balm to guilt, the safeguard from remorse,
Make me forget, and save me from myself!

A CHARACTER.

A BIRD, who for his other sins
Had liv'd amongst the Jacobins ;
Tho' like a kitten amid rats,
Or callow tit in nest of bats,
He much abhorr'd all democrats;
Yet nathless stood in ill report

Of wishing ill to Church and Court,
Tho' he'd nor claw, nor tooth, nor sting,
And learnt to pipe God save the King;
Tho' each day did new feathers bring,
All swore he had a leathern wing;
Nor polish'd wing, nor feather'd tail,
Nor down-clad thigh would aught avail;
And tho' his tongue devoid of gall-
He civilly assur'd them all :—
A bird am I of Phoebus' breed,
And on the sunflower cling and feed ;

My name, good Sirs, is Thomas Tit!"
The bats would hail him brother cit,
Or, at the furthest, cousin-german.
At length the matter to determine,
He publicly denounced the vermin;
He spared the mouse, he prais'd the owl;
But bats were neither flesh nor fowl.
Blood-sucker, vampire, harpy, goul,
Came in full clatter from his throat,
Till his old nest-mates chang'd their note
To hireling, traitor, and turncoat,-
A base apostate who had sold

His very teeth and claws for gold ;—
And then his feathers!-sharp the jest―
No doubt he feather'd well his nest!
A Tit indeed! aye, tit for tat-
With place and title, brother Bat,
We soon shall see how well he'll play
Count Goldfinch, or Sir Joseph Jay!

Alas, poor Bird! and ill-bestarred—
Or rather let us say, poor Bard!
And henceforth quit the allegoric
With metaphor and simile,

For simple facts and style historic :

Alas, poor

Bard! no gold had he

Behind another's team he stept,

And plough'd, and sow'd, while others reapt;
The work was his, but theirs the glory,

Sic vos non vobis, his whole story.
Besides, whate'er he wrote or said
Came from his heart as well as head;
And tho' he never left in lurch
His king, his country, or his church,
'Twas but to humor his own cynical
Contempt of doctrines Jacobinical ;
To his own conscience only hearty,
'Twas but by chance he serv'd the party;-
The self-same things had said and writ,
Had Pitt been Fox, and Fox been Pitt;

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