which, I know he will open to me? But it is better to give than to receive; and I was a very patient hearer, and docile scholar, in our winter evening meetings at Mr May's; was I not, Coleridge? What I have owed to thee, my heart can ne'er forget.

I discern a possibility of my paying you a visit next week. May I, can I, shall I, come so soon? Have you room for me, leisure for me? and are you pretty well? Tell me all this honestly-immediately. And by what day coach could I come soonest and nearest to Stowey? A few months hence may suit you better; certainly me, as well. If so, say so. I long, I yearn, with all the longings of a child do I desire to see you, to come among you to see the young philosopher, to thank Sara for her last year's invitation in person to read your tragedy-to read over together our little book-to breathe fresh air-to revive in me vivid images of "Salutation scenery." There is a sort of sacrilege in my letting such ideas slip out of my mind and memory. Still that Richardson remaineth—a thorn in the side of Hope, when she would lean towards Stowey. Here I will leave off, for I dislike to fill up this paper (which involves a question so connected with my heart and soul) with meaner matter, or subjects to me less interesting. I can talk, as I can think, nothing else.

Thursday.

C. LAMB.

[July, 1797]. I am scarcely yet so reconciled to the loss of you, or so subsided into my wonted uniformity of feeling, as to sit calmly down to think of you and write to you. But I reason myself into the belief that those few and pleasant holidays shall not have been spent in vain. I feel improvement in the recollection of many a casual conversation. The names of Tom Poole, of Wordsworth and his good sister, with thine and Sara's, are become "familiar in my mouth as household words." You would make me very happy if you think W. has no objection, by transcribing for me that inscription of his. I have some scattered sentences ever floating on my memory, teasing me that I cannot remember more of it. You may believe I will make no improper use of it. Believe me I can think now of many subjects on which I had planned gaining information from you; but I forgot my "treasure's worth" while I possessed it. Your leg is now become to me a matter of much more importance; and many a little thing, which when I was present with you seemed scarce to indent my notice, now presses painfully on my remembrance. Is the Patriot come? Are Wordsworth and his sister gone yet? I was looking out for John Thelwall all the way from Bridgewater; and had I met him, I think it would have moved almost me to tears. You will oblige me, too, by sending me my great-coat, which I left behind in the oblivious state the mind is thrown into at parting. Is it not ridiculous that I sometimes envy that great-coat lingering so cunningly behind! At present I have none : so send it to me by a Stowey waggon, if there be such a thing, directing for C. L., No. 45, Chapel Street, Pentonville, near London. But above all, that Inscription! It will recall to me the tones of all your voices, and with them many a remembered kindness to one who could and can repay

you all only by the silence of a grateful heart. I could not talk much while I was with you; but my silence was not sullenness, nor I hope from any bad motive; but, in truth, disuse has made me awkward at it. I know I behaved myself, particularly at Tom Poole's, and at Cruikshank's, most like a sulky child; but company and converse are strange to me. It was kind in you all to endure me as you did.

Are you and your dear Sara-to me also very dear, because very kind-agreed yet about the management of little Hartley? And how go on the little rogue's teeth? I will see White to-morrow and he shall send you information on that matter; but as perhaps I can do it as well, after talking with him, I will keep this letter open.

My love and thanks to you and all of

you.

C. L.

Wednesday Evening.

XXIX.

TO THE SAME

Sept. 1797.

WRITTEN A TWELVEMONTH AFTER THE EVENTS [Friday next, Coleridge, is the day on which my Mother died]

ALAS! how I am chang'd! Where be the tears,
The sobs, and forc'd suspensions of the breath,
And all the dull desertions of the heart,

With which I hung o'er my dead mother's corse?
Where be the blest subsidings of the storm
Within, the sweet resignedness of hope
Drawn heavenward, and strength of filial love,
In which I bow'd me to my father's will?
My God, and my Redeemer ! keep not thou
My soul in brute and sensual thanklessness
Seal'd up; oblivious ever of that dear grace,
And health restor'd to my long-loved friend,
Long-lov'd, and worthy known. Thou didst not leave
Her soul in death! O leave not now, my Lord,
Thy servants in far worse, in spiritual death!
And darkness blacker than those feared shadows

Of the valley all must tread. Lend us thy balms,

Thou dear Physician of the sin-sick soul,
And heal our cleansed bosoms of the wounds

With which the world has pierc'd us thro' and thro'.
Give us new flesh, new birth. Elect of heav'n
May we become; in thine election sure

Contain'd, and to one purpose stedfast drawn,
Our soul's salvation !

Thou, and I, dear friend,

With filial recognition sweet, shall know
One day the face of our dear mother in heaven,
And her remember'd looks of love shall greet
With looks of answering love; her placid smiles
Meet with a smile as placid, and her hand
With drops of fondness wet, nor fear repulse.
Be witness for me, Lord, I do not ask

Those days of vanity to return again,

(Nor fitting me to ask, nor thee to give).

Vain loves and wanderings with a fair-hair'd maid,
Child of the dust as I am, who so long

My captive heart steep'd in idolatry

And creature-loves. Forgive me, O my Maker!

If in a mood of grief I sin almost

In sometimes brooding on the days long past,
And from the grave of time wishing them back,
Days of a mother's fondness to her child,

Her little one.

O where be now those sports,
And infant play-games? where the joyous troops
Of children, and the haunts I did so love?

O my companions, O ye loved names

Of friend, or playmate dear; gone are ye now.
Gone divers ways; to honour and credit some;
And some, I fear, to ignominy and shame!
I only am left, with unavailing grief
To mourn one parent dead, and see one live
Of all life's joys bereft and desolate :
Am left with a few friends, and one, above
The rest, found faithful in a length of
Contented as I may, to bear me on
To the not unpeaceful evening of a day
Made black by morning storms!

years,

The following I wrote when I had returned from Charles Lloyd, leaving him behind at Burton, with Southey. To understand some of it, you must remember that at that time he was very much perplexed

in mind.

A stranger, and alone, I pass those scenes
We past so late together; and my heart
Felt something like desertion, as I look'd

Around me, and the pleasant voice of friend
Was absent, and the cordial look was there
No more to smile on me. I thought on Lloyd-
All he had been to me! And now I go
Again to mingle with a world impure?
With men who make a mock of holy things,
Mistaken, and on man's best hope think scorn.
The world does much to warp the heart of man ;
And I may sometimes join its idiot laugh:
Of this I now complain not.
Deal with me,
Omniscient Father, as Thou judgest best,
And in Thy season, soften Thou my heart.
I pray not for myself: I pray for him

Whose soul is sore perplexed. Shine Thou on him,
Father of lights! and in the difficult paths

Make plain his way before him: his own thoughts
May he not think-his own ends not pursue-
So shall he best perform Thy will on earth.
Greatest and Best, Thy will be ever ours!

The former of these poems I wrote with unusual celerity t'other morning at office. I expect you to like it better than any thing of mine; Lloyd does, and I do myself.

You use Lloyd very ill, never writing to him. I tell you again that his is not a mind with which you should play tricks. He deserves more tenderness from you.

For myself, I must spoil a little passage of Beaumont and Fletcher's to adapt it to my feelings :

"I am prouder

That I was once your friend, tho' now forgot,
Than to have had another true to me."

If
you don't write to me now, as I told Lloyd, I shall
get angry, and call you hard names-Manchineel, and
I don't know what else. I wish you would send me
my great-coat. The snow and the rain season is at
hand, and I have but a wretched old coat, once my
father's, to keep 'em off, and that is transitory.

"When time drives flocks from field to fold,
When ways grow foul and blood gets cold,"