'Tis hard on Bagshot Heath to try
Unclosed to keep the weary eye;
But ah! Oblivion's nod to get
In rattling coach is harder yet.
Slumbrous God of half-shut eye!
Who lovest with limbs supine to lie;
Soother sweet of toil and care
Listen, listen to my prayer;
And to thy votary dispense
Thy soporific influence!

What tho' around thy drowsy head
The seven-fold cap of night be spread,
Yet lift that drowsy head awhile
And yawn propitiously a smile;
In drizzly rains poppean dews

90

O'er the tired inmates of the Coach

Curst road! whose execrable way Was darkly shadow'd out in Milton's lay,

(When the sad fiends thro' Hell's sulphureous roads

Took the first survey of their new abodes;

Or when the fall'n Archangel fierce Dared through the realms of Night to

pierce,

That lead'st th' oblivious soul astrayThough thou sphere-descended be→→ Hence away!

Thou mightier Goddess, thou demand'st my lay,

Born when earth was seized with
cholic;

Or as more sapient sages say,
What time the Legion diabolic

Compell'd their beings to enshrine
In bodies vile of herded swine,
Precipitate adown the steep

With hideous rout were plunging
in the deep,

And hog and devil mingling grunt and yell

Seized on the ear with horrible obtrusion ;

Then if aright old legendaries tell,

Wert thou begot by Discord on Confusion!

What though no name's sonorous power
Was given thee at thy natal hour!—
Yet oft I feel thy sacred might,
While concords wing their distant flight.
Such power inspires thy holy son

Sable clerk of Tiverton.
And oft where Otter sports his stream,
I hear thy banded offspring scream.
Thou Goddess! thou inspir'st each
throat;

'Tis thou who pour'st the scritch-owl note !

Transported hear'st thy children all Scrape and blow and squeak and squall, And while old Otter's steeple rings, Clappest hoarse thy raven wings!

Yet here her pensive ghost delights to stay;

Oft pouring on the winds the broken lay

And hark, I hear her—'twas the passing blast.

I love to sit upon her tomb's dark grass, Then Memory backward rolls Time's shadowy tide;

The tales of other days before me glide :

With eager thought I seize them as they pass;

For fair, tho' faint, the forms of Memory gleam,

Like Heaven's bright beauteous bow reflected in the stream. ? 1790.

ONCE could the Morn's first beams, the healthful breeze,

Anna haste,

hour :

But ah! not Music's self, nor fragrant bower

Can glad the trembling sense of wan disease.

Now that the frequent pangs my frame assail,

Now that my sleepless eyes are sunk and dim,

And seas of pain seem waving through each limb

Ah what can all Life's gilded scenes avail?) I view the crowd, whom youth and health inspire,

Hear the loud laugh, and catch the sportive lay,

Then sigh and think-I too could laugh and play

And gaily sport it on the Muse's lyre, Ere Tyrant Pain had chased away delight, Ere the wild pulse throbb'd anguish thro' the night!

? 1790.

ON A LADY WEEPING
IMITATION FROM THE LATIN OF
NICOLAUS ARCHIUS

LOVELY gems of radiance meek
Tumbling down my Laura's cheek,
As the streamlets silent glide
Thro' the meads' enamell'd pride,
Pledges sweet of pious woe,

Tears which Friendship taught to flow,
Sparkling in yon humid light
Love embathes his pinions bright:
There amid the glitt'ring show'r
As some winged Warbler oft

When spring-clouds shed their treasures soft

Joyous tricks his plumes anew,
And flutters in the fost'ring dew.
MS.

? 1790.

Nodding their heads in all the pomp

of woe :

Wide scatter round each deadly weed, And let the melancholy dirge complain, (Whilst bats shall shriek and dogs shall howling run)

His tea-kettle is spoilt and Coleridge is undone !

Your cheerful song, ye unseen crickets,

cease!

Let songs of grief your alter'd minds engage!

For he who sang responsive to your lay,

What time the joyous bubbles 'gan to play,

The sooty swain has felt the fire's fierce rage ;

Yes, he is gone, and all my woes increase;

I heard the water hissing from the wound

No more the Tea shall throw its fragrant steam around!

O Goddess best beloved! Delightful

Tea!

With whom compar'd what yields the madd'ning Wine?

Sweet power! that know'st to spread

the calm delight,

And the pure joy prolong to midmost

night!

Ah! must I all thy various charms

resign?

Enfolded close in grief thy form I see No more wilt thou expand thy willing

arms,

Receive the fervent Jove, and yield him all thy charms!

How low the mighty sink by Fate opprest!-

Perhaps, O Kettle! thou by scornful

toe

Rude urg'd t' ignoble place with plaintive din,

May'st rust obscure midst heaps of vulgar tin;

When from thy spout the stream did

arching flow,

ere then

On me thy icy dart, stern Death, be proved ;

All the warm raptures of poetic fire!

But hark or do I fancy Georgian voice

'What tho' its form did wondrous charms disclose

(Not such did Memnon's sister sable drest)

Take these bright arms with royal face imprest,

A better Kettle shall thy soul rejoice, And with Oblivion's wing o'erspread thy woes!'

Thus Fairy Hope can soothe distress and toil;

On empty Trivets she bids fancied Kettles boil!

1790.

ON RECEIVING AN ACCOUNT THAT HIS ONLY SISTER'S DEATH WAS INEVITABLE

THE tear which mourn'd a brother's fate scarce dry

Pain after pain, and woe succeeding

woe

Is my heart destined for another blow? O my sweet sister! and must thou too die?

Ah! how has Disappointment pour'd the tear

O'er infant Hope destroy'd by early frost! How are ye gone, whom most my soul held dear!

Scarce had I loved you ere I mourn'd you lost;

Say, is this hollow eye, this heartless pain,

Fated to rove thro' Life's wide cheerless

plain

Nor father, brother, sister meet its ken

1790.

ON SEEING A YOUTH AFFECTIONATELY WELCOMED BY A SISTER

I TOO a sister had! too cruel Death! How sad remembrance bids my bosom heave!

Tranquil her soul, as sleeping Infant's breath;

Meek were her manners as a vernal Eve.

Knowledge, that frequent lifts the bloated mind,

Gave her the treasure of a lowly breast, And Wit to venom'd Malice oft assign'd,

Dwelt in her bosom in a Turtle's nest. Cease, busy Memory! cease to urge the dart;

Nor on my soul her love to me impress!

For oh I mourn in anguish-and my heart

Feels the keen pang, th' unutterable

distress.

Yet wherefore grieve I that her sorrows

cease,

For Life was misery, and the Grave is Peace! ? 1792.

A MATHEMATICAL PROBLEM

If Pegasus will let thee only ride him, Spurning my clumsy efforts to o'erstride him, Some fresh expedient the Muse will try, And walk on stilts, although she cannot fly. TO THE REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE DEAR BROTHER,

I have often been surprised that Mathematics, the quintessence of Truth, should have found admirers so few and