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stopping to make personal inquiries about his health, and to express their anxiety that he should make a lenghthened stay amongst them.”—Tait's Mag. By the English Opium Eater.

“ As a great poet, and still greater philosopher, the world has hardly yet done justice to the genius of Coleridge. It was, in truth, not of an order to be appreciated in a brief space. A far longer life than that of Coleridge shall not suffice to bring to maturity the harvest of a renown like his. The ripening of his mind, with all its golden fruitage, is but the seed-time of his glory. The close and consummation of his labours (grievous to those that knew him, and even to those that knew him not,) is the mere commencement of his eternity of fame. As a poet, Coleridge was unquestionably great; as a moralist, a theologian, and a philosopher, of the very highest class, he was utterly unapproachable. As a poet Coleridge has done enough to show how much more he might and could have done, if he had so thought fit. It was truly said of him, by an excellent critic, and accomplished judge, . Let the dullest clod that ever vegetated, provided only he be alive and hears, be shut up in a room with Coleridge, or in a wood, and subjected for a few minutes to the ethereal influence of that wonderful man's monologue, and he will begin to believe himself a poet. The barren wilderness may not blossom like the rose; but it will seem, or rather feel to do so, under the lustre of an imagination exhaustless as the sun.

At the house of the attached friend, under whose roof this illustrious man spent the latter years of his life, it was the custom to have a conversazione every Thursday evening. Here Coleridge was the centre and admiration of the circle that gathered round him. He could not be otherwise than aware of the intellectual homage of which he was the object; yet there he sate, talking and looking all sweet, and simple, and divine things, the very personification of meekness and humility. Now he spoke of passing occurrences, or of surrounding objects—the flowers on the table, or the dog on the hearth ; and enlarged in st familiar-wise on the beauty of the one, the attachment, the almost moral nature of the other, and the wonders that were involved in each, And now, soaring upwards with amazing majesty, into those sublime regions in which his soul delighted, and abstracting himself from the things of time and sense, the strength of his wing soon carried him out of sight. And here, even in these his eagle flights, although the eye in gazing after him was dazzled and blinded, yet ever and anon a sunbeam would make its way through the loopholes of the mind, giving it to discern that beautiful amalgamation of heart and spirit, that could equally raise him above his fellow-men, or bring him down again to the softest level of humanity.”The Metropolitan.

“ Coleridge was a philosopher, a poet, and, what was infinitely better, a sincere and zealous Christian. Both by the endowments of nature and the acquisitions of study, he was fitted to take the highest station in the literature of his country, could he have subdued a constitutional indolence of character, which made him always rest satisfied with doing just enough for the day that was passing over him, and no more. He would discourse volumes of rich and various philosophy, pouring forth exuberant strains of mind, with no more effort than it costs an ordinary man to talk about the loose matters that are constantly floating on the surface of life, in their way to speedy oblivion ; but it was a hard task to get him

to write even a pamphlet. Hence, while his acknowledged productions are comparatively few, considering how early he commenced author, he was a large contributor (from necessity) to newspapers and periodicals, of short, perishable articles, upon purely temporary topics, which could be finished at a sitting, and which, when finished, procured him prompt means supplying his immediate wants. Had he possessed application equal to his mental activity (which was prodigious, for he seemed made of thought), the world would have possessed treasures which are now placed beyond its reach for ever."-Canterbury Magazine.

DEDICATION.

TO TIE REVEREND GEORGE COLERIDGE, OF

OTTERY ST. MARY, DEVON.

Notus in fratres animi paterni.

Hor. Carm. Lib. II. 2.

A blessed lot hath he, who having past
His youth and early manhood in the stir
And turmoil of the world, retreats at length,
With cares that move, not agitate the heart,
To the same dwelling where his father dwelt;
And haply views his tottering little ones
Embrace those aged knees and climb that lap,
On which first kneeling his own infancy
Lisp'd its brief prayer. Such, O my earliest friend!
Thy lot, and such thy brothers too enjoy.
At distance did ye climb life's upland road,
Yet cheer'd and cheering: now fraternal love
Hath drawn you to one centre. Be your days
Holy, and blest and blessing may ye live!

To me th’ Eternal Wisdom hath dispens'd

A different fortune and more different mind-
Me from the spot where first I sprang to light,
Too soon transplanted, ere my soul had fix'd
Its first domestic loves; and hence through life
Chasing chance-started friendships. A brief while
Some have preserv'd me from life's pelting ills ;
But, like a tree with leaves of feeble stem,
If the clouds lasted, or a sudden breeze
Ruffled the boughs, they on my head at once
Dropt the collected shower: and some most false,
False and fair-foliag'd as the manchineel,
Have tempted me to slumber in their shade
E'en mid the storm; then breathing subtlest damps,
Mix'd their own venom with the rain from heaven,
That I woke poison'd! But, all praise to Him
Who gives us all things, more have yielded me
Permanent shelter: and beside one friend,
Beneath th' impervious covert of one oak,
I've rais'd a lowly shed, and know the names
Of husband and of father; nor unhearing
Of that divine and nightly-whispering voice,
Which from my childhood to maturer years
Spake to me of predestinated wreaths,
Bright with no fading colours !

Yet at times My soul is sad, that I have roam'd through life Still most a stranger, most with naked heart At mine own home and birth-place: chiefly then, When I remember thee, my earliest friend ! 'Thee, who didst watch my boy-hood and my youth ;

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