the same but by negatives-that is, by not doing or saying any thing, that might be put down for fond, silly, or nonsensical; -or (to use their own phrase) by never forgetting themselves, which some of their acquaintance are uncharitable enough to think the most worthless object they could be employed in remembering.

Eliz. (in answer to a whisper from Katharine). To a hair! He must have sate for it himself. Save me from such folks! But they are out of the question.

Fri. True! but the same effect is produced in thousands by the too general insensibility to a very important truth; this, namely, that the MISERY of human life is made up of large masses, each separated from the other by certain intervals. One year, the death of a child; years after, a failure in trade; after another longer or shorter interval, a daughter may have married unhappily ;-in all but the singularly unfortunate, the integral parts that compose the sum total of the unhappiness of a man's life, are easily counted, and distinctly remembered. The HAPPINESS of life, on the contrary, is made up of minute fractions the little, soon-forgotten charities of a kiss, a smile, a kind look, a heartfelt compliment in the disguise of playful raillery, and the countless other infinitesimals of pleasurable thought and genial feeling.

Kath. Well, Sir; you have said quite enough to make me despair of finding a 'John Anderson, my Jo, John', with whom to totter down the hill of life.

Fri. Not so! Good men are not, I trust, so much scarcer than good women, but that what another would find in you, you may hope to find in another. But well, however, may that boon be rare, the possession of which would be more than an adequate reward for the rarest virtue.

Eliz. Surely, he, who has described it so well, must have possessed it?

Fri. If he were worthy to have possessed it, and had believingly anticipated and not found it, how bitter the disappointment!

(Then, after a pause of a few minutes),

ANSWER, ex improviso

Yes, yes! that boon, life's richest treat
He had, or fancied that he had;
Say, 'twas but in his own conceit-
The fancy made him glad!

Crown of his cup, and garnish of his dish!
The boon, prefigured in his earliest wish,
The fair fulfilment of his poesy,

When his young heart first yearn'd for sympathy! But e'en the meteor offspring of the brain Unnourished wane;

Faith asks her daily bread,

And Fancy must be fed!

Now so it chanced-from wet or dry,
It boots not how-I know not why-

10

She missed her wonted food; and quickly
Poor Fancy stagger'd and grew sickly.

Then came a restless state, 'twixt yea and nay,
His faith was fix'd, his heart all ebb and flow;
Or like a bark, in some half-shelter'd bay,
Above its anchor driving to and fro.

That boon, which but to have possess'd
In a belief, gave life a zest

Uncertain both what it had been,
And if by error lost, or luck;
And what it was;-an evergreen

Which some insidious blight had struck,
Or annual flower, which, past its blow,
No vernal spell shall e'er revive;
Uncertain, and afraid to know,

Doubts toss'd him to and fro:

Hope keeping Love, Love Hope alive,
Like babes bewildered in a snow,
That cling and huddle from the cold
In hollow tree or ruin'd fold.

Those sparkling colours, once his boast
Fading, one by one away,

Thin and hueless as a ghost,

Poor Fancy on her sick bed lay;

Ill at distance, worse when near,

Telling her dreams to jealous Fear!

40

Where was it then, the sociable sprite

That crown'd the Poet's cup and deck'd his dish!

Poor shadow cast from an unsteady wish,

Itself a substance by no other right

But that it intercepted Reason's light;

+5

It dimm'd his eye, it darken'd on his brow,
A peevish mood, a tedious time, I trow!
Thank Heaven! 'tis not so now.

O bliss of blissful hours!

The boon of Heaven's decreeing,

While yet in Eden's bowers

50

Dwelt the first husband and his sinless mate!

The one sweet plant, which, piteous Heaven agreeing,
They bore with them thro' Eden's closing gate!

Of life's gay summer tide the sovran Rose !
Late autumn's Amaranth, that more fragrant blows
When Passion's flowers all fall or fade;

55

If this were ever his, in outward being,
Or but his own true love's projected shade,

Now that at length by certain proof he knows,
That whether real or a magic show,
Whate'er it was, it is no longer so;
Though heart be lonesome, Hope laid low,
Yet, Lady! deem him not unblest:
The certainty that struck Hope dead,
Hath left Contentment in her stead:
And that is next to Best!

1827.

60

65

TO MARY PRIDHAM1
[AFTERWARDS MRS. DERWENT COLERIDGE]

DEAR tho' unseen! tho' I have left behind
Life's gayer views and all that stirs the mind,
Now I revive, Hope making a new start,
Since I have heard with most believing heart,
That all my glad eyes would grow bright to see,
My Derwent hath found realiz'd in thee,

5

1 First published in 1893. Lines 7-10 are borrowed from lines 5-8 of the 'Answer ex improviso', which forms part of the Improvisatore (11. 7, 8 are transposed). An original MS. is inscribed on the first page of an album presented to Mrs. Derwent Coleridge on her marriage, by her husband's friend, the Reverend John Moultrie. The editor of P. W., 1893, printed from another MS. dated Grove, Highgate, 15th October, 1827.

Title] To Mary S. Pridham MS. S. T. C.

1-3 Dear tho' unseen! tho' hard has been my lot

5

And rough my path thro' life, I murmur not

Rather rejoice- MS. S. T. C.

That all this shaping heart has yearned to see MS. S. T. C.

The boon prefigur'd in his earliest wish
Crown of his cup and garnish of his dish!
The fair fulfilment of his poesy,

When his young heart first yearn'd for sympathy!
Dear tho' unseen! unseen, yet long portray'd!

A Father's blessing on thee, gentle Maid!

16th October 1827.

S. T. COLERidge.

10

ALICE DU CLOS1

OR THE FORKED TONGUE

BALLAD

'One word with two meanings is the traitor's shield and shaft: and a slit tongue be his blazon!'-Caucasian Proverb.

6

THE Sun is not yet risen,

But the dawn lies red on the dew:

Lord Julian has stolen from the hunters away,

Is seeking, Lady! for you.

Put on your dress of green,

Your buskins and your quiver;

Lord Julian is a hasty man,

5

Long waiting brook'd he never.

I dare not doubt him, that he means
To wed you on a day,

Your lord and master for to be,

And you his lady gay.

O Lady! throw your book aside!

I would not that my Lord should chide.'

Thus spake Sir Hugh the vassal knight
To Alice, child of old Du Clos,

First published in 1834. The date of composition cannot be ascer tained. The MS., an early if not a first draft, is certainly of late date. The water-marks of the paper (Bath Post) are 1822 and 1828. There is a second draft (MS. b) of lines 97-112. Line 37, 'Dan Ovid's mazy tale of loves,' may be compared with line 100 of The Garden of Boccaccio, 'Peers Ovid's Holy Book of Love's sweet smart,' and it is probable that Alice Du Clos was written about the same time, 1828-9. In line 91 'Ellen' is no doubt a slip of the pen for 'Alice'.

8 his] the MS. S. T. C.
Title] Alice Du Clós: or &c. MS.

his] the MS. S. T. C.

As spotless fair, as airy light

As that moon-shiny doe,

The gold star on its brow, her sire's ancestral crest
For ere the lark had left his nest,

She in the garden bower below
Sate loosely wrapt in maiden white,
Her face half drooping from the sight,
A snow-drop on a tuft of snow!

O close your eyes, and strive to see
The studious maid, with book on knee,-
Ah! earliest-open'd flower;

While yet with keen unblunted light
The morning star shone opposite

The lattice of her bower

Alone of all the starry host,
As if in prideful scorn

Of flight and fear he stay'd behind,
To brave th' advancing morn.

O! Alice could read passing well,
And she was conning then

Dan Ovid's mazy tale of loves,

And gods, and beasts, and men.

The vassal's speech, his taunting vein,
It thrill'd like venom thro' her brain;
Yet never from the book

20

5

30

35

She rais'd her head, nor did she deign
The knight a single look.

40

'Off, traitor friend! how dar'st thou fix
Thy wanton gaze on me?

45

And why, against my earnest suit,
Does Julian send by thee?

19-25

Her sires had chosen for their Crest

A star atwixt its brow,

For she, already up and drest

Sate in the garden bower below.
For she enwrapt in

Enwrapt in robe of Maiden white

face half drooping

Her visage drooping

from the sight

A snow-drop in a tuft of snow

Ere the first lark had left the nest

Sate in the garden bower below. MS. erased.