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Oh painting! purest, tend'rest touch,

Still keep our Eden free; Sculpture and Poetry must yield

Fame's greenest palm to thee.


Down, down through by-gone ages,

More distant, yet more far, When first from dome of heaven

Shone forth the morning star,
That sent rejoicing earthward

A ray, a hallowed line,
That caught the breath immortal

From out the source divine,-
Has never ceased to vibrate

Through nature's wide domain, The soul of song that charmeth,

And never charms in vain. It sought the rocky hollow,

The pine on mountain steep, The ocean's rippling wavelet,

Then pressed the billows deep, The human heart first finding,

To bard brought forth the shell, Who stretched the chords most willing

That all his soul might tell.
His tale of love most tender

He told to nymphs around
Till burst the shell from rapture,

And then the lyre was found;
The listening muse stood waiting,

And made the lyre her throne, When hero, saint and lover

Claimed lyrics all their own; But where the band of shadows

That touched the hallowed strings ? Go ask the trees and flowers,

The mountains, rocks and springs. The answer!—“None have left us;

The lyre her bard holds dear, While heart and wave have motion

The soul of song is here."

SWEET “Forget-me-not” under the snow,
Cold is thy bloom that a few hours ago
Blended the yellow of sunshine and light,
With purpling shadows of fast coming night.
Deem not thy perfume was lost on the breeze,
That summer soft wafted of thought and heart's-

Flower still sacred to memory dear,
Of light and of shadow, of smile and of tear.
Many the friends low buried from sight,
Whose life shadows deepened to darkness of night;
Too early gone, they speak with us yet,
For their earth-life is with us, we never forget.

Still “ Forget-me-not,” softly we hear;
'Tis the loved and the lost whispering near;
We too, when we die, would not be forgot,
But e'er plead from the past, “Forget-me-not.”


Bark, the frailest on the sea,
Can you, can you tell to me,
Where's the strength thou claim'st to hide,
That bears thee on 'gainst wind and tide?
Where are the oars, and where the sail?
Where the anchor for the gale?
Bark the frailest on the sea,
What's thy treasure? tell to me.

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were abundantly blessed of God. His prayer, that God would not withdraw His Spirit, and that he might be able to evince his faith in Christ, was fully answered. His preparations for death were made long in advance, and his dying wish, that he might be as little interrupted as possible, was fully complied with. A handsome tablet has been erected in Highgate New Church, to his memory.

N. L. M.




OLERIDGE, the metaphysician, as he has

been called, was born in 1773, in Ottery St. Mary, Devonshire, England, the son of a clergy

He received his education at Jesus College, and at Christ's Hospital. Upon his leaving college he enlisted as a common soldier in the dragoons, taking the name of Comberback. He did not long remain, however, and in connection with this, an interesting anecdote is related.

He was first known to the public by some lines inserted in Southey's “Joan of Arc," and when in 1796 a collection of his poems were published, he at once became famous. His drama, “The Fall of Robespierre,” came out soon after, followed by his “Ode to the Departing Year,” and “ Years in Solitude,” (1798). About that time he was introduced to Southey and Lovell, when the three started in to revolutionize the world by a series of lectures, beginning at Bristol, with Coleridge's lecture on the happiness of the human race, by means of republicanism. These lectures, which at first were enthusiastically received, lost their popularity and were discontinued. Another volume of poems appeared at this time, and proving a financial success, Coleridge decided to appropriate those funds to the propagation of his theory in America, under the name of Pantisocracy. Alas! cupid, in the disguise of the Frick sisters, here interfered and left America to darkness. Fortunately the Frick sisters numbered three, and the trio, Coleridge, Southey and Lovell, were brought into closer relation by marriage ties. With greater demands upon his purse, Coleridge found difficulty in making his pen provide sufficient for his needs, and the result was financial embarrassment, from which he was most fortunately relieved by the celebrated Mr. Wedgewood, who enabled him to complete his studies in Germany.

After his return home, he wrote the leading articles for the Morning Post, translated some dramas of Schiller's, and accompanied Sir Alexander Ball, as secretary, to Malta. On his return from Malta, he produced a tragedy called “Remorse,” which raised him to a much higher altitude of fame than any of his preceeding productions. He now took up his residence on the borders of one of the lakes in Cumberland and here was written “Chistabel." For nineteen years previous to his death, Coleridge resided in Hampstead with two old and valued friends; and here, one Friday in July, 1834, he breathed his last, and was laid to rest in the vault of Highgate Church, on the end of August. His last days, though full of suffering,

Low was our pretty cot! our tallest rose
Peeped at the chamber-window. We could hear
At silent noon, and eve, and early morn,
The sea's faint murmur. In the open air
Our myrtles blossomed; and across the porch
Thick jasmins twined: the little landscape round
Was green and woody and refreshed the eye.
It was a spot, which you might aptly call
The Valley of Seclusion! Once I saw
(Hallowing his Sabbath-day by quietness)
A wealthy son of commerce saunter by,
Bristowa's citizen: methought, it calmed
His thirst of idle gold, and made him muse
With wiser feelings: for he paused, and looked
With a pleased sadness, and gazed all around
Then eyed our cottage, and gazed round again,
And sighed, and said, It was a blessed place.
And we were blessed. Oft with patient ear
Long-listening to the viewless sky-lark's note
(Viewless, or haply for a moment seen
Gleaming on sunny wing)— 'And such,' I said
"The inobtrusive song of happiness,
Unearthly minstrelsy! then only heard
When the soul seeks to hear; when all is hushed
And the heart listens!'

But the time, when first
From that low dell steep up the stony mount,
I climbed with perilous toil and reached the top,
Oh what a goodly scene! Here the bleak mount,
The bare bleak mountain speckled thin with sheep;
Gray clouds, that shadowing spot the sunny fields
And river, now with bushy rocks o'erbrowed,
Now winding bright and full, with naked banks;
And seats, and lawns, the abbey, and the wood,
And cots, and hamlets, and faint city-spire:
The Channel there, the islands and white sails,
Dim coasts, and cloud-like hills, and shoreless


It seemed like omnipresence! God, methought,
Had built him there a temple: the whole world
Seemed imaged in its vast circumference.
No wish profaned my overwhelmed heart.
Blest hour! it was a luxury—to be!

Around his brows a beamy wreath

Of many a lucent hue; All purple glowed his cheek, beneath,

Inebriate with dew.

I softly seized th' unguarded power,

Nor scared his balmy rest; And placed him, caged within the flower,

On spotless Sara's breast.

But when unweeting of the guile

Awoke the pris'ner sweet, He struggled to escape awhile

And stamped his fairy feet.

Ah quiet dell! dead cot! and mount sublime!
I was constrained to quit you. Was it right,
While my unnumbered brethren toiled and bled,
That I should dream away the entrusted hours
On rose-leaf beds, pamp'ring the coward heart
With feelings all to delicate for use?
Sweet is the tear that from some Howard's eye
Drops on the cheek on one he lifts from earth:
And he, that works me good with unmoved face,
Does it but half: he chills me while he aids,
My benefactor, not my brother man!
Yet even this, this cold beneficence
Seizes my praise, when I reflect on those,
The sluggard Pity's vision-weaving tribe!
Who sigh for wretchedness, yet shun the wretched,
Nursing in some delicious solitude
Their slothful loves and dainty sympathies!
I therefore go, and join head, heart and hand,
Active and firm, to fight the bloodless fight
Of science, freedom, and the truth in Christ.
Yet oft when after honorable toil
Rests the tired mind, and waking loves to dream,
My spirit shall revisit thee, dear cot!
Thy jasmin and thy window-peeping rose,
And myrtles fearless of the mild sea-air.
And I shall sigh fond wishes-sweet abode!
Ah-had none greater! and that all had such!

Ah! soon the soul-entrancing sight

Subdued th' impatient boy! He gazed! he thrilled with deep delight!

Then clapped his wings for joy.

And oh! he cried—'Of magic kind

What charms this throne endear! Some other Love let Venus find

I'll fix my empire here.'



How long will ye round me be swelling,

O ye blue-tumbling waves of the sea ? Not always in caves was my dwelling,

Nor beneath the cold blast of the tree. Thro' the high-sounding halls of Cathlóma

In the steps of my beauty I stray'd; The warriors beheld Ninathóma,

And they blessed the white-bosomed maid! A ghost! by my cavern it darted!

In moon-beams the spirit was drestFor lovely appear the departed

When they visit the dreams of my rest! But disturbed by the tempest's commotion

Fleet the shadowy forms of delightAh, cease, thou shrill blast of the ocean!

To howl through my cavern by night.

CUPID, if storying legends tell aright,
Once framed a rich elixir of delight.
A chalice o'er love-kindled Aames he fixed,
And in it nectar and ambrosia mixed;
With these the magic dews which evening brings,
Brushed from the Idalian star by fairy wings:
Each tender pledge of sacred faith he joined,
Each gentler pleasure of th' unspotted mind-
Day-dreams, whose tints with sportive brightness

And hope, the blameless parasite of woe.
The eyeless chemist heard the process rise,
The steamy chalice bubbled up in sighs;
Sweet sounds transpired as when the enamoured

dove Pours the soft murmuring of responsive love. The finished work might envy vainly blame, And “kisses” was the precious compound's name. With half, the god his Cyprian mother blest, And breathed on Sara's lovelier lips the rest.




As late each flower that sweetest blows

I plucked, the garden's pride! Within the petals of a rose

A sleeping Love I spied.

I FEAR thee, ancient Mariner!

I fear thy skinny hand! And thou art long, and lank, and brown,

As is the ribbed sea-sand.

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