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The allegory here is so apt, that in a catalogue of various readings obtained from collating the MSS. one might expect to find it noted, that for “Life" Cod. quid habent, “Trade.” Though indeed the trade, i. e. the bibliopolic, so called, ** toxny, may be regarded as Life sansu eminentiori: a *uggestion, which I owe to a young retailer in the hosiery line, *ho on bearing a description of the net profits, dinner parties, *untry houses, etc. of the trade, exclaimed, “Ay! that's *hat I call Life now !"—This “Life, our Death,” is thus *Pily contrasted with the fruits of Authorship.–sic nos non *b* mellificamus Apes. Of this poem, with which the Fire, Famine and Slaughter appeared in the Morning Post, the three first stanzas, which **orth all the rest, and the ninth, were dictated by Mr. they. Between the ninth and the concluding stanza, two or ** are omitted as grounded on subjects that have lost their **-and for better reasons. If any one should ask, who General — meant, the Author o !” to inform him, that he did once see a red-faced per*** dream whom by the dress he took for a General; but


SINCE all, that beat about in Nature's range,
Or veer or vanish, why shouldst thou remain
The only constant in a world of change—
O yearning thought, that livest but in the brain?
Call to the hotors, that in the distance play,
The fairy people of the future day
Fond thought ! not one of all that shining swarm
Will breathe on thee with life-enkindling breath,
Till when, like strangers shelt'ring from a storm,
Hope and Despair meet in the porch of Death!
Yet still thou haunt'st me; and though well I see,
She is not thou, and only thou art she,
Still, still as though some dear embodied good,
Some living love before my eyes there stood,
With answering look a ready ear to lend,
I mourn to thee and say—"Ah! loveliest friend!
That this the meed of all my toils might be,
To have a home, an English home and thee!
Vain repetition' Home and thou art one.
The peacefull'st cot the moon shall shine upon,
Lull'd by the thrush and waken'd by the lark,
Without thee were but a becalmed Bark,
Whose helmsman on an ocean waste and wide
Sits mute and pale his mouldering helm beside.

And art thou nothing? Such thou art, as when
The woodman winding westward up the glen
At wintry dawn, where o'er the sheep-track's maze
The viewless snow-mist weaves a glist'ning haze,
Sees full before him, gliding without tread,
An imaget with a glory round its head;
The enamour'd ... worships its fair hues,
Nor knows, he makes the shadow he pursues'


ERE the birth of my life, if I wish'd it or no
No question was ask'd me—it could not be so!
If the life was the question, a thing sent to try,
And to live on be YEs; what can No be 2 to die.

NATURE's ANswer.

Is’t return'd as 't was sent? Is 't no worse for the wear?
Think first, what you ARE! Call to mind what you
wer E!
I gave you innocence, I gave you hope,
Gave health, and genius, and an ample scope.
Return you me guilt, lethargy, despair?
Make out the Invent'ry ; inspect, compare!
Then die—if die you dare :

he might have been mistaken, and most certainly he did not hear any names mentioned. In simple verity, the Author never meant any one, or indeed any thing but to put a concluding stanza to his doggerel.

f This phenomenon, which the Author has himself experienced, and of which the reader may find a description in one of the earlier volumes of the Manchester Philosophical Transactions, is applied figuratively in the following passage of the Jolids to Reflection:

“Pindar's fine remark respecting the different effects of music on different characters, holds equally true of Genius: as many as are not delighted by it are disturbed, perplexed, irritated. The beholder either recognizes it as a projected form of his orn Being, that moves before him with a Glory round its head, or recoils from it as a spectre.”—Mids to Reflection, p. 220.



I seem to have an indistinct recollection of having read either in one of the ponderous tomes of George of Venice, or in some other compilation from the uninspired Hebrew Writers, an

Apologue or Rabbinical Tradition to the following purpose: While our first parents stood before their offended Maker,

and the last words of the sentence were yet sounding in Adam's ear, the guilesul false serpent, a counterfeit and a usurper from the beginning, presumptuously took on himself the character of advocate or mediator, and pretending to intercede for Adam,

exclaimed: “Nay, Lord, in thy justice, not so : for the Man was the least in fault. to the dust, and let Adam remain in this thy Paradise.”

mercies of the wicked are cruel. guilt like thine, it had been possible for thee to have the heart of a Man, and to feel the yearning of a human soul for its counterpart, the sentence, which thou now counsellest, should have been inflicted on thyself.”

[The title of the following poem was suggested by a fact men

tioned by Linnaeus, of a Date-tree in a nobleman's garden, which year after year had put forth a full show of blossoms, but never produced fruit, till a branch from a Date-tree had been conveyed from a distance of some hundred leagues. The first leaf of the MS. from which the poem has been transcribed, and which contained the two or three introductory stanzas, is wanting: and the author has in vain taxed his memory to repair the loss.

is requested to receive it as the substitute. It is not impossible, that some congenial spirit, whose years do not exceed those of the author at the time the poem was written, may find a pleasure in restoring the Lament to its original integrity by a reduction of the thoughts to the requisite Metre.— S. T.C

1. BENEATH the blaze of a tropical sun the moun

tain peaks are the Thrones of Frost, through the

absence of objects to reflect the rays. “What no one with us shares, seems scarce our own.” The presence of a on E, The best beloved, who loveth me the best, is for the heart, what the supporting air from within is for the hollow globe with its suspended car. Deprive it of this, and all without, that would have

buoyed it aloft even to the seat of the gods, becomes

a burthen, and crushes it into flatness.

2. The finer the sense for the beautiful and the lovely,

and the fairer and lovelier the object presented to the sense; the more exquisite the individual's capacity of joy, and the more ample his means and opportu. nities of enjoyment, the more heavily will he feel the ache of solitariness, the more unsubstantial be. comes the feast spread around him. What matters it, whether in fact the viands and the ministering graces are shadowy or real, to him who has not hand to grasp nor arms to embrace them

Imagination; honorable Aims;
Free Commune with the choir that cannot die;
Science and Song; Delight in little things,
The buoyant child surviving in the man;
Fields, forests, ancient mountains, ocean, sky,
With all their voices—O dare I accuse
My earthly lot as guilty of my spleen,

Rather let the Woman return at once And the word of the Most High answered Satan: The tender Treacherous Fiend if with

But a rude diaught of the poem contains the substance of the stanzas, and the reader

Or call my destiny niggard 2 O no! no!
It is her largeness, and her overflow,
Which being incomplete, disquieteth me so!

4. For never touch of gladness stirs my heart, But tim’rously beginning to rejoice Like a blind Arab, that from sleep doth start In lonesome tent, I listen for thy voice. Beloved ' 'tis not thine; thou art not there! Then melts the bubble into idle air, And wishing without hope I restlessly despair.


The mother with anticipated glee
Smiles o'er the child, that standing by her chair,
And flatt'ning its round cheek upon her knee,
Looks up, and doth its rosy lips prepare
To mock the coming sounds. At that sweet sight
She hears her own voice with a new delight;
And if the babe perchance should lisp the Does


6. Then is she tenfold gladder than before! But should disease or chance the darling take, What then avail those songs, which sweet of yore Were only sweet for their sweet echo's saket Dear maid! no prattler at a mother's knee Was eler so dearly prized as I prize thee: Why was I made for love, and love denied to me!


O! It is pleasant, with a heart at ease,
Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies,
To make the shifting clouds be what you please,
Or let the easily persuaded eyes
Own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould
Of a friend's fancy; or with head bent low
And cheek aslant, see rivers flow of gold
"Twixt crimson banks; and then, a travellet, go
From mount to mount through CloudLAND, so
geous land!
Or list'ning to the tide, with closed sight.
Be that blind bard, who on the Chian strand
By those deep sounds possess'd, with inward Eto
Beheld the ILIAD and the Odyssey
Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea-



"Twas my last waking thought, how it could be That thou, sweet friend, such anguish shouldstenduro When straight from Dreamland came a Dwarf, and be Could tell the cause, forsooth, and knew the cure.

Methought he fronted me, with peering look

Fix'd on my heart; and read aloud in game

The loves and griefs therein, as from a book:

And utter'd praise like one who wish'd to blame.

In every heart (quoth he since Adam's sin,
Two Founts there are, of suffering and of cheer!
That to let forth, and this to keep within'
But she, whose aspect I find imaged here,

Of Pleasure only will to all dispense,
That Fount alone unlock'd, by no distress
Choked or turn'd inward, but still issue thence
Unconquer'd cheer, persistent loveliness.

As on the driving cloud the shiny Bow,
That gracious thing made up of tears and light,
"Mid the wild rack and rain that slants below
Stands smiling forth, unmoved and freshly bright:

As though the spirits of all lovely flowers,

Inweaving each its wreath and dewy crown, Or ere they sank to earth in vernal showers, Had built a bridge to tempt the angels down.

Even so, Eliza! on that face of thine,
On that benignant face, whose look alone
The soul's translucence through her crystal shrine !)
Has power to soothe all anguish but thine own.

A beauty hovers still, and ne'er takes wing,
But with a silent charm compels the stern
And tort’ring Genius of the bitter spring
To shrink aback, and cower upon his urn.

Who then needs wonder, if (no outlet found
In passion, spleen, or strife) the Fount of PAIN
0erflowing beats against its lovely mound,
And in wild flashes shoots from heart to brain?

Sleep, and the Dwarf with that unsteady gleam
On his raised lip, that aped a critic smile,
Had pass'd : yet I, my sad thoughts to beguile,
Lay weaving on the tissue of my dream:

Till audibly at length I cried, as though
Thou hadst indeed been present to my eyes,
0 sweet, sweet sufferer! if the case be so,
I pray thee, be less good, less sweet, less wise!

In every look a barbed arrow send,
On these soft lips let scorn and anger live!
Do any thing, rather than thus, sweet friend!
Hoard for thyself the pain thou wilt not give!

— whAT is LIFE”

ResEMBLEs life what once was held of light,
Too ample in itself for human sight?
An absolute self? an element ungrounded ?
All that we see, all colors of all shade
By encroach of darkness made 2
Is very life by consciousness unbounded ?
And all the thoughts, pains, joys of mortal breath,
A war-embrace of wrestling life and death


WE pledged our hearts, my love and I,
I in my arms the maiden clasping;

I could not tell the reason why,
But, oh! I trembled like an aspen.

Her father's love she bade me gain;
I went and shook like any reed'

I strove to act the man—in vain.'
We had exchanged our hearts indeed.


SONNET, composed by THE SEAside, october 1817.

Oh! it is pleasant, with a heart at ease,
Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies,
To make the shifting clouds be what you please;
Or yield the easily persuaded eyes

To each quaint image issuing from the mould
Of a friend's fancy; or with head bent low,
And cheek aslant, see rivers flow of gold
"Twixt crimson banks; and then, a traveller, go

From mount to mount, through Cloudland, gorgeous
Or listening to the tide, with closed sight,
Be that blind bard, who on the Chian strand,
By those deep sounds possess'd, with inward light
Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssey
Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea!


I. I ask'd my fair, one happy day, What I should call her in my lay, By what sweet name from Rome, or Greece, Neara, Laura, Daphne, Chloris, Carina, Lalage, or Doris, Dorimene, or Lucrece'

II. “Ah,” replied my gentle fair; “Dear one, what are names but air – Choose thou whatever suits the line; Call me Laura, call me Chloris, Call me Lalage, or Doris, Only—only—call me thine !”

Sly Belzebub took all occasions
To try Job's constancy, and patience.
He took his honor, took his health ;
He took his children, took his wealth,
His servants, oxen, horses, cows,
But cunning Satan did not take his spouse.

But Heaven, that brings out good from evil,
And loves to disappoint the devil,
Had predetermined to restore
Twofold all he had before ;
His servants, horses, oxen, cows-
Short-sighted devil, not to take his spouse!

Hoarse Maevius reads his hobbling verse
To all, and at all times;
And finds them both divinely smooth,

His voice as well as rhymes.

But folks say Maevius is no ass;
But Maevius makes it clear
That he's a monster of an ass—
An ass without an ear!

THERE comes from old Avaro's grave
A deadly stench—why, sure, they have
Immured his soul within his Grave!

Last Monday all the papers said,
That Mr. was dead;
Why, then, what said the city ?
The tenth part sadly shook their head,
And shaking sigh'd, and sighing said,
“Pity, indeed, 'tis pity!”

But when the said report was sound
A rumor wholly without ground,
Why, then, what said the city ?
The other nine parts shook their head,
Repeating what the tenth had said,
“Pity, indeed, 'tis pity!”

Your poem must eternal be, Dear Sir!—it cannot fail— For 'tis incomprehensible, And wants both head and tail.

Swans sing before they die—'t were no bad thing Did certain persons die before they sing.



prepatory. Note.

A prose composition, one not in metre at least, seems prima facie to require explanation or apology. It was written in the year 1798, near Nether Stowey in Somersetshire, at which place (sanctum et amabile momen rich by so many associations and recollections) the Author had taken up his residence in order to enjoy the society and close neighborhood of a dear and honored friend, T. Poole. Esq. The work was to have been written in concert with another, whose name is too venerable within the precincts of genius to be unnecessarily brought into connexion with such a trifle, and who was then residing at a small distance from Nether Stowey. The title and subject were suggested by myself, who likewise drew out the scheme and the contents for each of the three books or cantoes, of which the work was to consist, and which, the reader is to be informed, was to have been finished in one night! My partner undertook the first canto: I the second : and whichever had done first, was to set about the third. Almost thirty years have passed by ; yet at this moment I cannot without something more than a smile moot the question which of the two things was the more impracticable, for a mind so eminently original to compose another man's thoughts and fancies, or for a taste so austerely pure and simple to imitate the Death of Abel? Methinks I see his grand and noble countenance as at the moment when having dispatched my own portion of the task at full finger-speed, I hastened to him with my manuscript—that look of humorous despondency fixed on his almost blank sheet of paper, and then its silent mock-piteous admission of failure struggling with the sense of the exceeding ridiculousness of the whole scheme— which broke up in a laugh: and the Ancient Mariner was written instead.

Years afterward, however, the draft of the Plan and proposed Incidents, and the portion executed, obtained favor in the eyes of more than one person, whose judgment on a poetic work could not but have weighed with me, even though no parental partiality had been thrown into the same scale, as a make-weight: and I determined on tommencing anew, and composing the whole in stanzas, and made some progress in realizing this intention, when adverse gales drove my bark off

the “Fortunate Isles” of the Muses: and then other and more momentous interests prompted a different voyage, to firmer an chorage and a securer port. I have in vain tried to recover the lines from the Palimpsest tablet of my memory; and I cances offer the introductory stanza, which had been committed to writing for the purpose of procuring a friend's judgment on the metre, as a specimen.

Encinctured with a twine of leaves,
That leafy twine his only dress:
A lovely Boy was plucking fruits,
By moonlight, in a wilderness.
The moon was bright, the air was free,
And fruits and flowers together grew
On many a shrub and many a tree:
And all put on a gentle hue,
Hanging in the shadowy air
Like a picture rich and rare.
It was a climate where, they say,
The night is more beloved than day.
But who that beauteous Boy beguiled.
That beauteous Boy, to linger here 1
Alone, by night, a little child,
In place so silent and so wild-
Has he no friend, no loving Mother near 1

I have here given the birth, parentage, and premature deceam of the “Wanderings of Cain, a poem.”—entreating, however, my Renders not to think so meanly of my judgment, as to suppose that I either regard or offer it as any excuse for the publication of the following fragment (and I may add, of one or two others in its neighborhood), or its primitive crudity. But I should find still greater difficulty in forgiving myself were I to record pro tadio publico a set of petty mishaps and annerances which I myself wish to forget. I must be content therefore with assuring the friendly Reader, that the less he attributes is appearance to the Author's will, choice, or judgment, the nearer to the truth he will be. s. T. C.


“A Little further, O my father, yet n little further. and we shall come into the open moonlight.” Ther road was through a forest of fir-trees; at its entrance the trees stood at distances from each other, and the path was broad, and the moonlight, and the moonlight shadows reposed upon it, and appeared quietly to inhabit that solitude. But soon the path winded and became narrow; the sun at high noon sometimes speckled, but never illumined it, and now it was dark as a cavern.

“It is dark, O my father!" said Enos; - but the path under our feet is smooth and soft, and we shall soon come out into the open moonlight.”

“Lead on, my child!” said Cain: " guide me. little child!” And the innocent little child clasped a finger of the hand which had murdered the righteous Abel, and he guided his father. “The fir branches drip upon thee, my son.” “Yea, pleasantly, father, for I ran fast and eagerly to bring thee the pitcher and the cake, and my body is not yet cool. How happy the squirrels are that feed on these fir-trees' they leap from bough to bough, and the old squimek play round their young ones in the nest. I clombates yesterday at noon, O my father, that I might play with them; but they leapt away from the branches, even to the slender twigs did they leap, and in * moment I beheld them on another tree. Why, Ony father, would they not play with me? I would be good to them as thou art good to me: and I groaned to them even as thou groanest when thou givest me to eat, and when thou coverst me at evening, and * often as I stand at thy knee and thine eyes look a me." Then Cain stopped, and stifling his groans to sank to the earth, and the child Enos stood in the darkness beside him. 28


And Cain lifted up his voice and cried bitterly, and said, "The Mighty One that persecuteth me is on this side and on that; he pursueth my soul like the wind, like the sand-blast he passeth through me; he is around me even as the air! O that I might be utterly no more! I desire to die—yea, the things that never had life, neither move they upon the earth—behold! they seem precious to mine eyes. O that a man might live without the breath of his nostrils! So I might abide in darkness, and blackness, and an empty space! Yea, I would lie down, I would not rise, neither would I stir my limbs till I became as the rock in the den of the lion, on which the young lion resteth his head whilst he sleepeth. For the torrent that roareth far off hath a voice, and the clouds in heaven look terribly on me; the Mighty One who is against me speaketh in the wind of the cedar grove; and in silence am I dried up.” Then Enos spake to his father: “Arise, my father, arise, we are but a little way from the place where I found the cake and the pitcher.” And Cain said, “How knowest thou?" and the child answered—“Behold, the bare rocks are a few of thy strides distant from the forest; and while even now thou wert lifting up thy voice, I heard the echo.” Then the child took hold of his father, as if he would raise him; and Cain being faint and feeble, rose slowly on his knees and pressed himself against the trunk of a fir, and stood upright, and followed the child. The path was dark till within three strides' length of its termination, when it turned suddenly; the thick black trees formed a low arch, and the moonlight appeared for a moment like a dazzling portal. Enos ran before and stood in the open air; and when Cain, his father, emerged from the darkness, the child was affrighted. For the mighty limbs of Cain were wasted as by fire; his hair was as the matted curs on the Bison's forehead, and so glared his fierce and sullen eye beneath ; and the black abundant lock on either side, a rank and tangled mass, were *ained and scorched, as though the grasp of a buming iron hand had striven to rend them; and his Countenance told in a strange and terrible language of agonies that had been, and were, and were still to continue to be. The scene around was desolate; as far as the eye ould reach it was desolate: the bare rocks faced *ch other, and left a long and wide interval of thin while sand. You might wander on and look round * Round, and peep into the crevices of the rocks, *nd discover nothing that acknowledged the influ. * of the seasons. There was no spring, no sum*, no autumn: and the winter's snow, that would * been lovely, fell not on these hot rocks and orching sands. Never morning lark had poised himself over this desert; but the huge serpent often there beneath the talons of the vulture, and the vulture screamed, his wings imprisoned within the oils of the serpent. The pointed and shattered *mits of the ridges of the rocks made a rude *icry of human concerns, and seemed to proph*, nutely of things that then were not; steeples, **ttlements, and ships with naked masts. As far from the wood as a boy might sling a pebble of the *...there was one rock by itself at a small dis. * * the main ridge. It had been precipitated * Perhaps by the groan which the Earth uttered *** first father fell. Before you approached, it **d to lie flat on the ground, but its base slant.

ed from its point, and between its point and the sands a tall man might stand upright. It was here that Enos had found the pitcher and cake, and to this place he led his father. But ere they had reached the rock they beheld a human shape: his back was towards them, and they were advancing unperceived, when they heard him smite his breast and cry aloud, “Woe is me! woe is me! I must never die again, and yet I am perishing with thirst and hunger.” Pallid, as the reflection of the sheeted lightning on the heavy-sailing night-cloud, became the face of Cain; but the child Enos took hold of the shaggy skin, his father's robe, and raised his eyes to his father, and listening whispered, “Ere yet I could speak, I am sure, O my father' that I heard that voice. Have not I often said that I remembered a sweet voice o O my father! this is it:" and Cain trembled exceedingly. The voice was sweet indeed, but it was thin and querulous like that of a feeble slave in misery, who despairs altogether, yet cannot refrain himself from weeping and lamentation. And, behold Enos glided forward, and creeping softly round the base of the rock, stood before the stranger, and looked up into his face. And the Shape shrieked, and turned round, and Cain beheld him, that his limbs and his face were those of his brother Abel whom he had killed ! And Cain stood like one who struggles in his sleep because of the exceeding terribleness of a dream. Thus as he stood in silence and darkness of soul, the Shape fell at his feet, and embraced his knees, and cried out with a bitter outcry, “Thou eldestborn of Adam, whom Eve, my mother, brought forth, cease to torinent me! I was feeding my flocks in green pastures by the side of quiet rivers, and thou killedst me; and now I am in misery.” Then Cain closed his eyes, and hid them with his hands; and again he opened his eyes, and looked around him, and said to Enos, “What beholdest thou? Didst thou hear a voice, my son 1" “Yes, my father, I beheld a man in unclean garments, and he uttered a sweet voice, full of lamentation.” Then Cain raised up the Shape that was like Abel, and said:—“The Creator of our father, who had respect unto thee, and unto thy offering, wherefore hath he forsaken thee " Then the Shape shrieked a second time, and rent his garment, and his naked skin was like the white sands beneath their feet; and he shrieked yet a third time, and threw himself on his face upon the sand that was black with the shadow of the rock, and Cain and Enos sate beside him; the child by his right hand, and Cain by his left. They were all three under the rock, and within the shadow. The Shape that was like Abel raised himself up, and spake to the child: “I know where the cold waters are, but I may not drink; wherefore didst thou then take away my pitcher " But Cain said, “Didst thou not find favor in the sight of the Lord thy God?” The Shape answered, “The Lord is God of the living only, the dead have another God.” Then the child Enos listed up his eyes and prayed; but Cain rejoiced secretly in his heart. “Wretched shall they be all the days of their mortal life,” exclaimed the Shape, “who sacrifice worthy and acceptable sacrifices to the God of the dead; but after death their toil ceaseth. Woe is me, for I was well beloved by the God of the living, and cruel wert thou, O my brother, who didst snatch me away from his

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