The following, entitled The Pang more sharp than All, an Allegory, is Coleridge's: He too has flitted from his secret nest, Hope's last and dearest child without a name!- Yes! He hath flitted from me with what aim, As the dear hopes that swell the mother's breast That well might glance aside, yet never miss, Like a loose blossom on a gusty night He flitted from me and has left behind Two playmates, twin-births of his foster-dame : So like him, that almost she seemed the same! Ah! he is gone, and yet will not depart ! - 1 Can wit of man a heavier grief reveal? Can sharper pang from hate or scorn arise? - One pang more blighting-keen than hope betrayed! When, at her brother's hest, the twin-born maid, Her truant playmate's faded robe puts on; But Wordsworth and Coleridge, each gaining and each losing something, come much nearer to one another in their later poetry: 1 Faerie Queene, iii. 2. 19. that of Wordsworth takes more of the sky, that of Coleridge more of the earth; the former drops a good deal of its excessive realism (to use the word in a somewhat peculiar, but sufficiently intelligible sense), the latter something of its over-idealism. Among those of Coleridge's poems, however, to which an early date is fixed, there are a few, the execution of which is so perfect, that we should be inclined to think they had undergone much revision before they were published, and that, in part at least, they are to be properly considered as really the produce of his later His Christabel, for instance, is stated to have been written, the First Part in 1797, the Second Part in 1800; but we cannot help suspecting that the following lines, from what is called the Conclusion to Part First, may have been an addition made not very long before the first publication of the poem in 1816: And see the lady Christabel years. Gathers herself from out her trance; Grows sad and soft; the smooth thin lids Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep, Beauteous in a wilderness, Who, praying always, prays in sleep. The filmy delicacy of this writing is exquisite; every word is light and music. Equally beautiful, and in the same style, is the following little fragment, being the introductory stanza of a poem on the Wanderings of Cain, in which we are led to understand some progress had been made at an early date, although this stanza, all of the poem that has been preserved, was not published till towards Encinctured with a twine of leaves, That leafy twine his only dress, The moon was bright, the air was free, In place so silent and so wild Has he no friend, no loving mother near? In most of Coleridge's latest poetry, however, along with this perfection of execution, in which he was unmatched, we have more body and warmth -more of the inspiration of the heart mingling with that of the fancy. But, before quoting the specimens we intend to give of that, we would introduce a little piece, which seems to us eminently tender and beautiful, although less remarkable for high finish; it is entitled A Day Dream: — My eyes make pictures when they are shut: I see a fountain, large and fair, A willow and a ruined hut, And thee, and me, and Mary there. O Mary! make thy gentle lap our pillow! A wild-rose roofs the ruined shed, Two dear names carved upon the tree! 'Twas day, but now few, large, and bright And now it is a dark warm night, The balmiest of the month of June! A glow-worm fallen, and on the marge remounting, Shines, and its shadow shines, fit stars for our sweet fountain. Fount, tree, and shed are gone, I know not whither, The shadows dance upon the wall, By the still dancing fire-flames made; And now they melt to one deep shade! But not from me shall this mild darkness steal thee: I dream thee with mine eyes, and at my heart I feel thee! Which none may hear but she and thou! Like the still hive at quiet midnight humming, We will now present a few of those gems without a flaw which were the latest produce of Coleridge's genius. The following lines are entitled Work without Hope, and are stated to have been composed 21st February, 1827: All nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair — The bees are stirring — birds are on the wing — And winter, slumbering in the open air, Wears on his smiling face a dream of spring! Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow, |