As if no joy had ever chear'd my My woes, my joys unshared !

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ere then

Ah! long

On me thy icy dart, stern Death, be proved ;

Better to die, than live and not be loved!



I TOO a sister had! too cruel Death! How sad remembrance bids my bosom heave!

Tranquil her soul, as sleeping Infant's

Meek were her manners as a vernal

Knowledge, that frequent lifts the
bloated mind,

Gave her the treasure of a lowly breast, And Wit to venom'd Malice oft assign'd,

Dwelt in her bosom in a Turtle's nest. Cease, busy Memory! cease to urge the dart;

Nor on my soul her love to me impress!

For oh I mourn in anguish-and my heart

Feels the keen pang, th' unutterable


Yet wherefore grieve I that her sorrows cease,

For Life was misery, and the Grave is Peace! ? 1792.


If Pegasus will let thee only ride him, Spurning my clumsy efforts to o'erstride him, Some fresh expedient the Muse will try, And walk on stilts, although she cannot fly. TO THE REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE DEAR BROTHER,

I have often been surprised that Mathematics, the quintessence of Truth, should have found admirers so few and

so languid. Frequent consideration and minute scrutiny have at length unravelled the cause; viz. that though Reason is feasted, Imagination is starved; whilst Reason is luxuriating in its proper Paradise, Imagination is wearily travelling on a dreary desert. To assist Reason by the stimulus of Imagination is the design of the following production. In the execution of it much may be objectionable. The verse (particularly in the introduction of the ode) may be accused of unwarrantable liberties, but they are liberties equally homogeneal with the exactness of Mathematical disquisition, and the boldness of Pindaric daring. I have three strong champions to defend me against the attacks of Criticism: the Novelty, the Difficulty, and the Utility of the work. I may justly plume myself that I first Mathesis from the visionary caves of abstracted idea, and caused her to unite with Harmony. The first-born of this Union I now present to you; with interested motives indeed-as I expect to receive in return the more valuable offspring of your Muse.

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Bid the straight lines a journeying go.

C. A. C. B. those lines will show. To the points, which by A. B. are reckon'd,

And postulate the second
For Authority ye know.

A. B. C.
Triumphant shall be
An Equilateral Triangle,


have drawn the nymph Not Peter Pindar carp, nor Zoilus can

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O, curas hominum! O, quantum est in rebus inane!

THE fervid Sun had more than halved
the day,

When gloomy on his couch Philedon lay;
His feeble frame consumptive as his


His aching head did wine and women


His fortune ruin'd and his wealth decay'd, Clamorous his duns, his gaming debts unpaid,

The youth indignant seized his tailor's bill,

Infirm of soul! who think'st to lift thy


Upon the waxen wings of human fame,-
Who for a sound, articulated breath-
Gazest undaunted in the face of death! 30
What art thou but a Meteor's glaring

Blazing a moment and then sunk in

Caprice which raised thee high shall hurl
thee low,

Or envy blast the laurels on thy brow.
To such poor joys could ancient Honour

When empty fame was toiling Merit's
meed ;

And on its back thus wrote with moral To Modern Honour other lays belong ;

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How false, how vain are Man's pursuits Cut a friend's throat;-what cannot

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With such high transport every moment


Where first his infant buds appear; Or upwards dart with soaring force,

I curse Experience that he makes me And tempt some more ambitious course?

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In glittering state twice fifty guineas At low Pride's frequent frowns to sigh,

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'The scene is changed and Fortune's gale Shall belly out each prosperous sail. Yet sudden wealth full well I know Did never happiness bestow.

That wealth to which we were not born
Dooms us to sorrow or to scorn.
Behold yon flock which long had trod
O'er the short grass of Devon's sod,
To Lincoln's rank rich meads transferr'd,
And in their fate thy own be fear'd;
Through every limb contagions fly,
Deform'd and choked they burst and die.


When Luxury opens wide her arms,
And smiling wooes thee to those charms,
Whose fascination thousands own,
Shall thy brows wear the stoic frown?
And when her goblet she extends
Which maddening myriads press around,
What power divine thy soul befriends
That thou should'st dash it to the

No, thou shalt drink, and thou shalt know
Her transient bliss, her lasting woe,


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