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But the last Judgement (this his Jury's plan)
Left to the natural sense of Work-day
Adapted from an elder Poet.
Motto to Chapter XIII. of the General Introduction to The Friend, 1818, i. 149.
BLIND is that soul which from this truth can swerve,
No state stands sure, but on the grounds of right,
Of virtue, knowledge; judgment to pre
And all the powers of learning requisite ? Though other shifts a present turn may
Yet in the trial they will weigh too light. DANIEL.
Motto to Chapter XVI. as above, 1818, i. 190.
O BLESSED Letters! that combine in one All ages past, and make one live with all: By you do we confer with who are gone, And the dead-living unto council call! By you the unborn shall have communion Of what we feel and what doth us befall.
Since writings are the veins, the arteries, And undecaying life strings of those hearts,
That still shall pant and still shall exercise
Their mightiest powers when nature none imparts,
The strong constitution of their praise Wear out the infection of distemper'd days. DANIEL'S Musophilus.
Motto to Chapter I. of 'The Landing Place' in The Friend, 1818, i. 215.
[The first passage is from Daniel's Epistle to Sir Thomas Egerton; the second and third from his Musophilus ; but Coleridge has so altered, transposed, and rewritten all three that they are more
[This passage is from the first of the Conciones ad Populum, lectures delivered at Bristol, February 1795, and published there in the same year. Coleridge reprinted the lecture in The Friend (1818, ii. 248; 1850, ii. 179). The first quotation is really from Paradise Regained, iii. 50; but the second contains only a few words of Milton, which will be found in two disconnected passages in Samson Agonistes-[Woman is to man]
A cleaving mischief, in his way to virtue Adverse and turbulent (ll. 1039-40): and
Yet so it may fall out, because their end Is hate, not help to me.
Then we may thank ourselves Who spell-bound by the magic name of Peace
Dream golden dreams. Go, warlike Briton, go,
For the grey olive branch change thy green laurels :
Hang up thy rusty helmet, that the bee May have a hive, or spider find a loom ! Instead of doubling drum and thrilling fife
Be lull'd in lady's lap with amorous flutes. But for Napoleon, know, he'll scorn this calm:
The ruddy planet at his birth bore sway, Sanguine adust his humour, and wild fire His ruling element. Rage, revenge, and cunning
Make up the temper of this captain's valor.
The Friend, 1818, ii. 115.
[The lines are used as a motto to Essay 'VI., and are stated to be adapted from an old Play.' But in subsequent editions the reference is withdrawn, and we may assume that Coleridge, if he did not create the lines, made them his own. The calm was probably the 'Peace of Amiens.'-ED.]
A Sober Statement of Human Life, or the True Medium
A CHANCE may win that by mischance was lost :
The net that holds no great, takes little fish ;
In some things all, in all things none are crost;
Few all they need, but none have all they wish:
Unmedled joys here to no man befall; Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all!
[Although it was by inadvertence that these lines were printed in the Remains as Coleridge's, they have been so often included in his works that I am fain to retain them here as his by adoption. The title is his. The verses form part of a
poem by Robert Southwell, Tymes goe by Turnes. The text here printed is that found in Saint Peter's Complaint. With other Poems. London, 1599.—ED.]
I yet remain To mourn the hours of youth (yet mourn in vain)
That fled neglected: wisely thou hast trod
The better path-and that high meed which God
Assign'd to Virtue tow'ring from the dust, Shall wait thy rising, Spirit pure and just !
O God! how sweet it were to think, that all
Who silent mourn around this gloomy ball Might hear the voice of joy ;—but 'tis the will
Of man's great Author, that thro' good and ill
Calm he should hold his course, and so sustain
His varied lot of pleasure, toil and pain!
in the Chapel of Jesus College, Cambridge.' The first six lines are taken from W. L. Bowles's Monody on Henry Headley, and although the remaining stanza does not appear in any of the many editions of Bowles's poems I have been able to consult, it probably originally belonged to the same poem.-Ed.]
RID of a vexing and a heavy load,1 Eternal Lord! and from the world set free,
Like a frail Bark, weary I turn to Thee From frightful storms into a quiet road—On much repentance Grace will be bestow'd.
The nails, the thorn, and thy two hands, thy face
Benign, meek, [word illegible] offers grace To sinners whom their sins oppress and goad.
Let not thy justice view, O Light divine! My faults, and keep it from thy sacred ear [A line almost entirely illegible.]
Cleanse with thy blood my sins, to this
More readily, the more my years require Prompt aid, forgiveness speedy and entire.
[I do not think this is a composition of Coleridge's, but an adaptation of something imperfectly remembered by him. It comes from a note-book. - ED.]
1 See The Complete Poetical Works of Wordsworth (p. 761, "At Florence-From M. Angelo"). London: Macmillan and Co.
The following is the original version of this poem as printed in the Morning Post, March 10, 1798. There was no title, the verses being introduced solely by the burlesque letter, which was reprinted with the verses when they next appeared, in the ANNUAL ANTHOLOGY, 1800, under the title, The Raven.
'SIR,-I am not absolutely certain that the following Poem was written by Edmund Spenser, and found by an Angler buried in a fishingbox :
"Under the foot of Mole, that mountain hoar,
Mid the green alders, by the Mulla's shore"; but a learned Antiquarian of my acquaintance has given it as his opinion that it resembles Spenser's minor Poems as nearly as Vortigern and Rowena the Tragedies of William Shakespeare. This Poem must be read in recitative, in the same manner as the gloga Secunda of the Shepherd's Calendar. CUDDY.'
UNDER the arms of a goodly oak-tree
One acorn they left, and ne more mote you spy.
Next came a Raven, who lik'd not such
He belonged, I believe, to the witch MELANCHOLY!
Blacker was he than blackest jet,
Flew low in the rain; his feathers were wet.
He pick'd up the acorn and buried it strait,
[BROWNE GOLD MEDAL,
In maximis Comitiis, Jul. 3, 1792.
Ὦ σκότω πύλας, Θάνατε, προλείπων Ἐς γένος σπεύδων ἴθι ζεύχθεν ἄτα· Οὐ ξενισθήσῃ γενύων σπαράγμοις Οὐδ ̓ ὀλολύγμῳ,
̓Αλλὰ δ ̓ αὖ κύκλοισι χοροιτύποισιν
Δασκίοις τοῦ αἰρόμενοι πτεροῖσι
Ενθα μὰν ἔρασται ἐρωμένῃσιν,
Φεῦ κόρω Νάσοι φονίω γέμουσαι
̓Αμμέων ἴω· ποσάκις προσῇξεν
Δουλίᾳ γέννα βαρέως συναλγώ,
̓Αμέρῃσ ̓ ἔπει γ ̓ ἀφίλῃσιν ἄμπι
Φεῦ κάμοντας Μάστις ἄγρυπνος ὀρμᾷ,