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SPOTS IN THE SUN
My father confessor is strict and holy,
Good father! I would fain not do thee
But ah! I fear that they who oft and long
Stand gazing at the sun, to count each spot,
Must sometimes find the sun itself too hot.
TO MY CANDLE
THE FAREWELL EPIGRAM
GOOD Candle, thou that with thy brother,
Art my best friend and comforter at
Just snuff'd, thou look'st as if thou didst desire
That I on thee an epigram should write. Dear Candle, burnt down to a finger
WHEN Surface talks of other people's We know nothing good but that he is worth dead.
Friend, Nov. 12, 1809.
He has the weakest memory on earth!
His memory still is no whit better grown ;
AN excellent adage commands that we should
Relate of the dead that alone which is good;
But of the great Lord who here lies in lead
FOR A TRANSPARENCY DESIGNED BY
The rav'ning vulture's leg seems fetter'd
[The following was suggested by Coleridge as an alternative, but the former was used :--]
Thy own flame is an epigram of sight; 'Tis short, and pointed, and all over light, Yet gives most light and burns the keenest at the point. Valete et Plaudite.
WE'VE Conquer'd us a Peace, like lads true metalled:
And Bankrupt Nap's accompts seem all now settled.
Cottle's Early Recollections, ii. 145.
PARRY seeks the Polar ridge,
THE rose that blushes like the morn,
And so dost thou, sweet infant corn,
TO A COMIC AUTHOR, ON AN ABUSIVE
WHAT though the chilly wide-mouth'd quacking chorus
From the rank swamps of murk Reviewland croak:
So was it, neighbour, in the times before
When Momus, throwing on his Attic cloak,
Swore they mistook him for their own good man.
The public little knows-the publisher | This Momus—Aristophanes on earth too much. Men call'd him-maugre all his wit and worth,
Was croak'd and gabbled at. How, then, should you,
Or I, friend, hope to 'scape the skulking crew?
Romp'd with the Graces; and each tickled Muse
(That Turk, Dan Phœbus, whom bards call divine,
Was married to at least, he kept-all nine)
Fled, but still with reverted faces ran; Yet, somewhat the broad freedoms to excuse,
They had allured the audacious Greek to use,
No! laugh, and say aloud, in tones of glee,
'A HEAVY wit shall hang at every lord,'
Quoted in News of Literature, Dec. 10, 1825. See Arch. Constable and his Literary Correspondents, 1873, iii. 482.
Och the hallabaloo ! Och och! how you'll wail, When the offal-fed vagrant Shall turn you as blue As the gas-light unfragrant, That gushes in jets from beneath his own tail ;
'Till swift as the mail,
He at last brings the cramps on, That will twist you like Samson. So without further blethring, Dear mudlarks! my brethren!
FRAGMENTS FROM A COMMONPLACE BOOK,
Once in the possession of John Mathew Gutch, and now (since 1868) in the British Museum, Add. MSS. 27901. Some of these Fragments were printed in Coleridge's Remains, 4 vols. 1836-39; others are now printed for the first time.
Of all scents and degrees,
And don't pig in styes that would suffocate sows !
Quit Cobbett's, O'Connell's and Beelzebub's banners,
And whitewash at once bowels, rooms, hands, and manners! July 26, 1832.
LITTLE Daisy-very late spring. March. Quid si vivat? Do all things in Faith. Never pluck a flower again! Mem.
[I do not think Coleridge took this vow in public-but Landor did-('Faesulan Idyll' in Gebir, Count Julian, etc., 1831).
' And 'tis and ever was my wish and way To let all flowers live freely.
I never pluck the rose: the violet's head Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank And not reproacht me the ever-sacred cup
Of the pure lily hath between my hands Felt safe, unsoil'd, nor lost one grain of gold.'-- ED.]
WHERE Cam his stealthy flowings most dissembles
And scarce the willow's watery shadow trembles.
WITH Secret hand heal the conjectur'd wound,
Guess at the wound, and heal with secret hand.
OUTMALICE Calumny's imposthum'd
AND write Impromptus Spurring their Pegasus with tortoise gallop.
DUE to the Staggerers, that made drunk by Power
PERISH warmth Unfaithful to its seeming!
POETRY without egotism, comparatively uninteresting.
[See Preface, 1796.]
OLD age, 'the shape and messenger of
His wither'd fist still knocking at Death's
WHEREFORE art thou come? doth not the Creator of all things know all things? And if thou art come to seek him, know that where thou wast, there he was. [See Wanderings of Cain.]
Forget thirst's eager promise, and pre
Dark Dreamers! that the world forgets IN darkness I remain'd—the neighbour's
GOD no distance knows, All of the whole possessing!
AND cauldrons the scoop'd earth, a boiling sea.
RUSH on my ear, a cataract of sound.
THE guilty pomp, consuming while it flares.
My heart seraglios a whole host of joys.
Told me that now the rising sun
[See Osorio, Act i. and Remorse, Act i. Scene ii.]
THE Sun (for now his orb 'gan slowly sink)
Shot half his rays aslant the heath whose flowers
Purpled the mountain's broad and level top;
Rich was his bed of clouds, and wide beneath
Expecting Ocean smiled with dimpled
THE quick raw flesh that burneth in the wound.