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50

SPOTS IN THE SUN

My father confessor is strict and holy,
Mi Fili, still he cries, peccare noli.
And yet how oft I find the pious man
At Annette's door, the lovely courtesan !
Her soul's deformity the good man wins
And not her charms! he comes to hear
her sins!

Good father! I would fain not do thee
wrong;

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.

52

TO MY CANDLE

THE FAREWELL EPIGRAM

GOOD Candle, thou that with thy brother,
Fire,

Art my best friend and comforter at
night,

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

53

EPITAPH

51

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!
And when his own good deeds he deigns
to mention,

His memory still is no whit better grown ;
But then he makes up for it, all will own,
By a prodigious talent of invention.

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54

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

55 MOTTO

FOR A TRANSPARENCY DESIGNED BY
WASHINGTON ALLSTON AND EX-
HIBITED AT BRISTOL ON 'PRO-
CLAMATION DAY'—June 29, 1814.
WE'VE fought for Peace, and conquer'd
it at last,

The rav'ning vulture's leg seems fetter'd
fast!
Britons, rejoice! and yet be wary too:
The chain may break, the clipt wing
sprout anew.

[The following was suggested by Coleridge as an alternative, but the former was used :--]

56

joint,

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.

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PARRY seeks the Polar ridge,
Rhymes seeks S. T. Coleridge,
Author of Works, whereof-tho' not in

Dutch

60

SENTIMENTAL

THE rose that blushes like the morn,
Bedecks the valleys low;

And so dost thou, sweet infant corn,
My Angelina's toe.

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62
LINES

TO A COMIC AUTHOR, ON AN ABUSIVE
REVIEW

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

us,

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,

? 1818.

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,
'I hate the quacking tribe, and they
hate me !'
? 1825.

63
AUTHORS AND PUBLISHERS

'A HEAVY wit shall hang at every lord,'
So sung Dan Pope; but 'pon my word,
He was a story-teller,
Or else the times have altered quite,
For wits, or heavy, now, or light
Hang each by a bookseller.
S. T. C.

Quoted in News of Literature, Dec. 10, 1825. See Arch. Constable and his Literary Correspondents, 1873, iii. 482.

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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!

I

FRAGMENTS FROM A COMMONPLACE BOOK,

Circa 1795-97

II

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,
(Yourselves and your shes)
Forswear all cabal, lads,
Wakes, unions, and rows,
Hot dreams, and cold salads,

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.]

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WHERE Cam his stealthy flowings most dissembles

And scarce the willow's watery shadow trembles.

5

WITH Secret hand heal the conjectur'd wound,

[or]

Guess at the wound, and heal with secret hand.

6

OUTMALICE Calumny's imposthum'd

tongue.

7

AND write Impromptus Spurring their Pegasus with tortoise gallop.

8

DUE to the Staggerers, that made drunk by Power

9

PERISH warmth Unfaithful to its seeming!

10

POETRY without egotism, comparatively uninteresting.

[See Preface, 1796.]

II

OLD age, 'the shape and messenger of
Death,'

His wither'd fist still knocking at Death's

door.

12

13

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.]

18

Forget thirst's eager promise, and pre

A DUNGEON

sume,

Dark Dreamers! that the world forgets IN darkness I remain'd—the neighbour's

it too.

GOD no distance knows, All of the whole possessing!

14

AND cauldrons the scoop'd earth, a boiling sea.

15

RUSH on my ear, a cataract of sound.

16

THE guilty pomp, consuming while it flares.

17

My heart seraglios a whole host of joys.

clock

Told me that now the rising sun
Shone lovely on my garden.

[See Osorio, Act i. and Remorse, Act i. Scene ii.]

19

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

face.

20

THE quick raw flesh that burneth in the wound.

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