To the erring needle's point was more than

callous.

But ah, the poor Arachne! She, unarm'd,
Blundering thro' hasty eagerness, alarm'd
With all a rival's hopes, a mortal's fears,
Still miss'd the stitch, and stain'd the web with
tears.

Unnumber'd punctures, small yet sore,
Full fretfully the maiden bore,
Till she her lily finger found

Crimson'd with many a tiny wound;
And to her eyes, suffused with watery woe,
Her flower-embroider'd web danced dim, I
wist,

Like blossom'd shrubs in a quick-moving mist:
Till vanquish'd the despairing maid sank low.

O Bard! whom sure no common Muse inspires,

I heard your verse that glows with vestal fires! And I from unwatch'd needle's erring point Had surely suffer'd on each finger joint

Those wounds, which erst did poor Arachne

meet;

While he, the much-loved object of my choice, (My bosom thrilling with enthusiast heat,) Pour'd on mine ear with deep impressive voice, How the great Prophet of the Desert stood And preach'd of penitence by Jordan's Flood; On war; or else the legendary lays

In simplest measures hymn'd to Alla's praise; Or what the Bard from his heart's inmost stores O'er his friend's grave in loftier numbers

pours:

G

Yes, Bard polite! you but obey'd the laws
Of Justice, when the thimble you had sent;
What wounds your thought-bewildering Muse
might cause

'Tis well your finger-shielding gifts prevent.

SARA.

WRITTEN AFTER A WALK BEFORE

SUPPER.*

HO' much averse, dear Jack, to
flicker,

To find a likeness for friend
V -ker,

I've made, thro' earth, and air, and sea,

A voyage of discovery!

And let me add (to ward off strife)

For V-ker, and for V

-ker's wife

She large and round beyond belief,

A superfluity of beef!

Her mind and body of a piece,

And both composed of kitchen-grease.

In short, dame Truth might safely dub her
Vulgarity enshrined in blubber!

He, meagre bit of littleness,

All snuff, and musk, and politesse ;

*

Coleridge, writing to Cottle about the second edition, says, "I am not solicitous to have anything omitted, except the sonnet to Lord Stanhope and the ludicrous poem." We also should have liked to omit "the ludicrous poem."

So thin, that strip him of his clothing,
He'd totter on the edge of nothing!
In case of foe, he well might hide
Snug in the collops of her side.

Ah then, what simile will suit ?
Spindle-leg in great jack-boot?
Pismire crawling in a rut?
Or a spigot in a butt?

Thus I humm'd and ha'd awhile,

When Madam Memory, with a smile,

Thus twitch'd my ear- "Why sure, I ween,

In London streets thou oft hast seen
The very image of this pair:

A little ape with huge she-bear
Link'd by hapless chain together:
An unlick'd mass the one-the other
An antic huge with nimble crupper
But stop, my Muse! for here comes supper.

THE HOUR WHEN WE SHALL MEET

AGAIN.

COMPOSED DURING ILLNESS AND IN ABSENCE.*

es IM Hour! that sleep'st on pillowing

D

clouds afar,

O rise, and yoke the turtles to thy car !

* Derwent Coleridge states this poem to have been written "in half mockery of Darwin's style." H. N. Coleridge heads it "Darwiniana," in the Remains, vol. i.

Bend o'er the traces, blame each lingering dove,

And give me to the bosom of my Love!
My gentle Love! caressing and carest,

With heaving heart shall cradle me to rest ;
Shed the warm tear-drop from her smiling

eyes,

Lull with fond woe, and medicine me with

sighs;

While finely-flushing float her kisses meek, Like melted rubies, o'er my pallid cheek. Chill'd by the night the drooping rose of May Mourns the long absence of the lovely day : Young day, returning at her promised hour, Weeps o'er the sorrows of her favourite flower,

Weeps the soft dew, the balmy gale she sighs, And darts a trembling lustre from her eyes. New life and joy the expanding floweret feels: His pitying mistress mourns, and mourning heals!

1796.

ON THE CHRISTENING OF A

FRIEND'S CHILD.

HIS day among the faithful placed,
And fed with fontal manna,

O with maternal title graced-
Dear Anna's dearest Anna!-

1 With, &c.] See last verse but two of Lines written at Shurton Bars.

While others wish thee wise and fair,
A maid of spotless fame,

I'll breathe this more compendious prayer-
Mayst thou deserve thy name!

Thy mother's name-a potent spell,
That bids the Virtues hie

From mystic grove and living cell,
Confess'd to fancy's eye;—

Meek quietness without offence;
Content, in homespun kirtle;
True love; and true love's innocence,
White blossom of the myrtle!

Associates of thy name, sweet child!
These virtues mayst thou win;
With face as eloquently mild,
To say, they lodge within.

So when, her tale of days all flown,

Thy mother shall be miss'd here;

When Heaven at length shall claim its own,

And angels snatch their sister;

Some hoary-headed friend, perchance,

May gaze with stifled breath;

And oft, in momentary trance,

Forget the waste of death.

Even thus a lovely rose I view'd,

In summer-swelling pride;

Nor mark'd the bud that, green and rude, Peep'd at the rose's side.