too much. ? 1818. 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, Romp'd with the Graces; and each tickled Muse (That Turk, Dan Phoebus, 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, Swore they mistook him for their own. good man. The public little knows-the publisher This Momus-Aristophanes on earth Men call'd him--maugre all his wit and worth, How, 60 THE rose that blushes like the morn, But on the rose there grows a thorn 61 THE ALTERNATIVE 1824. Was croak'd and gabbled at. then, should you, But when the said report was found Why, then, what said the city? 68 CHOLERA CURED BEFORE HAND Or a premonition promulgated gratis for the use of the Useful Classes, specially those resident in St. Giles's, Saffron Hill, Bethnal Green, etc.; and likewise, inasmuch as the good man is merciful even to the beasts, for the benefit of the Bulls and Bears of the Stock Exchange. PAINS ventral, subventral, Think no longer mere prefaces crawl! Yet far better 'twould be not to have them at all. Now to 'scape inward aches, Call'd Cholery Morpus; Who with horns, hoofs, and tail, croaks for carrion to feed him, Tho' being a Devil, no one never has seed him! Ah! then my dear honies, There's no cure for you For loves nor for monies :-You'll find it too true. 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. I 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.] like a mighty Giantess Seiz'd in sore travail and prodigious birth The neighing wild-colt races with the Sick Nature struggled long and strange wind O'er fern and heath-flowers. 32 A long deep lane So overshadow'd, it might seem one bower the original edition the second strophe The damp clay-banks were furr'd with thus ended: mouldy moss. |