And tho' he never left in lurch
His king, his country, or his church,
"Twas but to humour his own cynical
Contempt of doctrines Jacobinical ;
To his own conscience only hearty,
'Twas but by chance he served the party;
The self-same things had said and writ,
Had Pitt been Fox, and Fox been Pitt;
Content his own applause to win,
Would never dash through thick and thin,
And he can make, so say the wise,
No claim who makes no sacrifice ;-
And bard still less :- what claim had he,
Who swore it vexed his soul to see
So grand a cause, so proud a realm
With Goose and Goody at the helm;
Who long ago had fall'n asunder
But for their rivals' baser blunder,
The coward whine and Frenchified
Slaver and slang of the other side?—
Thus, his own whim his only bribe,
Our bard pursued his old A. B. C.
Contented if he could subscribe
In fullest sense his name "Eornoe;
('Tis Punic Greek, for he hath stood!')
Whate'er the men, the cause was good;
And therefore with a right good will,
Poor fool, he fights their battles still.
Tush! squeak'd the Bats;—a mere bravado
To whitewash that base renegado;
'Tis plain unless you're blind or mad,
His conscience for the bays he barters ;-
And true it is-as true as sad-
These circlets of green baize he had-
But then, alas! they were his garters!
Ah! silly Bard, unfed, untended,
His lamp but glimmered in its socket;
He lived unhonored and unfriended
With scarce a penny in his pocket ;—
Nay-tho' he hid it from the many—
With scarce a pocket for his penny!
IE, Mr. Coleridge!-and can this be you?
Have
you not heard, or have you heard in vain,
The birth and parentage-recording strain?
Confessions shrill, that out-shrill'd mack'rel drown-
Fresh from the drop, the youth not yet cut down.
Letter to sweet-heart-the last dying speech-
And didn't all this begin in Sabbath-breach?
You, that knew better! In broad open day,
Steal in, steal out, and steal our flowers away?
What could possess you? Ah! sweet youth, I fear
The chap with horns and tail was at your ear!"
Such sounds of late, accusing fancy brought
From fair
Now hear the meek Parnassian youth's reply:-
A bow, a pleading look, a downcast eye,—
And then:
"Fair dame! a visionary wight,
Hard by your hill-side mansion sparkling white,
His thoughts all hovering round the Muses' home,
Long hath it been your poet's wont to roam,
And many a morn, on his becharmed sense
So rich a stream of music issued thence
He deemed himself, as it flowed warbling on,
Beside the vocal fount of Helicon !
But when, as if to settle the concern,
A nymph too he beheld, in many a turn,
Guiding the sweet rill from its fontal urn,- [heard
Say, can you blame?-No! none that saw and
Could blame a bard, that he, thus inly stirred,
A muse beholding in each fervent trait,
Took Mary for Polly Hymnia!
Or haply as there stood beside the maid
One loftier form in sable stole arrayed,
If with regretful thought he hail'd in thee
his long-lost friend, Mol Pomene! But most of you, soft warblings, I complain! 'Twas ye that from the bee-hive of my brain Lured the wild fancies forth, a freakish rout, And witched the air with dreams turned inside out.
Thus all conspired-each power of eye and ear, And this gay month, th' enchantress of the year, To cheat poor me (no conjurer, God wot!) And's self accomplice in the plot.
Can then wonder if I went astray?
Not bards alone, nor lovers mad as they ;-
All nature day-dreams in the month of May.
And if I plucked each flower that sweetest blows,——
Who walks in sleep, needs follow must his nose.
Thus, long accustom'd on the twy-forked hill,
To pluck both flower and floweret at my will;
The garden's maze, like No-man's-land, I tread,
Nor common law, nor statute in my head;
For my own proper smell, sight, fancy, feeling,
With autocratic hand at once repealing
Five Acts of Parliament 'gainst private stealing! But yet from who despairs of grace?
There's no spring-gun or man-trap in that face!
Let Moses then look black, and Aaron blue,
That look as if they had little else to do:
For speaks, "Poor youth! he's but a waif!
The spoons all right? the hen and chickens safe?
Well, well, he shall not forfeit our regards—
The Eighth Commandment was not made for Bards!"
THE EXCHANGE.
E pledged our hearts, my love and I,
I in my arms the maiden clasping;
I could not tell the reason why,
But, oh! I trembled like an aspen.
Her father's love she bade me gain;
I went, and shook like any reed!
I strove to act the man-in vain!
We had exchanged our hearts indeed.
IN Köln, a town of monks and bones,
And pavements fanged with murderous stones, And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches; I counted two and seventy stenches,
All well defined, and several stinks!
Ye Nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks,
The river Rhine, it is well known,
Doth wash your city of Cologne ;
But tell me, Nymphs! what power divine
Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine?
ON MY JOYFUL DEPARTURE FROM
S I am a rhymer,
And now at least a merry one,
Mr. Mum's Rhudesheimer
And the church of St. Geryon
Are the two things alone
That deserve to be known
In the body and soul-stinking town of Cologne.
ARRY seeks the polar ridge;
Rhymes seeks S. T. Coleridge,
Author of works, whereof-tho' not in DutchThe public little knows-the publisher too much.
TROCHEE trips from long to shōrt ;
From long to long in solemn sort
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