fault if you do not

"A wiser and a better man arise to-morrow's morn."

Reason is said to be one faculty, and Imagination another--but there
cannot be a grosser mistake; they are one and indivisible; only in most
cases they live like cat and dog, in mutual worrying, or haply sue for a
divorce; whereas in the case of Coleridge they are one spirit as well as
one flesh, and keep billing and cooing in a perpetual honeymoon. Then
his mind is learned in all the learning of the Egyptians, as well as the
Greeks and Romans; and though we have heard simpletons say that he knows
nothing of science, we have heard him on chemistry puzzle Sir Humphrey
Davy--and prove to his own entire satisfaction, that Leibnitz and
Newton, though good men, were but indifferent astronomers. Besides, he
thinks nothing of inventing a new science, with a complete nomenclature,
in a twinkling--and should you seem sluggish of apprehension, he endows
you with an additional sense or two, over and above the usual seven,
till you are no longer at a loss, be it even to scent the music of
fragrance, or to hear the smell of a balmy piece of poetry. All the
faculties, both of soul and sense, seem amicably to interchange their
functions and their provinces; and you fear not that the dream may
dissolve, persuaded that you are in a future state of permanent
enjoyment. Nor are we now using any exaggeration; for if you will but
think how unutterably dull are all the ordinary sayings and doings of
this life, spent as it is with ordinary people, you may imagine how in
sweet delirium you may be robbed of yourself by a seraphic tongue that
has fed since first it lisped on "honey-dew," and by lips that have
"breathed the air of Paradise," and learned a seraphic language, which,
all the while that it is English, is as grand as Greek and as soft as
Italian. We only know this, that Coleridge is the alchymist that in his
crucible melts down hours to moments--and lo! diamonds sprinkled on a
plate of gold.

What a world would this be were all its inhabitants to fiddle like
Paganini, ride like Ducrow, discourse like Coleridge, and do everything
else in a style of equal perfection! But pray, how does the man write
poetry with a pen upon paper, who thus is perpetually pouring it from
his inspired lips? Read "The Ancient Mariner," "The Nightingale," and
"Genevieve." In the first, you shudder at the superstition of the
sea--in the second, you thrill with the melodies of the wo