lks abroad in the majesty of an universal
understanding, eyeing the "rich strond," or golden sky above him, and
"goes sounding on his way," in eloquent accents, uncompelled and free!

Persons of the greatest capacity are often those, who for this reason do
the least; for surveying themselves from the highest point of view, amidst
the infinite variety of the universe, their own share in it seems
trifling, and scarce worth a thought, and they prefer the contemplation of
all that is, or has been, or can be, to the making a coil about doing
what, when done, is no better than vanity. It is hard to concentrate all
our attention and efforts on one pursuit, except from ignorance of
others; and without this concentration of our faculties, no great progress
can be made in any one thing. It is not merely that the mind is not
capable of the effort; it does not think the effort worth making. Action
is one; but thought is manifold. He whose restless eye glances through the
wide compass of nature and art, will not consent to have "his own nothings
monstered:" but he must do this, before he can give his whole soul to
them. The mind, after "letting contemplation have its fill," or

"Sailing with supreme dominion
Through the azure deep of air,"

sinks down on the ground, breathless, exhausted, powerless, inactive; or
if it must have some vent to its feelings, seeks the most easy and
obvious; is soothed by friendly flattery, lulled by the murmur of
immediate applause, thinks as it were aloud, and babbles in its dreams! A
scholar (so to speak) is a more disinterested and abstracted character
than a mere author. The first looks at the numberless volumes of a
library, and says, "All these are mine;" the other points to a single
volume (perhaps it may be an immortal one) and says, "My name is written
on the back of it." This is a puny and groveling ambition, beneath the
lofty amplitude of Mr. Coleridge's mind. No, he revolves in his wayward
soul, or utters to the passing wind, or discourses to his own shadow,
things mightier and more various!--Let us draw the curtain, and unlock the
shrine.

Learning rocked him in his cradle, and while yet a child,

"He lisped in numbers, for the numbers came."

At sixteen he wrote his _Ode on Chatterton_, and he still reverts to that
period with delight, not so much as it relates to himself (for that
string of his own early promise of fame rather jars than otherwise) but as
exemplifying the youth