far are brought;
Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel,
And fittest to unutterable thought
The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol;
Thou faery voyager! that dost float 5
In such clear water, that thy boat
May rather seem
To brood on air [A] than on an earthly stream;
Suspended in a stream as clear as sky,
Where earth and heaven do make one imagery; 10
O blessed vision! happy child!
Thou [1] art so exquisitely wild,
I think of thee with many fears
For what may be thy lot in future years.

I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest, 15
Lord of thy house and hospitality;
And Grief, uneasy lover! never rest
But when she sate within the touch of thee.
O too industrious folly!
O vain and causeless melancholy! 20
Nature will either end thee quite;
Or, lengthening out thy season of delight,
Preserve for thee, by individual right,
A young lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks.
What hast thou to do with sorrow, 25
Or the injuries of to-morrow?
Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn brings forth,
Ill fitted to sustain [2] unkindly shocks,
Or to be trailed along the soiling earth;
A gem that glitters while it lives, 30
And no forewarning gives;
But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife
Slips in a moment out of life.

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1845.

That ... 1807.]

[Variant 2:

1827.

Not doom'd to jostle with ... 1807.

Not framed to undergo ... 1815.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: See Carver's Description of his Situation upon one of the
Lakes of America.--W. W. 1807.]

These stanzas were addressed to Hartley Coleridge. The lines,

'I think of thee with many fears
For what may be thy lot in future years,'

taken in connection with his subsequent career, suggest the similarly
sad "presentiment" with which the 'Lines composed above Tintern Abbey'
conclude. The following is the postscript to a letter by his father, S.
T. C., addressed to Sir Humphry Davy, Keswick, July 25, 1800:

"Hartley is a spirit that dances on an aspen leaf; the air that yonder
sallow-faced and yawning tourist is breathing, is to my babe a
perpetual nitrous oxide. Never was more jo