idge's poetical
genius. It was a part of the sadness of his life that he could not
concentrate his powers, in this or any other department of his
intellect, to high and continuous aims--but we were not prepared for
such rich proof of its exercise, within the limited field assigned to
it, as these volumes offer. They largely and lastingly contribute to the
rare stores of true poetry. In the sonnet Hartley Coleridge was a master
unsurpassed by the greatest. To its "narrow plot of ground" his habits,
when applied in the cultivation of the muse, most naturally led him--and
here he may claim no undeserved companionship even with Shakespeare,
Milton, and Wordsworth. We take a few--with affecting personal reference
in all of them.

Hast thou not seen an aged rifted tower,
Meet habitation for the Ghost of Time,
Where fearful ravage makes decay sublime,
And destitution wears the face of power?
Yet is the fabric deck'd with many a flower
Of fragrance wild, and many-dappled hues,
Gold streak'd with iron-brown and nodding blue,
Making each ruinous chink a fairy bower.
E'en such a thing methinks I fain would be,
Should Heaven appoint me to a lengthen'd age;
So old in look, that Young and Old may see
The record of my closing pilgrimage:
Yet, to the last, a rugged wrinkled thing
To which young sweetness may delight to cling!

Pains I have known, that cannot be again,
And pleasures too that never can be more:
For loss of pleasure I was never sore,
But worse, far worse is to feel no pain.
The throes and agonies of a heart explain
Its very depth of want at inmost core;
Prove that it does believe, and would adore,
And doth with ill for ever strive and strain.
I not lament for happy childish years,
For loves departed, that have had their day,
Or hopes that faded when my head was gray;
For death hath left me last of my compeers:
But for the pain I felt, the gushing tears
I used to shed when I had gone astray.

A lonely wanderer upon the earth am I,
The waif of nature--like uprooted weed
Borne by the stream, or like a shaken reed,
A frail dependent of the fickle sky.
Far, far away, are all my natural kin;
The mother that erewhile hath hush'd my cry,
Almost hath grown a mere fond memory.
Where is my sister's smile? my brother's boisterous din?
Ah! nowhere now. A matron grave and sage