For calumny most foul upon thee flung:
For what is beauty? Eye, cheek, hair, lip, tooth, Forehead and form, in bloom of radiant youth And faultless symmetry? Such bards have sung, And painters over such enamour'd hung,
And such have coxcombs praised with flatteries smooth;
But more than such doth heartfelt love demand, And more than such, beloved girl, is thine : Thought, sympathy, affection soft and bland, Sense, feeling, goodness in thy sweet eyes shine : Is not this beauty which all understand? Which sways all hearts with power and grace divine?
THERE are, whose pearl of price is richly set In mountings choice of intellectual gold, And polish'd high by graces manifold; Some such have I in life's brief journey met, Whom, once beheld, I never can forget; But thou wast fashion'd in a coarser mould; And nature, by religion uncontroll'd
For many a year, will needs be nature yet. But though I deem thy soul's full beauty marr'd, Its stature dwarf'd, by much infirmity,
I honour thy strong faith, still struggling hard With sin and Satan for the mastery;
Nor deem I that Heaven's gates can e'er be barr'd To one who pants and toils for it like thee.
TO THE ANONYMOUS EDITOR OF COLERIDGE'S LETTERS AND CONVERSATIONS.
A GIBBERING ape that leads an elephant; A dwarf deform'd, the presence heralding Of potent wizard, or the Elfin King; Caliban, deigning sage advice to grant To mighty Prosper in some hour of want; Sweet Bully Bottom, while the Fairies sing, Braying applause to their rich carolling, But feebly typify thy flippant cant, Stupid defamer, who for many a year
With earth's profoundest teacher wast at school, And, notwithstanding, dost at last appear,
A brainless, heartless, faithless, hopeless fool. Come, take thy cap and bells, and throne thee here, Conspicuous on the Dunce's loftiest stool.
NoT anger, not contempt should be thy meed, Not scornful indignation, but most deep And sorrowing pity, soul that canst not sleep For inborn turbulence, but still dost feed Passion insane, with vengeful word and deed; And so from strife to strife for ever leap, While strangers marvel, foes deride, friends weep, And good men pray for thee, and kind hearts bleed;
Meanwhile, by headstrong and impetuous will, Thou on thy blind and desperate course art driven, And dost the air with wrath and discord fill, At enmity with all, though oft forgiven; Thus growing, here on earth, more restless still, And more unfit for future rest in Heaven.
WE stood beside the sick, and, as we thought, The dying pillow of our youngest child, Whose spirit yet by this world, undefiled, Seem'd ready to take wing; when there was brought A letter for my hands, which in me wrought Strange feelings; for it spake, with kindness mild, Of one to like bereavement reconciled
By a brief lesson which my pen And therewith came a little simple book, Telling a gentle tale of children twain, Whom God of late to rest eternal took From this world's sin and sorrow, care and pain : Thankfully on those pages did we look, And trust they spake not to our hearts in vain.
So, lady, whom we honour, though unknown, For thy frank spirit and thy pious love Toward him who died on earth and reigns above, Thou hast our thanks for this thy kindness, shown
Most opportunely: nor will thanks alone Thy recompense, I trust, hereafter prove, Who to our troubles, like a mission'd dove,
Didst bear the bough of peace
More blessed 'tis to give than to receive;
And more than thou receivedst hast thou given; For none like parents for their offspring grieve, And none can comfort whose hearts ne'er were riven With kindred anguish. Lady, I believe Our earthly griefs will make us friends in Heaven.
FRIEND most beloved, most honour'd, fare thee well; All joy go with thee to that home of Love,
Whence thou, at Friendship's call, didst late remove With pain and grief, and anxious fear, to dwell. Our gratitude for this we may not tell; Nay, never, till we meet in realms above, Can word or act the whole affection prove With which to thee our thankful bosoms swell. But well I know, that in these painful hours, The comfort and support which thou hast brought Hath, in the depth of both our spirits, wrought That which shall live when penal flame devours Earth and its works; a chain of burning thought Binding thy soul eternally to ours.
FOR patient ministrations, sweet and kind; For self-denying love, on our distress Pouring its soft and soothing tenderness; For the calm wisdom of thy christian mind, With deep experience of earth's griefs combined; For comfort which no language can express; For this, and how much more, thy name we bless, And keep it in our heart of hearts enshrined. But chiefly for those glimpses, pure and bright, Of faith intense, and piety serene,
Wherewith thou charm'st our spiritual sight To worlds which fleshly eye hath never seen; For that thy love, in sorrow's murkiest night, The pole-star of our Faith and Hope hath been.
IN peril and deep fear before thy day,
My child, when hope had perish'd, thou wast born, Yet wast thou lovely from thy natal morn; And vigorous health in all thy limbs did play, As if thou wouldst our every fear allay, And laugh our fond anxieties to scorn. Seven months roll'd by, and thou wast fiercely torn By fell disease; but that too pass'd away, Mocking hope's second death; and now again, (Kind Heaven be praised) thy pulse with health
And thou, untouch'd by any grief or pain,
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