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A FANCY SKETCH.
I knew a gentle maid : I ne'er shall view
Her like again : and yet the vulgar eye
Might pass the charms I traced regardless by : For pale her cheek, unmarked with roseate hue ;
Nor beamed from her mild eye a dazzling glance ; Nor flashed her nameless graces on the sight; Yet beauty never woke such pure delight.
Fine was her form, as Dian's in the dance ; Her voice was music; in her silence dwelt
Expression, every look instinct with thought :
Though oft her mind by youth to rapture wrought Struck forth wild wit, and fancies ever new, The lightest touch of woe her soul would melt:
And, on her lips, when gleamed a lingering smile,
Pity's warm tear gushed down her cheek the while : Thy like, thou gentle maid ! I ne'er shall view.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE,
The son of a clergyman, was born in October, 1772, at Ottery St. Mary, in Devonshire. He was educated at Christ's Hospital, where he pursued his studies with so much zeal and perseverance, that he became Grecian, or captain of the school. He was then entered at Jesus College, Cambridge. Three years afterwards he left the University, and returned to London, where, after wandering about the streets for some days, he enlisted in the 15th Dragoons. A Latin sentence written by him on the stable wall, and seen by an officer, led to the discovery of who he was, and procured him his discharge. In 1795, he married, and subsequently visited Germany. On his return to England, he renounced Unitarianism, which he had formerly professed, and died a firm believer in the doctrines of Christianity, on the 25th of July, 1834, at the house of his devoted friends, Mr. and Mrs. Gillman, at Highgate, with whom he had resided the last nineteen years of his life.
TO GENERAL LA PAYETTE.
As when far off the warbled strains are heard,
Maid of my love! sweet Genevieve;
soul a voice there lives!
Sweet Mercy! how my very heart has bled
That mocks thy shivering! Take my garment-use A young man's arm.
I'll melt these frozen dews That hang from thy white beard, and numb thy breast. My Sara, too, shall tend thee, like a child:
And thou shalt talk, in our fire-side's recess,
Of purple pride, that scowls on wretchedness.
Who met the lazar turned from rich man's doors,
Pale roamer through the night! thou poor forlorn! Remorse, that man on his death-bed
possess, Who in the credulous hour of tenderness Betrayed, then cast thee forth to want and scorn! The world is pitiless; the chaste one's pride, Mimic of virtue, scowls on thy distress; Thy kindred, when they see thee, turn aside, And vice alone will shelter wretchedness! 0! I am sad to think, that there should be Men, born of woman, who endure to place Foul offerings on the shrine of misery, And force from famine the caress of love! Man has no feeling for thy sore disgrace: Keen blows the blast upon the moulting dove!
TO MRS. SIDDONS.
As when a child, on some long winter's night
OU CLIMBING THE ASCENT OF BROCKLEY-COOMB, SOMERSET
SHIRE, MAY, 1795.
With many a pause and oft reverted eye
TO THE AUTUMNAL MOON.
Mild splendour of the various-vested night!