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For I, that God of Lov'is Servantes serve,
Chaucer : Troilus and Creseide.
AND BALDWIN AND CRADOCK,
TO S. T. COLERIDGE.
Father, and Bard revered! to whom I owe,
The prayer was heard : I “wander'd like a breeze,” By mountain brooks and solitary meres, And gather'd there the shapes and phantasies Which, mixt with passions of my sadder years, Compose this book. If good therein there be, That good, my sire, I dedicate to thee.
Of the verses contained in this volume, a considerable number have already appeared in various periodicals. The rest are productions, for the most part, of a later time—it may be, of less leisure. None of them, with a single exception, can claim the privilege of juvenile poems. I neither deprecate nor defy the censure of the critics. No man can know, of himself, whether he is, or is not, a poet. The thoughts, the feelings, the images, whch are the material of poetry, are accessible to all who seek for them; but the power to express, combine, and modify—to make a truth of thought, to earn a sympathy for feeling, to convey an image to the inward eye, with all its influences and associations, can only approve itself by experiment—and the result of the experiment may not be known for years. Such an experiment I have ventured to try, and I wait the result