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The Good, Great Man

"How seldom, friend! a good great man inherits

Honour or wealth with all his worth and pains!

It sounds like stories from the land of spirits

If any man obtain that which he merits

Or any merit that which he obtains."

REPLY TO THE ABOVE

For shame, dear friend, renounce this canting strain!

What would'st thou have a good great man obtain?

by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

The Faded Flower

Ungrateful he, who pluck'd thee from thy stalk,

Poor faded flow'ret! on his careless way;

Inhal'd awhile thy odours on his walk,

Then onward pass'd and left thee to decay.

Ah! melancholy emblem! had I seen

Thy modest beauties dew'd with Evening's gem,

I had not rudely cropp'd thy parent stem,

But left thee, blushing, 'mid the enliven'd green.

by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

As some vast Tropic tree, itself a wood (fragment)

As some vast Tropic tree, itself a wood,

That crests its Head with clouds, beneath the flood

Feeds its deep roots, and with the bulging flank

Of its wide base controls the fronting bank,

(By the slant current's pressure scoop'd away

The fronting bank becomes a foam-piled bay)

High in the Fork the uncouth Idol knits

His channel'd Brows; low murmurs stir by fits

by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

The Improvisatore, Or, 'John Anderson, My Jo, John'

Scene -- A spacious drawing-room, with music-room adjoining.

Katharine. What are the words ?

Eliza. Ask our friend, the Improvisatore ; here he comes. Kate has a favour

to ask of you, Sir ; it is that you will repeat the ballad [Believe me if

all those endearing young charms.—EHC's ? note] that Mr. ____ sang so

sweetly.

Friend. It is in Moore's Irish Melodies ; but I do not recollect the

words distinctly. The moral of them, however, I take to be this :—

by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Love's Apparition and Evanishment: An Allegoric Romance

Like a lone Arab, old and blind,

Some caravan had left behind,

Who sits beside a ruin'd well,

Where the shy sand-asps bask and swell;

And now he hangs his ag{'e}d head aslant,

And listens for a human sound—in vain!

And now the aid, which Heaven alone can grant,

Upturns his eyeless face from Heaven to gain;—

by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

(Fragment 2) I know 'tis but a Dream, yet feel more anguish

I know 'tis but a Dream, yet feel more anguish

Than if 'twere Truth. It has been often so:

Must I die under it? Is no one near?

Will no one hear these stifled groans and wake me?

From Notebook 16\; cf. The Pains of Sleep.

by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

A Mathematical Problem

This is now--this was erst,

Proposition the first--and Problem the first.

On a given finite Line

Which must no way incline;

To describe an equi--

--lateral Tri--

--A, N, G, L, E.

by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Come, come thou bleak December wind (fragment)

Come, come thou bleak December wind,

And blow the dry leaves from the tree!

Flash, like a Love-thought, thro' me, Death

And take a Life that wearies me.

NOTES

by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

A Tombless Epitaph

'Tis true, Idoloclastes Satyrane!

(So call him, for so mingling blame with praise,

And smiles with anxious looks, his earliest friends,

Masking his birth-name, wont to character

His wild-wood fancy and impetuous zeal,)

'Tis true that, passionate for ancient truths,

And honouring with religious love the Great

Of elder times, he hated to excess,

by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Recollections Of Love

How warm this woodland wild Recess!

Love surely hath been breathing here;

And this sweet bed of heath, my dear!

Swells up, then sinks with faint caress,

As if to have you yet more near.

II.

Eight springs have flown, since last I lay

by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Constancy To An Ideal Object

Since all, that beat about in Nature's range,

Or veer or vanish; why should'st thou remain

The only constant in a world of change,

O yearning THOUGHT! that liv'st but in the brain?

Call to the HOURS, that in the distance play,

The faery people of the future day----

Fond THOUGHT! not one of all that shining swarm

Will breathe on thee with life-enkindling breath,

by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Song

Tho' veiled in spires of myrtle-wreath,

Love is a sword that cuts its sheath,

And thro' the clefts, itself has made,

We spy the flashes of the Blade !

But thro' the clefts, itself has made,

We likewise see Love's flashing blade,

By rust consumed or snapt in twain :

And only Hilt and Stump remain.

by Samuel Taylor Coleridge