ELEGY ON ELIZA,

WIFE OF BENJAMIN FLOWER, OF CAMBRIDGE, THE FATHER OF THE LIBERAL NEWSPAPER PRESS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF

CORN-LAW RHYMES."

OH, Devon! when thy daughter died,
The primrose deck'd the green hill's side,
The winds were laid, the melted snow
Was crystal in the river's flow,
The elm disclosed its golden green,
The hazel's crimson tuft was seen,
The schoolboy sought the mossy lane
To watch the building thrush again,
And birds, upon the budding spray,
Rejoiced in April's sweetest day;
She, too, rejoiced, thy wondrous child,
For in the arms of death she smiled!
And when her wearied strength was spent ;
When pain's disastrous strife was o'er;
When, pallid as a monument,

Eliza moved not, spoke not more;

Her prattling babes might deem she slept,
And wonder why their father wept.
Why wept he? If, with soul unmoved,
From all who loved her, all she loved,
From husband, children, she could part,
And meet the blow that still'd her heart;
Why wept he? Not that she was gone
To wait beneath th' eternal throne,
And kiss in heaven, with holy joy,
Her youngest born-that fatal boy!
And smile, a brighter spirit there,
On him, still doom'd to walk with care!
Oh, still on him, from realms of light
The seraph-matron bends her sight,
Still, still his friend in trouble tried,
Though sever'd from his lonely side!
He weeps! for truth and beauty rest
Beneath the shroud that wraps her breast:
Taste mourns a sister on her bier,

And more than genius claims a tear.

The blessing of the sufferer

Bedews the turf that covers her;

And orphans whom she taught to read,

Drop over her a silver bead,

Who did not pass in scorn your door,

Ye children of the helpless poor!

Oh, bless'd in life! in death how bless'd !—

Her life in beauteous deeds array'd!

Her death, serene as evening's shade!
And bliss is her eternal rest!

A LETTER FROM WALES*.

BY THE LATE S. T. COLERIDGE.

DEAR MARTIN,-From Oxford to Gloucester, to Ross', to Hereford, to Leominster, to Bishop's Castle, to Montgomery, to Welshpool, Llanvilling, Llangunnog, Bala, Druid House, Llangollen, Wrexham, Ruthyn, Denbigh, St. Asaph, Holywell, Rudland, Abergeley, Aberconway, Abber, over a ferry to Beaumaris (Anglesea), Amlwch, Copper-mines, Gwinda, Moeldon, over a ferry to Caernarvon, have I journeyed, now philosophizing with Hucks, now melancholizing by myself, or else indulging those day-dreams of fancy, that make realities. more gloomy. To whatever place I have affixed the mark, there we slept. The first part of our tour was intensely hot-the roads, white and dazzling, seemed to undulate with heat-and the country bare and unhedged, presented nothing but stone-fences, dreary to the eye and scorching to the touch. At Ross we took up our quarters at the King's Arms, once the house of Mr. Kyrle, the celebrated Man of Ross. I gave the window-shutter a few verses, which I shall add to the end of the letter. The walk from Llangunnog to Bala, over the mountains, was most wild and romantic. There are immense and rugged clefts in the mountains, which in winter must form cataracts most tremendous: now there is just enough sun-glittering water dashed down over them to soothe, not disturb the ear. I climbed up a precipice on which was a large thorn-tree, and slept by the side of one of them near two hours.

At Bala, shortly after, in came a clergyman well-dressed, and with him four other gentlemen. I was asked for a public character: I gave Dr. Priestley. The clergyman whispered to his neighbour, who, it seems, is the apothecary of the parish, "Republicans!" Accordingly when the doctor (as they call apothecaries) was to have given a name, "I gives a sentiment, gemmen! May all Republicans be gulloteened.” Up starts the Democrat, "May all fools he gulloteened, and then you will be first." Fool, rogue, traitor, liar, &c., flew in each others' faces in hailstorms of vociferation. This is nothing in Wales-they make it necessary vent-holes for the sulphureous fumes of their temper. I endeavoured to calm the tempest by observing, "That however different our political opinions might be, the appearance of a clergyman in the company assured me that we were all Christians; though I found it rather difficult to reconcile the last sentiment with the spirit of Christianity." "Pho!" quoth the clergyman; "Christianity! Why, we a'n't at church now, are we? The gemman's sentiment was a very good one, because it shows him to be sincere in his principles." Welsh politics, however, could not prevail over Welsh hospitality: they all shook hands with me (except the parson), and said I was an openspeaking, honest-hearted fellow, though I was a bit of a democrat." On

We are kindly permitted to publish this letter: it was written to the late Mr. Martin (a clergyman of Dorsetshire), to whom the Poet dedicated one of his dramatic pieces. It is interesting and characteristic; and is, indeed, quite a fragment of autobiography. Of the two poems annexed, the one to the faded Violet has not, we believe, been printed; the other is well known, but this copy differs from that which has been published.

our road from Bala to Druid House we met Brookes and Berdmore, our rival pedestrians; a gemini of Powells were vigorously marching onward-in a post-chaise! Berdmore had been ill. We were not a little glad to see each other. Llangollen is a village most romantically situated; but the weather was so intensely hot, that we saw only what was to be admired-we could not admire. At Wrexham, the tower is most magnificent; and in the church is a white marble monument of Lady Middleton, superior, meâ quidem sententiâ, to anything in Westminster Abbey. It had entirely escaped my memory that Wrexham was the residence of a Miss E. Evans, a young lady with whom, in happier days, I had been in habits of fraternal correspondence; she lives with her grandmother. As I was standing at the window of the inn she passed by, and with her, to my utter astonishment, her sister, Mary Evans, quam afflictum et perdite amabam, yea, even to anguish. They both started and gave a short cry, almost a faint shriek. I sickened and well nigh fainted, but instantly retired. Had I appeared to recognize her, my fortitude would not have supported me.

Vivit, sed mihi non vivit-nova forte marita.
Ah! dolor! alterius carâ a cervice pependit.
Vos, male fida valeta accensæ insomnia mentis,

Littora amata, vale te! vale, ah! formosa Maria."

Hucks informed me that the two sisters walked by the window four or five times, as if anxiously. Doubtless, they think themselves deceived by some face strangely like me. God bless her! Her image is in the sanctuary of my bosom, and never can it be torn from thence but with the strings that grapple my heart to life. This circumstance made me quite ill. I had been wandering among the wild wood scenery and terrible graces of the Welsh mountains to wear away, not to revive, the images of the past! But love is a local anguish; I am fifty miles distant, and am not half so miserable.

At Denbigh is the finest ruined castle in the kingdom: it surpassed everything I could have conceived. I wandered there two hours in a still evening, feeding upon melancholy. Two well-dressed young men were roaming there. "I will play my flute here," said the first," it will have a romantic effect." "Bless thee, man of genius and sensibility!" I silently exclaimed. He sat down amid the most awful part of the ruins. The moon just began to make her rays predominant over the lingering daylight. I pre-attuned my feelings to emotion, and the romantic youth instantly struck up the sadly-pleasing tune of Mrs. Casey

"The British lion is my sign,

A roaring trade I drive on," &c.

Three miles from Denbigh, on the road to St. Asaph, is a fine bridge with one arch, of great grandeur. Stand at a little distance, and through it you see the woods waving on the hill-bank of the river in a most lovely point of view. A beautiful prospect is always more picturesque when seen at some little distance through an arch. I have frequently thought of Mick Taylor's way of viewing a landscape by putting his head between his thighs. Under the arch was the most perfect echo I ever heard. Hucks sung "Sweet Echo " with great effect. At Holywell I bathed in the famous St. Winifred's well-it is an excellent cold bath.

Just before I quitted Cambridge I met a countryman with a strange walking-stick, five feet in length. I eagerly bought it, and a most faithful servant it has proved to me. My sudden affection for it has mellowed into settled friendship. On the morning of our leaving Abergeley, just before our final departure, I looked for my stick in the place where I had left it over-night. It was gone! I alarmed the house. No one knew anything of it. In the flurry of anxiety I sent for the crier of the town, and gave him the following to cry about the town and on the beach, which he did with a gravity for which I am indebted to his stupidity:

"Missing from the Bee Inn, Abergeley, a curious walking-stick. On one side it displays the head of an eagle, the eyes of which represent rising suns, and the ears Turkish crescents. On the other side is the portrait of the owner in wood-work. Beneath the head of the eagle is a Welsh wig, and around the neck of the stick is a Queen Elizabeth's ruff in tin. All adown it waves the line of beauty, in very ugly carving. If any gentleman (or lady) has fallen in love with the above-described stick, and secretly carried off the same, he (or she) is hereby earnestly admonished to conquer a passion, the continuance of which must prove fatal to his (or her) honesty; and if the said stick has slipped into such gentleman's (or lady's) hand through inadvertence, he (or she) is required to rectify the mistake with all convenient speed.-God save the King."

Abergeley is a fashionable Welsh watering-place, and so singular a proclamation excited no small crowd upon the beach; among the rest a lame old gentleman, in whose hands was descried my dear stick. The old gentleman, who lodged at our inn, felt great confusion, and walked homewards, the solemn crier before him, and a various cavalcade behind him. I kept the muscles of my face in tolerable subjection: he made his lameness an apology for borrowing my sticksupposed he should have returned before I wanted it again, &c. Thus it ended, except that a very handsome young lady put her head out of a coach window, and begged my permission to have the bill which I had delivered to the crier; I acceded to the request with a compliment that lighted up a blush upon her cheek, and a smile upon her lips. We passed over a ferry, and landed at Aberconway. We had scarcely left the boat, ere we descried Brookes and Berdmore, with whom we have joined parties, nor do we mean to separate. Our tour through Anglesea to Caernarvon has been repaid by scarcely one object worth seeing. To-morrow we visit Snowdon, &c. Brookes, Berdmore, and myself, at the imminent hazard of our lives, scaled the very summit of Penmaenmaur-it was a most dreadful expedition! I will give you the account in some future letter.

I sent for Bowles's Works while at Oxford-how was I shocked! Every omission and every alteration disgusts taste and mangles sensibility. Surely some Oxford toad has been squatting at the Poet's ear, and spitting into it the cold venom of dullness. It is not Bowles-he is still the same-the added poems prove it-descriptive, dignified, tender, sublime. The sonnets added are exquisite. Abbé Thule has marked beauties, and the little poem at Southampton is a diamond-in whatever light you place it, it reflects beauty and splendour. The Shakspeare" is sadly unequal to the rest; yet in whose poems, except

in those of Bowles, would it not have been excellent? Direct to me, my dear fellow, to be left at the post-office, Bristol, and tell me everything about yourself, how you have spent the vacation, &c. Believe me, with gratitude and fraternal friendship, Your obliged

July 22, 1794.

S. T. COLERIDGE.

Lines written at Ross, at the King's ArmS, ONCE THE HOUSE OF

MR. KYRLE.

Richer than misers o'er their countless hoards,

Nobler than kings, or king-polluted lords,

Here dwelt the Man of Ross! Oh! stranger, hear!

Departed merit claims the glistening tear.

If 'neath this roof thy wine-cheer'd moments pass,

Fill to the good man's name one grateful glass.
To higher zest shall memory wake thy soul,
And virtue mingle in the ennobled bowl.
But if, like me, through life's distressful scene,
Lonely and sad thy pilgrimage hath been;
And if, thy breast with heart-sick anguish rife,
Thou journeyest onward tempest-toss'd in life,
Here cheat thy cares, in generous visions melt,
And dream of goodness thou hast never felt.

THE FADED FLOWER.

Ungrateful he, who pluck'd thee from thy stalk,
Poor faded flow'ret! on his careless way;
Inhaled 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.
And now I bend me o'er thy wither'd bloom,
And drop the tear-as Fancy, at my side,
Deep-sighing, points the fair frail Abra's tomb-
"Like thine, sad flower, was that poor wanderer's pride!
Oh! lost to love and truth, whose selfish joy
Tasted her vernal sweets, but tasted to destroy."

S. T. COLERidge.

[It cannot be necessary to offer any apology for adding to this letter It was, a Fragment," which we have received from the same source. we understand, written by Mr. Coleridge while he was at college, and was designed to show that "the study of History is preferable to the study of Natural Philosophy."]

TRUTH is the natural aliment of the human mind, and the investigation of truth its noblest pursuit; but of all the modes of conveying truth, that must be the most interesting to us, which, by extending our knowledge of moral and intellectual facts, makes us more thoroughly acquainted with our own nature. The recesses of the human heart are not to be explored by the microscopic eye of the metaphysician, nor its labyrinths unfolded by the clue of logical analysis. In the mirror of history only can man contemplate his mental proportions. From the actions of