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Poems by Hartley Coleridge

With a Memoir of his Life by his Brother. In Two Volumes
Coleridge, Hartley (1796-1849)

collapse sectionI. 
VOL. I
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POEMS.
  
DEDICATORY SONNET, TO S. T. COLERIDGE.
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SONNETS.
 I. 
I. TO A FRIEND.
 II. 
II. TO THE SAME.
 III. 
III. TO THE SAME.
 IV. 
IV.
 V. 
V.
 VI. 
VI.
 VII. 
VII.
  
VIII.
 IX. 
IX
 X. 
X.
 XI. 
XI.
 XII. 
XII.
 XIII. 
XIII.
 XIV. 
XIV. On a Picture of the Corpse of Napoleon lying in State.
 XV. 
XV. TO WORDSWORTH.
 XVI. 
XVI. NOVEMBER.
 XVII. 
XVII On parting with a very pretty, but very little Lady.
 XVIII. 
XVIII. NIGHT.
 XIX. 
XIX. THE FIRST BIRTH DAY.
 XX. 
XX.
 XXI. 
XXI.
 XXII. 
XXII.
 XXIII. 
XXIII.
 XXIV. 
XXIV.
 XXV. 
XXV. FROM COUNTRY TO TOWN.
 XXVI. 
XXVI. CONTINUED.
 XXVII. 
XXVII.
 XXVIII. 
XXVIII. TO SHAKSPEARE.
 XXIX. 
XXIX.
 XXX. 
XXX.
 XXXI. 
XXXI.
 XXXII. 
XXXII. FROM PETRARCA.
 XXXIII. 
XXXIII.
 XXXIV. 
XXXIV. TO A LOFTY BEAUTY, FROM HER POOR KINSMAN.
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THOUGHTS AND FANCIES.
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VOL. II.

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26

XXII.

Youth, thou art fled,—but where are all the charms
Which, tho' with thee they came, and pass'd with thee,
Should leave a perfume and sweet memory
Of what they have been?—All thy boons and harms
Have perish'd quite.—Thy oft renew'd alarms
Forsake the fluttering echo.—Smiles and tears
Die on my cheek, or, petrified with years,
Shew the dull woe which no compassion warms,
The mirth none shares. Yet could a wish, a thought,
Unravel all the complex web of age,—
Could all the characters that Time hath wrought
Be clean effaced from my memorial page
By one short word, the word I would not say,
I thank my God, because my hairs are grey.
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