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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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33

XXIX.

Why should I murmur at my lot forlorn?
The self-same Fate that doom'd me to be poor
Endues me with a spirit to endure
All, and much more, than is or has been borne
By better men, of want, or worldly scorn.
My soul has faith, my body has the nerve
To brave the penance that my sins deserve.
And yet my helpless state I deeply mourn:
Well could I bear to be deserted quite,—
Less should I blame my fortune were it worse,—
But taking all, it yet hath left me friends,
For whom I needs must mourn the wayward spite
That hides my purpose in an empty purse,
Since what I grateful wish, in wishing ends.
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