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Malvern Hills

with Minor Poems, and Essays. By Joseph Cottle. Fourth Edition

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S. T. COLERIDGE, TO JOSEPH COTTLE.
  
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xv

S. T. COLERIDGE, TO JOSEPH COTTLE.

(ON THE FIRST EDITION OF HIS POEMS.)

MY honour'd Friend! whose verse concise, yet clear,
Tunes to smooth melody unconquer'd sense,
May your fame fadeless live, as “never-sere”
The ivy wreathes yon oak, whose broad defence
Embow'rs me from noon's sultry influence!
For, like that nameless riv'let stealing by,
Your modest verse to musing quiet dear
Is rich with tints heaven-borrow'd: the charm'd eye
Shall gaze undazzled there, and love the soften'd sky.
Circling the base of the poetic mount,
A stream there is, which rolls in lazy flow,
Its coal-black waters from Oblivion's fount:
The vapour-poison'd birds, that fly too low,
Fall with dead swoop, and to the bottom go.
Escaped that heavy stream, on pinion fleet,
Beneath the mountain's lofty-frowning brow,
Ere aught of perilous ascent you meet,
A mead of mildest charm delays th' unlab'ring feet.
Not there the cloud-climb'd rock, sublime and vast,
That like some giant king, o'er-glooms the hill;
Nor there the pine-grove to the midnight blast
Makes solemn music! But th' unceasing rill,
To the soft wren or lark's descending thrill,
Murmurs sweet undersong, mid jasmin bowers.
In this same pleasant meadow, at your will,

xvi

I ween, you wander'd—there collecting flow'rs
Of sober tint, and herbs, of med'cinable powers!
There for the monarch-murder'd soldier's tomb
You wove th' unfinish'd wreath of saddest hues;
And to that holier chaplet added bloom,
Besprinkling it with Jordan's cleansing dews.
But, lo! your Henderson awakes the muse —
His spirit beckon'd from the mountain's height!
You left the plain and soar'd mid richer views!
So Nature mourn'd, when sank the first day's light,
With stars, unseen before, spangling her robe of night!
Still soar, my Friend, those richer views among,
Strong, rapid, fervent, flashing Fancy's beam!
Virtue and Truth shall love your gentler song;
But Poesy demands th' impassion'd theme:
Waked by Heaven's silent dews, at Eve's mild gleam
What balmy sweets Pomona breathes around!
But if the vext air rush a stormy stream,
Or Autumn's shrill gust moan in plaintive sound,
With fruits and flowers she loads the tempest honour'd ground.