V.—ON READING COLERIDGE'S EPITAPH.
WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.
“Stop, Christian passer-by! stop, child of God!
And read with gentle breast;—Beneath this sod
A Poet lies, or that which once seem'd he;
Oh! lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C.!
That He, who once in vain, with toil of breath,
Found death in life, may here find life in death!
Mercy, for praise; to be forgiven, for Fame,
He ask'd and hoped through Christ. Do thou the same!”
Spirit! so oft in radiant freedom soaring,
High through seraphic mysteries unconfined,
And oft, a diver through the deep of mind,
Its caverns, far below its waves, exploring;
And oft such strains of breezy music pouring,
As, with the floating sweetness of their sighs,
Could still all fevers of the heart, restoring
Awhile that freshness left in Paradise;
Say, of those glorious wanderings what the goal?
What the rich fruitage to man's kindred soul
From wealth of thine bequeathed? O strong and high,
And sceptred intellect! thy goal confess'd
Was the Redeemer's Cross—thy last bequest
One lesson breathing thence profound humility:
