-How long is't Lawrence, since this* creature young,
Out of thy sportive mood so bravely sprung

Into bright life, and took his stand in joy
With things that Time shall never dare destroy?—
-What matter?-he is here, and here shall be,

A shape to speak, in far futurity,

Of thy rare merits to the Muse of Song,

When I and all these rhymes have vanished long!

See the accompanying Engraving.

YOUTH AND AGE.

By S. T. Coleridge, Esq.

VERSE, a breeze mid blossoms straying,
Where Hope clings feeding like a bee,
Both were mine! Life went a maying
With Nature Hope and Poesy.

When I was young!

When I was young ?-Ah, woful when!
Ah, for the change 'twixt now and then!
This house of clay not built with hands,
This body that does me grievous wrong,
O'er hill and dale and sounding sands,
How lightly then it flashed along :-
Like those trim boats, unknown of yore,

On winding lakes and rivers wide,

That ask no aid of sail or oar,

That fear no spite of wind or tide!

Nought cared this body for wind or weather, When youth and I lived in't together.

Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like,
Friendship is a sheltering tree;

O the joys that come down shower like
Of Beauty, Truth and Liberty.

Ere I was old!

Ere I was old? Ah woful ere,
Which tells me youth's no longer here !
O youth for years so merry and sweet,
'Tis known that thou and I were one,
I'll think it but a false conceit,
It cannot be that thou art gone!
Thy vesper bell hath not yet toll'd,
And thou wert, aye a masker bold.
What strange disguise hast now put on,
To make believe that thou art gone
I see these locks in silvery slips,
This dragging gait, this altered size;-
But spring tide blossoms on thy lips,
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!
Life is but thought, so think I will

That youth and I are house-mates still.

L

A DAY DREAM.

By S. T. Coleridge, Esq.

My eyes make pictures, when they are shut-
I see a fountain, large and fair,

A willow and a ruined hut,

And thee, and me and Mary there :

O Mary! make thy gentle lap our pillow! Bend o'er us, like a bower, my beautiful green willow!

A wild-rose roofs the ruined shed,
And that and summer will agree:

And, lo! where Mary leans her head,

Two dear names carved upon the tree !—

And Mary's tears-they are not tears of sorrow,— Our sister and our friend will both be here to

morrow.

'Twas day; but now few, large, and bright, The stars are round the crescent moon ;

And now it is a dark warm night,

The balmiest of the month of June!

A glow-worm fall'n, and in the marge remounting Shines and its shadow shines, fit stars for our sweet fountain.

O ever-ever be thou blest!

O Asra! dearly love I thee

This brooding warmth across my breast;

This depth of tranquil bliss-ah, me!

Fount, tree and shed are gone, I know not whither, But in one quiet room we three are still together.

The shadows dance upon the wall

By the still dancing fire-flames made; And now they slumber moveless all!

And now they melt to me deep shade!

But not from me shall this mild darkness steal thee, I dream thee with mine eyes, and at my heart I feel thee!

Thine eyelash on my cheek doth play

'Tis Mary's hand upon my brow!

But let me check this tender lay

Which none may hear but she and thou, Like the still hive at quiet midnight humming, Murmur it to yourselves, ye two beloved women.