Note 1, p. 73. [These lines are quoted by Coleridge in The Friend,' to illustrate a principle expressed in a passage of that work, which may be here inserted as a reciprocal illustration. "Men laugh at the falsehoods imposed on them during their childhood, because they are not good and wise enough to contemplate the past in the present, and so to produce by a virtuous and thoughtful sensibility that continuity in their self-consciousness, which nature has made the law of their animal life. Ingratitude, sensuality, and hardness of heart, all flow from this source. Men are ungrateful to others only when they have ceased to look back on their former selves with joy and tenderness. They exist in fragments. Annihilated as to the past, they are dead to the future, or seek for the proofs of it everywhere, only not (where alone it can be found) in themselves. A contemporary poet has expressed and illustrated this sentiment with equal fineness of thought and tenderness of feeling: My heart leaps up when I behold Or let me die. The child is father of the man, "I am informed, that these very lines have been cited as a specimen of despicable puerility. So much the worse for the citer: not willingly in his presence would I behold the sun setting behind our mountains, I should be or listen to a tale of distress or virtue; ashamed of the quiet tear on my own cheek. But let the dead bury the dead! The poet sang for the living ..... I was always pleased with the motto placed under the figure of the rosemary in old herbals: 'Sus apage! Haud tibi spiro.'" The Friend,' Vol. I. p. 58.-H. R.J Note 2, p. 81. [The impression made by the poem referred to upon the mind of Coleridge is in some measure shown by the fact that this extract and another on the French Revolution were first published in 'The Friend.' A record of his feelings-of the manner in which his spirit was moved by the perusal—may be found in his Poetical Works; and it forms so precious a comment -the best of all kinds-poet responding to poet-that I have appended it in this note. It is due to a poem so worthy of its lofty theme, and of him who wrote and The hand of man, however, has endeavoured to impress him who is addressed. In thus appending it, I cannot upon it a character still more interesting, by adding a but hope that I am rendering a grateful service to every religious feeling to the respect which its age naturally reflecting reader of this volume -a service too, which inspires. a restraining modesty might prevent Mr. Wordsworth from rendering in his own edition. — H. R. The poem by Coleridge, referred to in the above note, is transferred in this edition to what has become a more appropriate place, and will be found as an introduction to 'THE PRELUDE.' — H. R.] Note 3, p. 82. "The Norman Boy.' "Among ancient trees there are few, I believe, at least in France, so worthy of attention as an oak which may be seen in the 'Pays de Caux,' about a league from Yvetot, close to the church, and in the burialground of Allonville. The height of this tree does not answer to its girth; the trunk, from the roots to the summit, forms a complete cone; and the inside of this cone is hollow throughout the whole of its height. Such is the Oak of Allonville, in its state of nature. The lower part of its hollow trunk has been transformed into a chapel of six or seven feet in diameter, carefully wainscoted and paved, and an open iron gate guards the humble sanctuary. Leading to it there is a staircase, which twists round the body of the tree. At certain seasons of the year divine service is performed in this chapel. The summit has been broken off many years, but there is a surface at the top of the trunk, of the diameter of a very large tree, and from it rises a pointed roof, covered with slates, in the form of a steeple, which is surmounted with an iron cross, that rises in a picturesque manner from the middle of the leaves, like an ancient hermitage above the surrounding wood. Over the entrance to the chapel an inscription appears, which informs us it was erected by the Abbé du Détroit, Curate of Allonville, in the year 1696; and over a door is another, dedicating it To Our Lady of Peace.'" Vide 14 No. Saturday Magazine. POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. THE BROTHERS.* His expectations to the fickle winds 'THESE Tourists, Heaven preserve us! needs must A fellow-mariner, — and so had fared live A profitable life: some glance along, Tombstone nor name-only the turf we tread He fed the spindle of his youngest Child, Who turned her large round wheel in the open air 'Twas one well known to him in former days, A Shepherd-lad; — who ere his sixteenth year Had left that calling, tempted to entrust This Poem was intended to conclude a series of pastorals, the scene of which was laid among the mountains of Cumberand and Westmoreland. I mention this to apologise for the ab ruptness with which the poem begins Through twenty seasons; but he had been reared Lengthening invisibly its weary line Along the cloudless Main, he, in those hours And, while the broad green wave and sparkling foam And now, at last, + This description of the Calenture is sketched from an imperfect recollection of an admirable one in prose, by Mr. Gil. bert, author of The Hurricane 87 Another grave, That he began to doubt; and hope was his Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend (It is the loneliest place of all these hills) Through fields which once had been well known to him: As if they had been made that they might be And oh what joy the recollection now By this the Priest, who down the field had come, Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard gate Stopped short, and thence, at leisure, limb by limb Perused him with a gay complacency. Ay, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself, 'Tis one of those who needs must leave the path Of the world's business to go wild alone: His arms have a perpetual holiday; The happy man will creep about the fields, Following his fancies by the hour, to bring Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles Into his face, until the setting sun Write Fool upon his forehead. Planted thus Beneath a shed that over-arched the gate Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appeared The good Man might have communed with himself, But that the Stranger, who had left the grave, Approached; he recognised the Priest at once, And, after greetings interchanged, and given By Leonard to the Vicar as to one Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued. LEONARD. You live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet life: And see, that with our threescore years and ten Companions for each other: the huge crag one serving, Sir, LEONARD. Yet your Church-yard Seems, if such freedom may oe used with you, To say that you are heedless of the past: An orphan could not find his mother's grave: Here's neither head nor foot-stone, plate of brass. Cross-bones nor skull, - type of our earthly state Nor emblem of our hopes: the dead man's home Is but a fellow to that pasture field. PRIEST. Why, there, Sir, is a thought that's new to me! This actually took place upon Kidstow Pike at the head of Haweswater LEONARD. 'Tis a common case. We'll take another: who is he that lies Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves? PRIEST. They did — and truly: But that was what we almost overlooked, Though from their cradles they had lived with Walter, The only Kinsman near them, and though he Inclined to them by reason of his age, With a more fond, familiar tenderness, They, notwithstanding, had much love to spare, That's Walter Ewbank. Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months, He had as white a head and fresh a cheek A little yet a little - and old Walter, LEONARD. But those two Orphans? PRIEST. Orphans! Such they wereYet not while Walter lived:- for, though their pa rents Lay buried side by side as now they lie. Was two years taller: 't was a joy to see, To hear, to meet them! - From their house the Schoo. Would Leonard then, when elder boys perhaps LEONARD. It may be then PRIEST. Never did worthier lads break English bread; |