This was not the only occasion on which Lamb and Coleridge wrote a sonnet in partnership.  Writing to Southey in December, 1794, Coleridge says:  “Of the following sonnet, the four last lines were written by Lamb, a man of uncommon genius....”

SONNET

      O gentle look, that didst my soul beguile,
      Why hast thou left me?  Still in some fond dream
      Revisit my sad heart, auspicious smile! 
      As falls on closing flowers the lunar beam;
      What time in sickly mood, at parting day
      I lay me down and think of happier years;
      Of joys, that glimmered in Hope’s twilight ray,
      Then left me darkling in a vale of tears. 
      O pleasant days of Hope—­for ever flown! 
      Could I recall one!—­But that thought is vain,
      Availeth not Persuasion’s sweetest tone
      To lure the fleet-winged travellers back again: 
      Anon, they haste to everlasting night,
      Nor can a giant’s arm arrest them in their flight.

Subsequently Coleridge rewrote the final couplet.

The same letter to Southey informs us that the sonnet to Mrs. Siddons was not Lamb’s earliest poem, although it stands first in his poetical works; for Coleridge remarks:  “Have you seen his [Lamb’s] divine sonnet, ’O!  I could laugh to hear the winter wind’?” (see page 5).

Lamb printed the sonnet to Mrs. Siddons twice—­in 1796 and 1797.

Page 4. Was it some sweet device of Faery.

This sonnet passed through various vicissitudes.  Lamb had sent it to Coleridge for his Poems on Various Subjects in 1796, and Coleridge proceeded to re-model it more in accordance with his own views.  The following version, representing his modifications, was the one that found its way into print as Lamb’s:—­

      Was it some sweet device of faery land
      That mock’d my steps with many a lonely glade,
      And fancied wand’rings with a fair-hair’d maid? 
      Have these things been?  Or did the wizard wand
      Of Merlin wave, impregning vacant air,
      And kindle up the vision of a smile
      In those blue eyes, that seem’d to speak the while
      Such tender things, as might enforce Despair
      To drop the murth’ring knife, and let go by
      His fell resolve?  Ah me! the lonely glade
      Still courts the footsteps of the fair-hair’d maid,
      Among whose locks the west-winds love to sigh;
      But I forlorn do wander, reckless where,
      And mid my wand’rings find no ANNA there! 
          
                                      C.L.