And as when all the summer trees are seen
So bright and green,
The Holly leaves their fadeless hues display
Less bright than they,
But when the bare and wintry woods we see,
What then so cheerful as the Holly Tree?

So serious should my youth appear among
The thoughtless throng,
So would I seem amid the young and gay
More grave than they,
That in my age as cheerful I might be
As the green winter of the Holly Tree.”—­
___

It remains that I should say a few words of Mr. Coleridge; and there is no one who has a better right to say what he thinks of him than I have.  “Is there here any dear friend of Caesar?  To him I say, that Brutus’s love to Caesar was no less than his.”  But no matter.—­His Ancient Mariner is his most remarkable performance, and the only one that I could point out to any one as giving an adequate idea of his great natural powers.  It is high German, however, and in it he seems to “conceive of poetry but as a drunken dream, reckless, careless, and heedless, of past, present, and to come.”  His tragedies (for he has written two) are not answerable to it; they are, except a few poetical passages, drawling sentiment and metaphysical jargon.  He has no genuine dramatic talent.  There is one fine passage in his Christobel, that which contains the description of the quarrel between Sir Leoline and Sir Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine, who had been friends in youth.

        “Alas! they had been friends in youth,
      But whispering tongues can poison truth;
      And constancy lives in realms above;
      And life is thorny; and youth is vain;
      And to be wroth with one we love,
      Doth work like madness in the brain: 
      And thus it chanc’d as I divine,
      With Roland and Sir Leoline. 
      Each spake words of high disdain
      And insult to his heart’s best brother,
      And parted ne’er to meet again! 
      But neither ever found another
      To free the hollow heart from paining—­

        They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
      Like cliffs which had been rent asunder: 
      A dreary sea now flows between,
      But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,
      Shall wholly do away I ween
      The marks of that which once hath been.

        Sir Leoline a moment’s space
      Stood gazing on the damsel’s face;
      And the youthful lord of Tryermaine
      Came back upon his heart again.”

It might seem insidious if I were to praise his ode entitled Fire, Famine, and Slaughter, as an effusion of high poetical enthusiasm, and strong political feeling.  His Sonnet to Schiller conveys a fine compliment to the author of the Robbers, and an equally fine idea of the state of youthful enthusiasm in which he composed it.

      “Schiller! that hour I would have wish’d to die,
        If through the shudd’ring midnight I had sent
        From the dark dungeon of the tower time-rent,
      That fearful voice, a famish’d father’s cry—­