In a succeeding letter Mr. Coleridge says,

"My dear Cottle,

The lines which I added to my lines in the 'Joan of Arc' have been so little approved by Charles Lamb, to whom I sent them, that although I differ from him in opinion, I have not heart to finish the poem." Mr.

Coleridge in the same letter, thus refers to his "Ode to the Departing Year."

"... So much for an 'Ode,' which some people think superior to the 'Bard'

of Gray, and which others think a rant of turgid obscurity; and the latter are the more numerous cla.s.s. It is not obscure. My 'Religious Musings' I know are, but not this 'Ode.'"

Mr. C. still retained a peculiar regard for these lines of the "Visions"

and once meant to remodel the whole, as will appear from the following letter.

"Stowey, 1797.

My dear Cottle,

I deeply regret, that my anxieties and my slothfulness, acting in a combined ratio, prevented me from finishing my 'Progress of Liberty, or Visions of the Maid of Orleans' with that Poem at the head of the volume, with the 'Ode' in the middle, and the 'Religious Musings' at the end.

... In the 'Lines on the Man of Ross' immediately after these lines,

'He heard the widow's heaven-breathed prayer of praise, He mark'd the shelter'd orphan's tearful gaze.'

Please to add these two lines.

'And o'er the portioned maiden's snowy cheek, Bade bridal love suffuse its blushes meek.'

And for the line,

'Beneath this roof, if thy cheer'd moments pa.s.s.'

I should be glad to subst.i.tute this,

'If near this roof thy wine-cheer'd moments pa.s.s.'

These emendations came too late for admission in the second edition; nor have they appeared in the last edition. They will remain therefore for insertion in any future edition of Mr. Coleridge's Poems.[32]

"Stowey, 1797.

My dear Cottle,

... Public affairs are in strange confusion. I am afraid that I shall prove, at least, as good a Prophet as Bard. Oh, doom'd to fall, my country! enslaved and vile! But may G.o.d make me a foreboder of evils never to come!

I have heard from Sheridan, desiring me to write a tragedy. I have no genius that way; Robert Southey has. I think highly of his 'Joan of Arc'

and cannot help prophesying, that he will be known to posterity, as Shakspeare's great grandson. I think he will write a tragedy or tragedies.

Charles Lloyd has given me his Poems, which I give to you, on condition that you print them in this Volume, after Charles Lamb's Poems; the t.i.tle page, 'Poems, by S. T. Coleridge. Second Edition; to which are added Poems, by C. Lamb, and C. Lloyd.' C. Lamb's poems will occupy about forty pages; C. Lloyd's at least one hundred, although only his choice fish.

P. S. I like your 'Lines on Savage.'[33]

G.o.d bless you,

S. T. Coleridge."

In a letter received from Mr. Coleridge soon after, he says, "I shall now stick close to my tragedy (called Osorio,) and when I have finished it, shall walk to Shaftesbury to spend a few days with Bowles. From thence I go to Salisbury, and thence to Christchurch, to see Southey."

This letter, as was usual, has no date, but a letter from Mr. Wordsworth determines about the time when Mr. C. had nearly finished his Tragedy.

"September 13, 1797.

... Coleridge is gone over to Bowles with his Tragedy, which he has finished to the middle of the 5th Act. He set off a week ago."

Mr. Coleridge, in the summer of 1797 presented me with an extract from his "Osorio," which is here given to the reader, from Mr. C.'s own writing.

FOSTER-MOTHER'S TALE.

_Scene, Spain._

FOSTER-MOTHER.

Now blessings on the man, whoe'er he be, That joined your names with mine! O my sweet lady As often as I think of those dear times, When you two little ones would stand, at eve, On each side of my chair, and make me learn All you had learnt in the day, and how to talk In gentle phrase, then bid me sing to you-- 'Tis more like heaven to come than what _has_ been.

MARIA.

O my dear mother! this strange man has left us, Troubled with wilder fancies than the moon Breeds in the love-sick maid who gazes at it, Till lost in inward vision, with wet eye She gazes idly!--But that _entrance_, Mother!

FOSTER-MOTHER.

Can no one hear? It is a perilous tale!

MARIA.

No one.

FOSTER-MOTHER.

My husband's father told it me, Poor Old Leoni--Angels rest his soul!

He was a woodman, and could fell and saw With l.u.s.ty arm. You know that huge round beam Which props the hanging wall of the old Chapel.

Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree He found a baby wrapt in mosses, lined With thistle beards, and such small locks of wool As hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home, And reared him at the then Lord Velez' cost.

And so the babe grew up a pretty boy, A pretty boy but most unteachable-- And never learnt a prayer nor told a bead, But knew the names of birds, and mocked their notes, And whistled, as he were a bird himself.