“'Tis vain to say her worst of grief is only

The common lot, which all the world have known:
To her 'tis more, because her heart is lonely,

And yet she hath no strength to stand alone.
Once she had playmates, fancies of her own,
And she did love them. They are passed away,
As fairies vanish at the break of day;

And, like a spectre of an age departed,
Or unsphered angel woefully astray,

She glides along,-the solitary-hearted."

We have rarely met with any thing more felicitous than that closing line; the being described with such self-restraining power-never too much revealed from the cloud of mystery that envelops it-passes away an object of admiration more than of love, too sacred for common human sympathy. The same pure feeling towards the sex pervades the volume, and finds expression in some elegiac pieces of a very touching character. There is evidence in the volume of a susceptibility to other emotions than the passion of love, and we are glad of it, for we have no great partiality for the poet amatory exclusively, whom we are tempted to fancy a sort of “Master Slender,"-"a softly-sprighted man, with a little yellow beard," who has but one thought, "Sweet Anne Page!" and no other recollections than "stewed prunes" and the bear-garden. Love-poets find their profit in the easy access they gain to the soft hearts that abound all the world over. But the true poet must deal with other feelings beside the one masterpassion,―kindly affections, and calm and placid impulses As far as a writer's character may be conjectured from his writings, Hartley Coleridge must be a gentle and right-hearted being. Omitting those instances in which he speaks dramatically, there is an air of sincerity in his

expressions of feeling which mightily wins his reader's good-will. We must except his expressions of mirth, which have not a real or healthy tone; and, although there are in the volume words which, as Jeremy Taylor says, are as light as the skirt of a summer-garment," yet they seem to be rather the relief of a heavy heart than the ventings of a light one. Passing them by, the beauty of sincerity is not the least of the beauties of the following lines:

We feel as if we should be missing a rare oppor tunity for appropriate quotation, considering the ap

proaching season, if we passed by the stanzas on "New Year's Day." We are pretty confident that the year will come to its close without producing any thing conceived in better feeling, and that many a New Year's sermon will be preached to duller ears. At all events, the stanzas will be less likely than the sermons to be applied by those to whom they are addressed, away from themselves, to their neighbours. We have ventured to call attention, by means of italics, to some of the lines which show the exuberance of the poet' fancy:

"NEW YEAR'S DAY.

"While the bald trees stretch forth their long lank arms,

And starving birds peck nigh the reeky farms :
While houseless cattle paw the yellow field,
Or, coughing, shiver in the pervious bield,
And naught more gladsome in the hedge is seen
Than the dark holly's grimly-glistening green:
At such a time the ancient year goes by

To join its parent in eternity;

At such a time the merry year is born,

Like the bright berry from the naked thorn.

"The bell rings out; the hoary steeple rocks:
Hark! the long story of a score of clocks;
For once a year the village clocks agree,-
E'en clocks agree to sound the hour of glee;
And every cottage has a light awake,
Unusual stars long flicker o'er the lake;
The moon on high, if any moon be there,
May peep, or wink; no mortal now will care:
For 'tis the season when the nights are long.
There's time, ere morn, for each to sing his song.

"The year departs. A blessing on its head!
We mourn not for it, for it is not dead.

Dead? What is that? A word to joy unknown,
Which love abhors, and faith will never own.
A word whose meaning sense could never find,
That has no truth in matter, nor in mind.
The passing breezes gone as soon as felt,
The flakes of snow that in the soft air melt,
The wave that whitening curls its frothy crest
And falls to sleep upon its mother's breast,
The smile that sinks into a maiden's eye,—
They come, they go, they change; they do not die.
So the old year-that fond and formal name—
Is with us yet, another and the same.

"And are the thoughts that ever more are fleeing, The moments that make up our being's being, The silent workings of unconscious love,

Or the dull hate which clings, and will not move,
In the dark caverns of the gloomy heart,

The fancies wild and horrible, which start
Like loathsome reptiles from their crankling holes,
From foul, neglected corners of our souls:—
Are these less vital than the waves or wind,

Or snow that melts and leaves no trace behind?

Oh! let them perish all, or pass away,

And let our spirits feel a New Year's day.

"A New Year's day! 'tis but a term of art,—

An arbitrary line upon the chart

Of time's unbounded sea,-fond Fancy's creature,
To reason alien, and unknown to nature.
Nay: 'tis a joyful day,—a day of hope!
Bound, merry dancer, like an antelope;
And as that lovely creature, far from man,
Gleams through the spicy groves of Hindostan,
Flash through the labyrinth of the mazy dance
With foot as nimble, and as keen a glance.

"And we, whom many New Year's days have told The sober truth that we are growing old,

For this one night-ay, and for many more—
Will be as jocund as we were of yore.
Kind hearts can make December blithe as May,
And in each morrow find a New Year's day."

Hartley Coleridge is an egotist; and gracefully does his egotism sit upon him. It is one of the poet's privileges. There are expressions throughout the volume calculated to excite commiseration and somewhat of curiosity in some breasts,-murmurings of self-reproach, -repinings after mis-spent time and neglected talent, together with intimations of domestic griefs. We know not what it may all mean, but certain are we that there is an air of sad reality about it: it is no fantastic woe,-none of the old fashion of melancholy that may be traced from the days of Ben Jonson's "Master Stephen" down to the times of Lord Byron. It is not possible to suspect Hartley Coleridge of playing any such small game,-of following the worn-out device of enacting "Il Penseroso" for effect. His allusions to his poverty do him honour, and we cannot believe that one who has learned to depict nature with the delicacy and fidelity which mark this volume has been idle, or unprofitably employed. At all events, he has before him the time and the power of self-recovery. Throwing aside all distrust of the poetic power of the English tongue, let him not waver or be drawn down by any despondency. Let him call to mind "the labour and intense study" which Milton looked upon as his portion in life, when he conceived the thought of 66 a work not to be raised from the heat of youth, nor to be obtained by the invocation of Dame Memory and her siren daughters, but by devout prayer to that eternal