"And Ocean mid his uproar wild Speaks safety to his island child. Hence for many a fearless age Has social Quiet loved thy shore, Nor ever proud invader's rage, Or sacked thy towers or stained thy fields with gore." And whether we view him in his earlier or his later mood there is a certain strange dignity of utterance, a singular confidence in his own poetic mission, which forbids us to smile at this prophet of four-and-twenty who could thus conclude his menacing vaticinations:-- "Away, my soul, away! I, unpartaking of the evil thing, With daily prayer and daily toil Soliciting for food my scanty soil, Have wailed my country with a loud lament. Now I recentre my immortal mind In the deep Sabbath of meek self-content, Cleansed from the vaporous passions which bedim God's image, sister of the Seraphim." If ever the consciousness of great powers and the assurance of a great future inspired a youth with perfect and on the whole well-warranted fearlessness of ridicule it has surely done so here. Poetry alone, however, formed no sufficient outlet for Coleridge's still fresh political enthusiasm--an enthusiasm which now became too importunate to let him rest in his quiet Clevedon cottage. Was it right, he cries in his lines of leave-taking to his home, that he should dream away the entrusted hours "while his unnumbered brethren toiled and bled"? The propaganda of Liberty was to be pushed forward; the principles of Unitarianism, to which Coleridge had become a convert at Cambridge, were to be preached. Is it too prosaic to add that what poor Henri Murger calls the "chasse aux piecè de cent sous" was in all probability demanding peremptorily to be resumed?