My honor'd friend! whose verse concise, yet clear, Tunes to smooth melody unconquer'd sense, May your fame fadeless live, "as never seer" The ivy wreathes yon oak, whose broad defence Embow'rs me from noon's sultry influence! For like that nameless riv'let stealing by, Your modest verse to musing quiet dear Is rich with tints heaven-borrow'd, the charm'd eye Shall gaze undazzled there, and love the soften'd sky. Circling the base of the poetic mount A stream there is, which rolls in lazy flow; Its cold-black waters from oblivion's fount; The vapour poison'd birds that fly too low, Fall with dead swoop, and to the bottom go. Escaped that heavy stream on pinion fleet, Beneath the mountain's lofty frowning brow, Ere aught of perilous ascent you meet, A mead of mildest charm delays the unlab'ring feet. Not there the cloud-climb rock, sublime and vast, That like some giant king, o'er-glooms the hill; Nor there the pine-grove to the midnight blast Makes solemn music! But the unceasing rill To the soft wren or lark's descending trill Murmurs sweet under-song 'mid jasmine bowers. In this same pleasant meadow at your will, I ween, you wander'd--there collecting flow'rs Of sober tint, and herbs of medicinal powers! There for the monarch-murder'd soldier's tomb You wove the unfinish'd[40] wreath of saddest hues, And to that holier[41] chaplet added bloom Besprinkling it with Jordan's cleansing dews. But lo! your[42] Henderson awakes the Muse-- His spirit beckon'd from the mountain's height! You left the plain and soar'd mid richer views! So nature mourn'd, when sank the first day's light, With stars, unseen before, spangling her robe of night! Still soar my friend those richer views among, Strong, rapid, fervent, flashing fancy's beam! Virtue and truth shall love your gentler song: But Poesy demands th' impassion'd theme: Wak'd by heaven's silent dews at Eve's mild gleam What balmy sweets Pomona breathes around? But if the vex'd air rush a stormy stream, Or autumn's shrill gust moan in plaintive sound With fruits and flowers she loads the tempest honor'd ground." While the first edition of Mr. Coleridge's poems was in the press, I received from him the following letter. "My dear Sir, ... There is a beautiful little poetic epistle of Sara's, which I mean to print here. What if her epistle to you were likewise printed, so as to have two of her poems? It is remarkably elegant, and would do honour to any volume of poems." The first epistle I never received. The second was printed in the first edition of Mr. C.'s poems, and in no other. On account of its merit it is here inserted. "THE PRODUCTION OF A YOUNG LADY,[43] ADDRESSED TO HER FRIEND, J. COTTLE. * * * * *