"DEAR SIR,"--it runs,--"I received some five days ago a letter depicting the distress and urgent want of a widow and a sister, with whom, during the husband's lifetime, I was for two or three years a housemate; and yesterday the poor lady came up herself, almost clamorously soliciting me, not, indeed, to assist her from my own purse,--for she was previously assured that there was nothing therein,--but to exert myself to collect the sum of twenty pounds, which would save her from God knows what. On this hopeless task,--for perhaps never man whose name had been so often in print for praise or reprobation had so few intimates as myself,--when I recollected that before I left Highgate for the seaside you had been so kind as to intimate that you considered some trifle due to me,--whatever it be, it will go some way to eke out the sum which I have with a sick heart been all this day trotting about to make up, guinea by guinea. You will do me a real service, (for my health perceptibly sinks under this unaccustomed flurry of my spirits,) if you could make it convenient to inclose to me, however small the sum may be, if it amount to a bank-note of any denomination, directed 'Grove, Highgate,' where I am, and expect to be any time for the next eight months. In the mean time, believe me "Yours obliged, "S. T. COLERIDGE. "4th December, 1828." I find also, at the back of one of his manuscripts, the following poem, which I believe to be unpublished; for I cannot trace it in any edition of his collected works. LOVE'S BURIAL-PLACE.--A MADRIGAL. _Lady._ If _Love_ be dead. _Poet._ And I aver it. _Lady._ Tell me, Bard, where Love lies buried. _Poet._ Love lies buried where 'twas born: O gentle Dame, think it no scorn, If in my fancy I presume To call thy bosom poor Love's tomb,-- And on that tomb to read the line, "Here lies a Love that once seemed mine, But caught a cold, as I divine, And died at length of a decline!" I here copy his autograph lines, as he wrote them in Mrs. Hall's album. They will be found, too, as a note, in the "Biographia Literaria." "ON THE PORTRAIT OF THE BUTTERFLY ON THE SECOND LEAF OF THIS ALBUM. "The butterfly the ancient Grecians made The soul's fair emblem, and its only name: But of the soul escaped the slavish trade Of earthly life! For in this mortal frame Ours is the reptile's lot, much toil, much blame, Manifold motions, making little speed, And to deform and kill the things whereon we feed! "S. T. COLERIDGE. "30th April, 1830."