Julia was blest with beauty, wit, and grace: Small poets loved to sing her blooming face. Before her altars, lo! a numerous train Preferr'd their vows; yet all preferr'd in vain: Till charming Florio, born to conquer, came, And touch'd the fair one with an equal flame. The flame she felt, and ill could she conceal What every look and action would reveal. With boldness then, which seldom fails to move, He pleads the cause of marriage and of love; The course of hymeneal joys he rounds, The fair one's eyes dance pleasure at the sounds. Nought now remain'd but "Noes"--how little meant-- And the sweet coyness that endears consent. The youth upon his knees enraptur'd fell:-- The strange misfortune, oh! what words can tell? Tell! ye neglected sylphs! who lap-dogs guard, Why snatch'd ye not away your precious ward? Why suffer'd ye the lover's weight to fall On the ill-fated neck of much-loved Ball? The favourite on his mistress cast his eyes, Gives a short melancholy howl, and--dies! Sacred his ashes lie, and long his rest! Anger and grief divide poor Julia's breast. Her eyes she fix'd on guilty Florio first, On him the storm of angry grief must burst. That storm he fled:--he wooes a kinder fair, Whose fond affections no dear puppies share. 'Twere vain to tell how Julia pined away;-- Unhappy fair, that in one luckless day (From future almanacks the day be crost!) At once her lover and her lap-dog lost! 1789. [1] [Footnote 1: This copy of verses was written at Christ's Hospital, and transcribed, 'honoris causa', into the book kept by the head-master, Mr. Bowyer, for that purpose. They are printed by Mr. Trollope in p. 192 of his 'History of the Hospital', published in 1834. Ed.] "I YET REMAIN..." --I yet remain To mourn the hours of youth (yet mourn in vain) That fled neglected: wisely thou hast trod The better path--and that high meed which God Assign'd to virtue, tow'ring from the dust, Shall wait thy rising, Spirit pure and just. O God! how sweet it were to think, that all Who silent mourn around this gloomy ball Might hear the voice of joy;--but 'tis the will Of man's great Author, that through good and ill Calm he should hold his course, and so sustain His varied lot of pleasure, toil, and pain! 1793. [1] [Footnote 1: These lines were found in Mr. Coleridge's hand-writing in one of the Prayer Books in the chapel of Jesus College, Cambridge. Ed.] TO THE REV. W. J. HORT. [1] Hush! ye clamorous cares, be mute! Again, dear harmonist! again Through the hollow of thy flute Breathe that passion-warbled strain; Till memory back each form shall bring The loveliest of her shadowy throng, And hope, that soars on sky-lark wing, Shall carol forth her gladdest song!