Dear Sir, yours truly,
Charles Lamb."
Mr. Coleridge, in the second edition of his poems, transferred some of the poems which appeared in the first, to a supplement, and, amongst others, some verses addressed to myself, with the following notice.
"The first in order of these verses which I have thus endeavoured to reprieve from immediate oblivion, was originally addressed "To the Author of Poems published anonymously at Bristol." A second edition of these poems has lately appeared with the author's name prefixed: (Joseph Cottle) and I could not refuse myself the gratification of seeing the name of that man amongst my poems, without whose kindness, they would probably have remained unpublished; and to whom I know myself greatly, and variously obliged, as a poet, a man, and a Christian.
LINES ADDRESSED TO JOSEPH COTTLE.
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."