SIN IN YOUTH.

The treach'rous blast of winter drear,
That withers every early flower,
Makes not such desert scenes appear,

As sin in life's first blooming hour.

And oh! 'tis sad its steps to trace,
To view those forms not long before
Possess'd of ev'ry magic grace,

Now drooping raise their heads no more :

To see those eyes, that, like the sun,
In summer's calm and cloudless days,
Once gladden'd all they shone upon,

Now dimn'd and shorn of all their rays:

The brow, where wit and fancy play'd,
Now settl'd into ceaseless gloom;

The hue health's rosy finger made,
And youthful vigour fled too soon.

Vice more than sickness wastes our power; For when the peace of mind remains,

Oft in affliction's darkest hour,

The eye its brightness still retains.

Oh! happy they! their joys shall last,
Till life itself shall cease to be;

Who have not known the with'ring blast,
That waits upon Impiety.

For Virtue makes, who seek her ways,

And in her sacred covert rest,

With honour here, and length of days,

And hope of after glory blest.

LIVING POETS.

No. V.

PHILARETOS.

COLERIDGE CONCLUDED.

The only poem of any length which Coleridge has completed is the "Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” That this singularly original production has created much ridicule and much laughter, we are well aware; but we are also convinced, that no one who has admired with the fervent admiration of a true poetic spirit, the fanciful and romantic creations of the Tempest and the Midsummer Night's Dream, can be insensible to that wonderful imaginative power, and deep, thrilling pathos, which pervade and distinguish this kindred poem. To enter into a detailed examination of the various beauties in its thoughts and language, would be quite foreign to our purpose. We shall content ourselves with saying, that no one should dare to call himself a lover of poetry until he has read and admired the "Rime of the Ancient Mariner."

The Christabel, though the object of such high and unqualified praise from Lord Byron, is not so much to our taste. It certainly displays great powers of

imagination, but it does not come home to our minds with the terrible vividness and distinctness of colouring of the almost realities of the Mariner's tale. Nevertheless it contains some transcendently beautiful passages-such, for instance, as the single line describing Christabel's face

"Her face O call it fair, not pale !"

This indeed belongs to the thoughts that breathe and words that burn. Our worthy Editor has most unmercifully prohibited long extracts, or with what pleasure could we not copy the glorious description of divided friendship, beginning with

""Tis true they had been friends in youth," &c. &c.

Many of his smaller pieces are exquisitely beautiful ;need we particularise the "Kubla Khan," or the piece entitled Love." The first verse of the latter is beyond all praise—

"All thoughts, all passions, all desires,
Whatever moves this mortal frame,
Are all but ministers of love

And feed his sacred flame." &c.

Could old Homer himself have rhapsodised love with more energy? But we might go on for ever in this way, specifying our favourite passages.

As a translator, we shall shortly say, that Coleridge takes the very highest rank. His translation of Schiller's splendid drama of Wallenstein, is considered by the best judges to be almost finer than the original. We have purposely refrained from saying any thing of the tragedy of Remorse, as we do not consider it one of his happiest efforts; though, perhaps, with the exception of Mr. Shelly's "Cenci," it would not be easy to find a play of modern times that excels it.

In conclusion,-it cannot be said that Coleridge, as a poet, has taken that high, moral, and religious station, as the almost inspired philosopher, prophet, and instructor of his countrymen, that Wordsworth has done. He has played and trifled too much with his fine genius, wantoning in every region where his fancy led him, instead of curbing its flights with the calm and holy severity of his almost perfect friend. But they are both of them entitled to far higher praise than mere poetical genius however high, could have given them, that of having employed their great powers in a righteous cause, to the purposes for which they were entrusted-in the cause of all that is established by immemorial prescription, as the common centres of our individual, social, and national affections-in the cause of our hearths, our sepulchres, and our altars, of all that is good, of all that is pure, of all that is lovelyof all that is truly pleasing and consolatory here, and of all that will be happy and glorious hereafter.

Before making a final break in this series of notices, the author may be excused a few parting words to his readers. It was his intention when he first commenced those papers, to continue them till he had comprehended in his plan all the principal poets of the day; they would consequently have run through a great many numbers. But several circumstances have conspired to hinder the completion of this design, and not the least of them is, the author's increasing conviction that his productions are utterly unsuited to the tastes and intellects of the mass of the subscribers to the Magazine. He has had to complain too of difficulties thrown in his way from quarters where he little expected it, which it would perhaps be invidious to mention. However, he has done. To the great majority of the readers of the Leodiensian he has nothing to say, they have had nought to do with him or his. To those very few persons who have thought it worth

their while to read his papers with attention and candour, he has to offer his thanks,-coupled with a regret that the number of such friends to the Leodiensian has been so miserably small.

WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM.

J.

TO THAT WORTHY BUT EVIL-INTREATED ORDER OF LADIES, YCLEPT BLUE STOCKINGS.

Unmerited reproach ye bear,
Ye pretty maids of Blue,
What calumnies we daily hear
By envy heap'd on you!

Weak minded men and silly fops
Regret your transmutation;
At Concerts o Assembly hops
They lose their reputation.

Their apish gallantries to earn
But late your sex delighted;
But now you slight them-and in turn
By them yourselves are slighted.

But heed it not-for nobler hearts
May yet be found in man;

And when Whit sharpens Beauty's darts,
Be unsubdued who can.