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."

All who had the honor of the poet's friendship or acquaintance speak of
the marvellous gift which gave to this illustrious man almost a
character of inspiration. The wonderful eloquence of his conversation
can be comprehended only by those who have heard him speak. It was
sparkling at times, and at times profound; but the melody of his voice,
the impressive solemnity of his manner, the radiant glories of his
intellectual countenance, bore off, as it were, the thoughts of the
listener from his discourse; and it was rarely that he carried away from
the poet any of the gems that fell from his lips.

Montgomery describes the poetry of Coleridge as like electricity,
"flashing at rapid intervals with the utmost intensity of effect,"--and
contrasts it with that of Wordsworth, like galvanism, "not less
powerful, but rather continuous than sudden in its wonderful influence."
But of his poems it is needless for me to speak; some of them are
familiar to all readers of the English tongue throughout the world.
Wilson, in the "Noctes," says, "Wind him up, and away he
goes,--discoursing most excellent music, without a discord, full, ample,
inexhaustible, serious, and divine"; and in another place, "He becomes
inspired by his own silver voice, and pours out wisdom like a sea."
Wordsworth speaks of him "as quite an epicure in sound." The painter
Haydon speaks of his eloquence and "lazy luxury of poetical outpouring";
and Rogers ("Table-Talk") is reported to have said, "One morning,
breakfasting with me, he talked for three hours without intermission, so
admirably that I wish every word he