Do put ’em forth finally, as I have, in various letters, settled it; for first a man’s self is to be pleased, and then his friends,—­and of course the greater number of his friends, if they differ inter se.  Thus taste may safely be put to the vote.  I do long to see our names together,—­not for vanity’s sake, and naughty pride of heart altogether; for not a living soul I know, or am intimate with, will scarce read the book,—­so I shall gain nothing, quoad famam; and yet there is a little vanity mixes in it, I cannot help denying.—­I am aware of the unpoetical cast of the last six lines of my last sonnet, and think myself unwarranted in smuggling so tame a thing into the book; only the sentiments of those six lines are thoroughly congenial to me in my state of mind, and I wish to accumulate perpetuating tokens of my affection to poor Mary.  That it has no originality in its cast, nor anything in the feelings but what is common and natural to thousands, nor ought properly to be called poetry, I see; still, it will tend to keep present to my mind a view of things which I ought to indulge.  These six lines, too, have not, to a reader, a connectedness with the foregoing.  Omit it if you like,—­What a treasure it is to my poor, indolent, and unemployed mind thus to lay hold on a subject to talk about, though ’tis but a sonnet, and that of the lowest order!  How mournfully inactive I am!—­’Tis night; good night.

My sister, I thank God, is nigh recovered; she was seriously ill.  Do, in your next letter, and that right soon, give me some satisfaction respecting your present situation at Stowey.  Is it a farm that you have got? and what does your worship know about farming?

Coleridge, I want you to write an epic poem.  Nothing short of it can satisfy the vast capacity of true poetic genius.  Having one great end to direct all your poetical faculties to, and on which to lay out your hopes, your ambition will show you to what you are equal.  By the sacred energies of Milton! by the dainty, sweet, and soothing phantasies of honey-tongued Spenser!  I adjure you to attempt the epic, or do something more ample than the writing an occasional brief ode or sonnet; something “to make yourself forever known,—­to make the age to come your own.”  But I prate; doubtless you meditate something.  When you are exalted among the lords of epic fame, I shall recall with pleasure and exultingly the days of your humility, when you disdained not to put forth, in the same volume with mine, your “Religious Musings” and that other poem from the “Joan of Arc,” those promising first-fruits of high renown to come.  You have learning, you have fancy, you have enthusiasm, you have strength and amplitude of wing enow for flights like those I recommend.  In the vast and unexplored regions of fairy-land there is ground enough unfound and uncultivated:  search there, and realize your favorite Susquehanna scheme.  In all our comparisons of taste, I do not know whether I have ever heard your opinion of a poet very dear to me,—­the now-out-of-fashion Cowley.  Favor me with your judgment of him, and tell me if his prose essays, in particular, as well as no inconsiderable part of his verse, be not delicious.  I prefer the graceful rambling of his essays even to the courtly elegance and ease of Addison, abstracting from this the latter’s exquisite humor.