six lines in an epic poem (I should have no objection to borrow five hundred, and without acknowledging), still, in a sonnet, a personal poem, I do not ask my friend the aiding verse; I would not wrong your feelings by proposing any improvements (did I think myself capable of suggesting ’era) in such personal poems as “Thou bleedest, my poor heart,”—­’od so,—­I am caught,—­I have already done it; but that simile I propose abridging would not change the feeling or introduce any alien ones.  Do you understand me?  In the twenty-eighth, however, and in the “Sigh,” and that composed at Clevedon, things that come from the heart direct, not by the medium of the fancy, I would not suggest an alteration.

When my blank verse is finished, or any long fancy poem, “propino tibi alterandum, cut-up-andum, abridgeandum,” just what you will with, it:  but spare my ewe-lambs!  That to “Mrs. Siddons’ now, you were welcome to improve, if it had been worth it; but I say unto you again, Coleridge, spare my ewe-lambs!  I must confess, were the mine, I should omit, in editione secunda, effusions two and three, because satiric and below the dignity of the poet of “Religious Musings,” fifth, seventh, half of the eighth, that “Written in early youth,” as far as “thousand eyes,”—­though I part not unreluctantly with that lively line,—­

  “Chaste joyance dancing in her bright blue eyes,”

and one or two just thereabouts.  But I would substitute for it that sweet poem called “Recollection,” in the fifth number of the “Watchman,” better, I think, than the remainder of this poem, though not differing materially; as the poem now stands, it looks altogether confused.  And do not omit those lines upon the “Early Blossom” in your sixth number of the “Watchman;” and I would omit the tenth effusion, or what would do better, alter and improve the last four lines.  In fact, I suppose, if they were mine, I should not omit ’em; but your verse is, for the most part, so exquisite that I like not to see aught of meaner matter mixed with it.  Forgive my petulance and often, I fear, ill-founded criticisms, and forgive me that I have, by this time, made your eyes and head ache with my long letter; but I cannot forego hastily the pleasure and pride of thus conversing with you.  You did not tell me whether I was to include the “Conciones ad Populum” in my remarks on your poems.  They are not unfrequently sublime, and I think you could not do better than to turn ’em into verse,—­if you have nothing else to do.  Austin, I am sorry to say, is a confirmed atheist.  Stoddart, a cold-hearted, well-bred, conceited disciple of Godwin, does him no good.  His wife has several daughters (one of ’em as old as himself).  Surely there is something unnatural in such a marriage.