To Mr. [S.T.] C[oleridge]

Midway the hill of science, after steep

And rugged paths that tire the unpractised feet,

A grove extends; in tangled mazes wrought,

And filled with strange enchantment: dubious shapes

Flit through dim glades, and lure the eager foot

Of youthful ardour to eternal chase.

Dreams hang on every leaf: unearthly forms

Glide through the gloom; and mystic visions swim

Before the cheated sense. Athwart the mists,

Far into vacant space, huge shadows stretch

And seem realities; while things of life,

Obvious to sight and touch, all glowing round,

Fade to the hue of shadows. Scruples here,

With filmy net, most like the autumnal webs

Of floating gossamer, arrest the foot

Of generous enterprise; and palsy hope

And fair ambition with the chilling touch

Of sickly hesitation and blank fear.

Nor seldom Indolence these lawns among

Fixes her turf-built seat; and wears the garb

Of deep philosophy, and museful sits

In dreamy twilight of the vacant mind,

Soothed by the whispering shade; for soothing soft

The shades; and vistas lengthening into air,

With moonbeam rainbows tinted. Here each mind

Of finer mould, acute and delicate,

In its high progress to eternal truth

Rests for a space, in fairy bowers entranced;

And loves the softened light and tender gloom;

And, pampered with most unsubstantial food,

Looks down indignant on the grosser world,

And matter’s cumbrous shapings. Youth beloved

Of science — of the Muse beloved, — not here,

Not in the maze of metaphysic lore,

Build thou thy place of resting! Lightly tread

The dangerous ground, on noble aims intent;

And be this Circe of the studious cell

Enjoyed, but still subservient. Active scenes

Shall soon with healthful spirit brace thy mind;

And fair exertion, for bright fame sustained,

For friends, for country, chase each spleen-fed fog

That blots the wide creation —

Now heaven conduct thee with a parent’s love!