192. To John Prior Estlin Address: Revd J. P. Estlin| St Michael's Hill | Bristol MS. Bristol Central Lib. Pub. E.L.G. i. 75. Stamped: Crewkhern. Saturday Morning. [ 10 June 1797] My dear Friend I wrote to you yesterday -- & to day I must write again. -- I shall have quite finished my Tragedy in a day or two; & then I mean to walk to Bowles, the poet, to read it to him, & have his criticisms -- & then, accordingly as he advises, I shall either transmit the play to Sheridan, or go to London & have a personal interview with him.-At present, I [am] almost shillingless -- I should be glad therefore, if you could transmit me immediately a five pound note of the bank of England, directed -- S. T. Coleridge, | Race-down Lodge | near | Crewkherne. -- I calculate that by this time your anxieties are past -- mine will continue till I hear from you. This is a lovely country -- & Wordsworth is a great man. -- He admires your sermon against Payne 1 much more than your last -I suppose because he is more inclined to Christianity than to Theism, simply considered. -- The lines over leaf, which I have procured Miss Wordsworth to transcribe, will, I think, please you. -- When I arrive at Bowles's, I will write again -- giving you a minute account of the bard -- God bless you, and your's -- & all of us! -- Most affectionately | Your obliged friend S. T. Coleridge her eye Was busy in the distance, shaping things That made her heart beat quick. Seest thou that path? (The green-sward now has broken its grey line;) There, to and fro she paced; through many a day ____________________ 1 Evidences of revealed religion, and particularly Christianity, stated, with reference to a pamphlet called: The Age of Reason, in a discourse delivered December 25, 1795. -327- Of the warm summer: from a belt of flax That girt her waist, spinning the long-drawn thread With backward steps. Yet, ever as there passed A man, whose garments shewed the Soldier's red, Or crippled mendicant in Sailor's garb, The little child, who sat to turn the wheel, Ceased from his toil, and she, with faultering voice, Expecting still to learn her husband's fate, Made many a fond inquiry; and when they, Whose presence gave no comfort, were gone by, Her heart was still more sad -- And by yon gate That bars the traveller's road, she often sat, And if a stranger-horseman came, the latch Would lift; & in his face look wistfully, Most happy, if from aught discovered there Of tender feeling, she might dare repeat The same sad question -- Meanwhile, her poor hut Sank to decay: for he was gone, whose hand, At the first nippings of October frost, Closed up each chink, and with fresh bands of straw Checquered the green-grown thatch; and so she sat Through the long winter, reckless and alone, Till this reft house by frost, and thaw, and rain Was sapped; and, when she slept, the nightly clamps Did chill her breast, and in the stormy day Her tattered clothes were ruffled by the wind, Even by the side of her own fire. Yet still She loved this wretched spot, nor would for worlds Have parted hence: and still, that length of road, And this rude bench one torturing hope endeared, Fast rooted at her heart; and, Stranger, here In sickness she remained, and here she died, Last human tenant of these ruined walls -- 1