"Poor Chatterton! farewell! Of darkest hues,
This chaplet cast I on thy unshaped tomb:
But dare no longer on the sad theme muse,
Lest kindred woes persuade a kindred doom!"

Mr. C. would not have felt so much, if his own natural and unshaken
affections had been less ardent.

Before I enter on an important incident in Mr. Coleridge's Bristol life,
I must previously observe, that his mind was in a singular degree
distinguished for the habit of projecting. New projects and plans, at
this time, followed each other in rapid succession, and while the
vividness of the impression lasted, the very completion could scarcely
have afforded more satisfaction than the vague design. To project, with
him, was commonly sufficient. The execution, of so much consequence in
the estimation of others, with him was a secondary point. I remember him
once to have read to me, from his pocket book; a list of eighteen
different works which he had resolved to write, and several of them in
quarto, not one of which he ever effected. At the top of the list
appeared the word "Pantisocracy! 4to." Each of these works, he could have
talked, (for he often poured forth as much as half an 8vo. volume in a
single evening, and that in language sufficiently pure and connected to
admit of publication) but talking merely benefits the few, to the
exclusion of the many. The work that apparently advanced the nearest to
completion, was "Translations of the modern Latin Poets;" two vols. 8vo.
This work, which no man could better have accomplished than himself, he
so far proceeded in, as to allow of the Proposals being issued. It was to
be published by subscription, and he brought with him from Cambridge a
very respectable list of university subscribers. His excuses for not
showing any part of the work, justified the suspicion that he had not