To S. T. Coleridge

If when thou wert a living man, my sire.
I shrank unequal from the task to praise
The ripening worth of thy successive days.
What shall I do since that imputed fire,
Extinct its earthly aliment, doth aspire.
Purged from the passionate subject of all lays.
From all that fancy fashions and obeys.
Beyond the argument of mortal lyre ?
If while a militant and suffering saint.
Thou walk'dst the earth in penury and pain,
Thy great Idea was too high a strain
For my infirmity, how shall I dare
Thy perfect and immortal self to paint ".'
Less awful task to " draw empyreal air."