Trōchĕe trīps frŏm lōng tŏ shōrt;
From long to long in solemn sort
Slōw Spōndēe stālks; strōng fōōt! yet ill able
Ēvĕr tŏ cōme ŭp wĭth Dāctyl trĭsȳllăblĕ.
Ĭāmbĭcs mārch frŏm shōrt tŏ lōng;–
Wĭth ă lēāp ănd ă bōūnd thĕ swĭft Ānăpǣsts thrōng;
One syllable long, with one short at each side,
Ămphībrăchẙs hăstes wĭth ă stātelẙ stride;–
Fīrst ănd lāst bēĭng lōng, mīddlĕ shōrt, Amphĭmācer
Strīkes hĭs thūndērĭng hōōfs līke ă prōūd high-brĕd Rācer.
If Derwent be innocent, steady and wise,
And delight in the things of earth, water, and skies;
With sound sense in his brains, may make Derwent a poet,-
Tender warmth at his heart, with these meters to show it,
May crown him with fame, and must win him the love
Of his father on earth and his Father above.
My dear, dear child!
Could you stand upon Skiddaw, you would not from its
whole ridge
See a man who so loves you as your fond S. T. COLERIDGE.
–Samuel Taylor Coleridge
