William Cox Bennett, 'Coleridge' (1851)

Bennet (1820-95) was a minor Victorian poet. He was clearly too young to have known STC personally, and I can't determine if he knew Hartley. That didn't stop him writing in familiar mode about them both. In fact, his Verdicts (1852) contains rather flaccid verse celebrations of Moore, Campbell, Canning, Charles Lamb, Leigh Hunt, Walter Scott, Rogers, ‘Barry Cornwall’, Croker, Hood, Keats, Southey, Crabbe, William and Mary Howitt, Coleridge, Gifford, Wordsworth, Mitford, Shelley, Robert Montgomery, Wilson, Byron and Landor. Here is his panegyric on Coleridge, and also on Hartley Coleridge, who had died in 1849:

Stand forth, you as great with your tongue as your pen,
You finest of talkers and dreamers 'mongst men;
From your lips, while your eyes with lit genius glow'd,
What poems and prose which was poetry flow'd!
Where are all those sweet words—all those fancies so fair—
Where those thick-coming thoughts, fine-brained Coleridge, where?
Alas! not on paper, but vanished in air!
That 'tis so, who that knew him, alas! can but sigh!
O had but some all-hearing Boswell been by
To give them the life of print never to die!
No—genius is not lent for such a poor fate;
'Tis not only to make him who's blest with it great;
Not for his own delight does the pale possess'd swell,
But high guidance for ever to mortals to tell;
Who to dazzle for instants, the fine frenzy wins,
But mocks the God in him and fearfully sins.
How much genius wants, wanting vigour of will!
Power to plan must be link'd to power plans to fulfil;
What do fast-streaming fancies and grand thoughts avail,
If, unacting, to fix them for ever we fail?
How many thus, second in genius to none,
Have died men but feeling what they might have done!
So two Coleridges passed—father first, and then son;
Nature holds some dark secrets we vainly explore;
Than the dooms of such lost lives none puzzle us more;
Where existence at once drains the two cups of fate,
Its rarest of blessings—its fellest of hate,
Where 'tis hard to tell whether it likes or loathes best,
If it most meant the being to be curst or blest.
Thank Heaven! though Coleridge knew each extreme,
Still his life was not merely, like Hartley's, a dream;
Thank Heaven! His existence, though chequer'd and cross'd,
Yet had many a bright dream that cannot be lost;
Had he penn'd all he dream'd, 0 what fancy can tell
To what heights he had soar'd, who so soar'd and so fell!
Well, well, we've his honied "Love" and "Christabel,"
And those so few poems, all perfect, among
The much half-perfection, he prosed and he sung
Sweet as any that ever flow'd from human tongue:
Alas! and alack! they are but some half-score.
Poets' poems; O that he had left volumes more!
So while we grieve o'er all of which fate bereft us,
Let us bless bounteous Heaven for all He has left us;
Let us reverence him deeply, and blind us almost
To his stuff in my favourite journal, the Post.

Isn't this weak verse, though? Prosodically inept and slack.