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father recognizes the daughter of the And help a wretched maid to fee.
hich it is
On the Lake School of Poetry, sooner the remainder comes forth to long-estranged friend of his you explain them, the better. One thing Sir Roland De Vaux of Triermaine is evident, that no man need sit down is some evil being; whether den to read Christabel with any prospect
or only demon-visited, we have of gratification, whose mind has not
means to ascertain. Nothing can visionary and superstitious reveries. He
ner in which this strange visitant that is determined to try every thing first introduced. by the standard of what is called com
The night is chill; the forest bare ;
There is not wind enough in the air
On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.
ssary to a
en the or
She folded her arms beneath her cloak,
What sees she there?
, rejoiced habitually in the luxury of finer than the description of the ma
They spurr'd amain, their steeds were white;
The general import of the poem Some mutter'd words his comrades spoke :
tle of her father and in whom her Stretch forth thy hand (thus ended she), [Oct 1819.7 reduce into f which the others, wel or although t happy ex.
as it were nt in the : composer the whole espects Me s to enjoy 'ed writer
, ✓ at once he palaces rt in comubbing of 'ale. But
of impenetrable stuff.
The circumstances with which the
meaning, the effect of which can never
be forgotten. The language, also, is
so much in harmony with the rude era
to point them out to him.
the jewels disorder'd her
of the tale, that it seems scarcely to have Beautiful exceedingly!
of ut excela der the 7t-pasbove all aces 2 and the
voice was faint and sweet im Have pity on my sore distress,
vithout to the to be
only a ch he ough
My sire is of a noble line,
A weary woman, scarce alive.
evident that the mysterious lady whom Website would return with haste;
Sounds as of a castle bell
dit may be traced
i damn of their Li
Then Christabel stretch'd forth her hand, But they without its light can see
The chamber carv'd so cariously,
Carv'd with figures strange and sweet,
All made out of the carver's brain,
Hling caly :
es dempliAnd Christabel she sweetly said
She trimm'd the lamp, and made it bright, in der Inglish, or All our household are at rest,
And left it swinging to and fro, Each one sleeping in his bed ;
While Geraldine, in wretched plight, Sir Leoline is weak in health,
Sank down upon the floor below. And may not well awaken'd be;
With what exquisite delicacy are all So to my room we'll creep in stealth,
seemight even these hints of the true character of this And you to-night must sleep with me.
Sve kare made from: stranger imagined. The difficulty of
d faculties of Cove They crossd the moat, and Christabel
passing the threshold--the dread and Took the key that fitted well ;
e exhibited in the A little door she open'd straight,
incapacity of prayer--the moaning of All in the middle of the gate ; the old mastiff in his sleep-the re
It such exercise The gate that was iron'd within and without, kindling of the lying embers as she
at have been so Where an army in battle array had marched passes the influence of the lamp *6 fastened to the angel's feet.”—All
felinary sympa: The lady sank, belike thro' pain, these are conceived in the most perfect
rather address And Christabel with might and main
beauty. Lifted her up, a weary weight,
The next intimation is of a far more
keings of whid Over the threshold of the gate :
fearful and lofty kind. The stranger Then the lady rose again, And mov'd, as she were not in pain.
is invited by Christabel to drink of wine So free from danger, free from fear,
made by his departed mother; and They cross'd the court: right glad they were.
listens to the tale of that mother's fate And Christabel devoutly cried,
who died it seems,
" in the hour To the lady by her side,
that Christabel was born." ChristaPraise we the Virgin all divine
bel expresses a wish of natural and Who hath rescued thee from thy distress ! innocent simplicityAlas, Alas! said Geraldine,
O mother dear that thou wert here
I would, said Geraldine she were.--
But soon with alter'd voice, said she
“ Off, wandering mother! Peak and pine ! The mastiff old did not awake,
“ I have power to bid thee flee.” Yet she an angry moan did make!
Alas! What ails poor Geraldine ? And what can ail the mastiff bitch ?
Why stares she with unsettled eye ? Never till now she utter'd yell
Can she the bodiless dead espy? Beneath the eye of Christabel.
And why with hollow voice cries she, Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch :
“ Off, woman, off! this hour is mine For what can ail the mastiff bitch ?
" Though thou her guardian spirit be, They pass’d the hall, that echoes still, “ Off, woman, off! 'tis given to me.' Pass as lightly as you will !
Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side, The brands were flat, the brands were dying,
And rais'd to heaven her eyes so blue Amid their own white ashes lying ;
Alas! said she, this ghastly ride-
Dear lady! it hath wilder'd you !
The lady wip'd her moist cold brow,
And faintly said, “ 'Tis over now !”
And from the floor whereon she sank,
The lofty lady stood upright :
She was most beautiful to see,
suggested to the reader, the external
beauty and great mildness of demeannow with eager feet press down
our ascribed to the Stranger produce crushes of her chamber floor.
only the deeper feeling of terror : -and moon shines dim in the open air, they contrast, in a manner singularly d not a moonbeam enters here.
impressive, with the small revelations
which every now and then take place lightnings." We know not that there of what is concealed beneath them.- is any English poet who owes so much It is upon this happy contrast that to this single element of power as Colethe interest of the whole piece chiefly ridge. It appears to us that there is hinges, and would Mr Coleridge only not one of them, at least not one that take heart, and complete what he has has written since the age of Elizabeth, so nobly begun-he would probably in whose use of words the most delimake Christabel the finest exempli- cate sense of beauty concurs with so fication to be found in the English, or much exquisite subtlety of metaphy-! perhaps in any language since Ho- sical perception. To illustrate this by mer's, of an idea which may be traced individual examples is out of the quesin most popular superstitions.
tion, but we think a little examination In these two poems-we might even would satisfy any person who is ac i say in the extracts we have made from customed to the study of language of them-the poetical faculties of Cole- the justice of what we have said.--. ridge are abundantly exhibited in the. In the kind of poetry in which he has whole power and charm of their na-, chiefly dealt, there can be no doubt tive beauty. That such exercise of the effect of his peculiar mastery over these faculties may have been so far this instrument has been singularly injudicious as not calculated to awak- happy-more so than, perhaps, it could en much of the ordinary sympathies have been in any other. The whole of mankind—but rather addressing essence of his poetry is more akin to every thing to feelings of which in music than that of any other poetry their full strength and sway only a few. we have ever met with. Speaking are capable all this is a reproach easy, generally, his poetry is not the poetry to be made; and in a great measure per- of high imagination—nor of teemhaps it may be a well-founded re- ing fancy—nor of overflowing sentiproach. But nothing surely can be ment-least of all, is it the poetry of more unfair, than to overlook or deny intense or overmastering passion the existence of such beauty and such If there be such a thing as poetry strength on any grounds of real or pre- of the senses strung to imagination tended misapplication. That the au- such is his. It lies in the senses, but thor of these productions is a poet of they are senses breathed upon by imam a most noble class-a poet most ori- gination--having reference to the imao ginal in his conceptions--most master., gination though they do not reach to ly in his execution-above all things it-having a sympathy, not an union, a most inimitable master of the lane with the imagination like the beauty guage of poetry—it is impossible to of flowers. In Milton there is bedeny. His powers indeed—to judge, tween sense and imagination a strict from what of them that has been put union-their actions are blended into forth and exhibited-may not be of one. In Coleridge what is borrowed the widest—or even of the very highest from imagination or affection is brought kind. So far, as they go, surely, they to sense-sense is his sphere. In him are the most exquisite of powers.: In the pulses of sense seem to die away his mixture of all the awful and all in sense. "The emotions in which he the gentle graces of conception-in his deals—even the love in which he deals sway of wild--solitary-dreamy phan --can scarcely be said to belong to the tasies in his music of words and class of what are properly called pasmagic of numbers—we think he stands sions. The love he describes the best absolutely alone among all the poets of is a romántic and spiritual movement the most poetical age.
of wonder, blended and exalted with In one of the great John Müller's an ineffable suffusion of the powers of early letters (compositions, by the way, sense. There is more of aerial rowhich it is a thousand pities the Eng-, mance, than of genuine tenderness, lish reader should have no access to even in the peerless love of his Geneadmire) there is a fine passionate dis- vieve. Her silent emotions are an unquisition on the power of words—and known world which her minstrel on the unrivalled use of that power watches with fear and hope-and yet exemplified in the writings of Rous- there is exquisite propriety in calling seau.“ He sways mankind with that that poem Love, for it truly repredelicious might”-says the youthful sents the essence of that passionhistorian— as Jupiter does with his where the power acquired over the hu
man soul depends so much upon the There came and look'd him in the face awakening, for a time, of the idea of An angel beautiful and bright; infinitude, and the bathing of the uni
And that he knew it was a Fiend, versal spirit in one interminable sea of
This miserable Knight! thoughts undefineable. We are aware And that unknowing what he did, that this inimitable poem is bet He leap'd amid a murderous band, ter known than any of its author's And sav'd from outrage worse than death productions--and doubt not that many
The Lady of the Land ! hundreds of our readers have got it And how she wept, and claspt his knees ; by heart long ago, without knowing and how she tended him in vainby whom it was written-but there And ever strove to expiate
The scorn that crazed his brain, can be no harm in quoting it, for they that have read it the most frequently And that she nursed him in a cave ;
And how his madness went away, will be the most willing to read it again.
When on the yellow forest-leaves
A dying man he lay.
His dying words—but when I reach'd
That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
My faultering voice and pausing harp
Disturb her soul with pity !
All impulses of soul and sense
Had thrilld my guileless Genevieve ;
The music, and the doleful tale,
The rich and balmy eve;
And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
An undistinguishable throng,
And gentle wishes long subdued,
Šubdued and cherish'd long !
She wept with pity and delight, The statue of the armed knight;
She blush'd with love, and virgin-shame :
And like the murmur of a dream,
I heard her breathe my name..
Her bosom heav'd-she stept aside,
Then suddenly, with timorous eye
She fled to me and wept.
She half enclosed me with her arms, I sang an old and moving story
She press'd me with a meek embrace ;
And bending back her head, look'd up,
And gazed upon my face.
'Twas partly Love, and partly Fear, With downcast eyes and modest grace ;
And partly 'twas a bashful art, For well she knew, I could not chuse
That I might rather feel, than see, But gaze upon her face.
The swelling of her heart.
I calm'd her fears, and she was calm, I told her of the Knight that wore
And told her love with virgin-pride,
And so I won my Genevieve,
My bright and beauteous Bride.
We shall take an early opportunity I told her how he pined ; and ah !
of offering a few remarks on Mr ColeThe deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another's love,
ridge's efforts in tragedy-and in parInterpreted my own.
ticular on his wonderful translation, or She listen'd with a fitting blush,
rather improvement of the Wallenstein. With downcast eyes, and modest grace ;
We shall then, perhaps, be able still And she forgave me, that I gazed
more effectually to carry our readers Too fondly on her face!
along with us when we presume to
address a few words of expostulation But when I told the cruel scorn That craz'd that bold and lovely Knight,
to this remarkable man on the strange And that he cross'd the mountain-woods,
and unworthy indolence which has, Nor rested day nor night;
for so many years, condemned so That sometimes from the savage den,
many of his high gifts to slumber in And sometimes from the darksome shade, comparative uselessness and inaction. And sometimes starting up at once
“ A cheerful soul is what the muses love. In green and sunny glade.
A soaring spirit is their prime delight."
THE MISSIONARY; A POEM.
* BY THE REV. W. L. BOWLES.
Never were any two poets more un- tion with the saddest and most mourn
* London, John Murray. 1816.