are arranged under a number of separate heads, but on what principle we know not. First we have "Poems occasioned by political events, or feelings connected with them." The chief ones are "An Ode to the departing Year,” “Fame, an Ode," "Fears in Solitude," and "Fire Famine and Slaughter." The first is much of it, at least, poetry. The "Fears in Solitude" was written in 1798, during the alarm of an invasion. His fears, however, are not so expressed as to engage the sympathy of his readers; and this remark applies to much of Coleridges poetry. While the thought is in itself highly poetical, his method of contemplating it is such as does not awaken the reader's feelings or interest, and hence it makes but little impression.

His "Fire, Famine, and Slaughter," a war eclogue, expresses more severity and bitternes of spirit, than, judging from his other productions, we should think he possessed. In it the sisters unite in heaping the deepest curses on the head of Pitt. It is but justice to Coleridge to remark that in the appendix he has published an apolgeetic preface-in which we are told, (we have not read it, having long since given up his prose in despair,) he asserts he was influenced by no malignant feeling towards Pitt.

"Love Poems" constitute the next division of the Sibyline Leaves. The title will by no means convey a just idea of their character to the reader. Mr. C's idea of love differs from that of other poets; yet we can hardly define in what this difference consists. Sometimes indeed a touch of nature comes over him, and then he is simple and eminently beautiful. Such is his introduction to the tale of the Dark Ladie," a few lines of which we must give.

"O leave the lily on its stem:
O, leave the rose upon the spray;
O, leave the elder bloom fair maids,
And listen to my lay,

A cyprus and a myrtle bough

This morn around my harp you twined,
Because it fashioned mournfully

Its murmurs in the wind.

And now a tale of love and wo,
A woful tale of love I sing;

Hark, gentle maidens, hark! it sighs
And trembles on the string.

But most, my own dear Genevieve,
It sighs and trembles most for thee!
O come and hear what cruel wrongs
Befel the Dark Ladie.

Few sorrows hath she for her own,
My hope, my joy, my Genevieve !
She loves me best whene'er I sing

The songs that make her grieve."-p. 28.

It is much to be regretted that Coleridge has not oftener adopted this simple style, instead of the hard, compact, intellectual meditated blank verse, which is evidently his favorite species of composition. What has been remarked of Wordsworth is true also of Coleridge-' he is poetical when he departs from his theory.'

"Meditative Poems in blank verse," form the third division of the Leaves. The first of these, viz: "Hymn before Sunrise in the vale of Chamouny," is truly lofty and sublime. It has often been published in this country, and we have not room to extract it. With regard to most of the remaining poems, we have only to remark that they are too meditative. There is either a want of simplicity and depth of feeling, or, as Mr. Coleridge hints, the feeling is too deep to be comprehended by common readers. Some passages there are certainly, that deserve our praise, beautiful and true to nature— some lines of this character occur in the Poem addressed to his brother. We have not room to give them.

We shall pass over the fourth division of the Sibyline Leaves, entitled "Odes and Miscellaneous Poems," without comment, as it contains nothing which throws additional light on the author's poetical character. To show that our complaints of obscurity and mysticism are not unfounded, we quote the following:

"Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given,
Save to the pure, and in the purest hour,

Life, and life's influence, cloud at once and shower,
Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power,

Which wedding nature gives to us a dower

A new Earth and new Heaven,

Undreampt of by the sensual and the proud—
Joy is the sweet voice, joy the luminous cloud-
We in ourselves rejoice!

And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,
All melodies the echoes of that voice

All colors a suffusion from that light.'-p. 49.

"

Of "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner," and "Christabel," pieces which in a great measure, have given Coleridge his fame, we shall say but little, because we have but little that we can make intelligible to say. The pleasure with which we peruse these strange productions is proof of their poetical merits, but to particularize those merits, so as to make them palpable to those who have not been under the spell of the glittering eye," and of the "damsel," "beautiful exceedingly," would be a vain task. The "Ancient Mariner," written in the ballad style, is evidently of German origin,— wild, obscure, unearthly, terrible :-its descriptions are graphic and powerful, but its absorbing interest arises from the intense feeling that the Ancient Mariner exhibits while narrating his story. "Christabel" is a fairy tale of another sort, but equally undefinable. Its versification is correct and mellifluous, and many of its sentiments fine, but as a whole it has no meaning, and yet is exceedingly interesting. The following passage is beautiful.

"Alas! they had been friends in youth;
But whispering tongues can poison truth;
And constancy lives in realms above,
And life is thorny, and youth is vain :
And to be wroth with one we love,
Doth work like madness in the brain.

They parted-ne'er to meet again;
But never either found another

To free the hollow heart from paining."

It is proper to remark that the whole piece has received the warmest approbation of distinguished critics. Lord Byron in particular, was very prodigal of praises on its first appearance.

It remains for us to notice the dramatic works; "Remorse a Tragedy," and "Zapolya." These need detain us but a moment. It is generally agreed, even by the warmest admirers of Coleridge, that he has been unsuccessful in tragedy. He is too fond of speculation, has too little knowledge of human nature, too little variety of passion. "Remorse," which is his best, contains many noble sentiments, and for these it will be read; but it cannot rank high as a specimen of dramatic excellence.

Translations of "The Piccolomini," and "Wallenstein"

of Schiller, constitute the last division of the collection. Of these we are not qualified to judge.

After the desultory remarks we have made in the course of this brief survey, we can express our opinion of Coleridge's poetical character in a few words: He possesses noble talents, which he has injudiciously employed. His love of abstruse speculation, his political and metaphysical theories have bewildered his mind and led him astray from truth and nature; and it is only in his better moments, when free from these influences, that his productions are worthy of his genius. But on one account he deserves unqualified praise. In moral purity his productions are faultless.

LINES INtended FOR THE ENVELOPE OF A SONG SENT TO A LADY

Go, go to her, the peerless one,

Go, little song of mine

And whisper softly to her heart
A melody divine:

At least I wish thou couldst, for ne'er

Did form or mind with her's compare.

Go, and recall her early dreams-
And half forgotten loves-

The hopes and fears, the smiles, and tears,
Which earliest passion proves-

Then if a sigh her bosom swell,

Thou art, my song, rewarded well.

For sighs relieve the soften'd heart,
And well may test the power
Of those who try the minstrel's art,
And sing in lady's bower--
Then go my song-to thee 'tis given
To fly to one whose smile is-heaven.

G.

THE CALENDAR.

OCTOBER, the eighth month of the year in Romulus's Calendar; but the tenth in that of Numa, Julius Cæsar, and in our own, consisting of thirty-one days.

October has still retained its first name, notwithstanding the different names the Senate and Roman Emperors would have given it. The Senate decreed it should be called Faustinus, in honor of Faustina, the wife of Antonius the Emperor; and Domitian ordered it to be called Domitian, after his own name; but the numeral appellation has prevailed. It is the season of sentiment, when

"Leaves have their time to fall."

The time when a decided change from summer has obtained. It is Autumn; and what heart does not feel its influence?

Youth stops in his noisy pleasures, and a shade of pensive thought passes over his brow, as he gazes around upon the decaying glories of Earth, and wonders that death should visit what appears so young and beautiful. Manhood stops in his toil, and gladly looks forth upon creation to welcome that peaceful, subduing, thought-inviting spirit, which is lost in the tumult of the world. And old age in joy lifts up his eyes to behold scenes so much in unison with his cherished thoughts and feelings. All nations and tribes, christian and heathen, ancient and modern, have united in reading in the fall of the leaves a lesson of their own individual mortality, and have felt that as these, season after season, succeed one another, so shall generation after generation pass away from the face of the earth. Thus this season engages the attention, and touches the hearts of all. It tells one lesson-it touches one and the same chord. There seems to be an influence around ns, and thrilling our souls,calling up sad, yet pleasing thoughts, and subduing us to its power. We feel as we never felt before. Death has made us sad, but our sadness was unaccompanied with peace. The grave has made us melancholy when we have stood by its side, but there was an object in its dark and dismal embrace, to which our thoughts were always tending, and on which we cannot reflect without pain. Sickness has made us thoughtful, but it was a thoughtfulness occasioned by weakened powers and wearied spirits. Never but at a season like this have we experienced such a welcome sadness-such an animated seriousness. What a blending