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father recognizes the daughter of the And help a wretched maid to fee.

hich it is

ires, which

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 ;
to admit, even in poetry, of the exist-

There is not wind enough in the air
ence of things more than are dreamt To move away the ringlet curl
this production, which is only proper There is not wind enough to twirl
not read Christabel with a strange and

On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.

ssary to a

en the or

She folded her arms beneath her cloak,
And stole to the other side of the oak.;

What sees she there?

which is

, rejoiced habitually in the luxury of finer than the description of the ma
mon sense, and who has an aversion Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?
of in philosophy, had better not open from the lovely lady's
for a solitary couch and a midnight The one red leaf, the last of its clan,
superstitious poets, and he that does Hanging so light, and hanging so high,
harrowing feeling of mysterious dread, Hush, beating heart of Christabel!
may be assured that his soul is made Jesu, Maria, shield her well!
poem opens are admirably conceived. There she sees a damsel bright,
There is in all the images introduced Drest in a silken robe of white ;
a certain fearful stillness and ominous Her neck, her feet, her arms were bare,
is indeed a wonderful proof of what (Said Christabel,) And who art thou:
genius can effect, in defiance of unfa. The lady strange made answer meet,
had his mind penetrated with the true I scarce can speak for weariness.
expression of a Gothic building, will Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear,
find a similar impression conveyed by (Said Christabel,) How cam'st thou here?
the vein of language employed in this And the lady, whose voice was faint and
of courtesy ascribed to the personages, Did thus pursue her answer meet imanis

They spurr'd amain, their steeds were white;
the antique stateliness that breathes Nor do. I know how long it is
over the whole of their demeanour. (For I have lain in fits, I wis)
But if these things are not perceived Since one, the tallest of the five,
by the reader, it is altogether in vain Took me from the palfrey's back,

The general import of the poem Some mutter'd words his comrades spoke :
cannot yet be guessed at; but it is He plac'd me underneath this oak,
Christabel meets in the forest whom I thought I heard, some minutes past,

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.
ch things

The circumstances with which the
om being
ral strain
tions can

meaning, the effect of which can never
1 feeling

be forgotten. The language, also, is

so much in harmony with the rude era
re many,

vourable associations.
legend. The manners, also, and forms
are full of solemn grace.
He kissed her forehead as he spake;
And Geraldine, in maiden wise,
Casting down her large bright eyes,
With blushing cheek and courtesy fine,
Turned her from Sir Leoline;
Softly gathering up her train,
That o'er her right arm fell again,
And folded her arms across her chest,
And couched her head upon her breast.

to point them out to him.

the jewels disorder'd her
I guess, 'twas frightful there to see
A lady so richly clad as shema

of the tale, that it seems scarcely to have Beautiful exceedingly!
been written in the present age, and Mary mother, save me now!

of ut excela der the 7t-pasbove all aces 2 and the

Whoever has

voice was faint and sweet im Have pity on my sore distress,

at have

vithout to the to be


& the

only a ch he ough

rgy of

ed not

My sire is of a noble line,
And my name is Geraldine.
Five warriors seiz'd me yestermorn,
Me, even me, a maid forlorn :
They chok'd my cries with force and fright,
And tied me on a palfrey white.
The palfrey was as fleet as wind,
And they rode furiously behind.
“And once we croes'd the shade of night.
As sure as Heaven shall rescue me,

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A weary woman, scarce alive.

evident that the mysterious lady whom Website would return with haste;

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Then Christabel stretch'd forth her hand, But they without its light can see
And comforted fair Geraldine,

The chamber carv'd so cariously,
Saying, that she should command

Carv'd with figures strange and sweet,
The service of Sir Leoline;

All made out of the carver's brain,
And straight be convoy'd, free from thrall, For a lady's chamber meet ::
Back to her noble father's hall.
The lamp with twofold silver chain

Hling caly :
So up she rose, and forth they pass'd, Is fasten'd to an angel's feet.
With hurrying steps, yet nothing fast; The silver lamp burns dead and dim ; med probably
Her lucky stars the lady blest,
'But Christabel the lamp will trim.

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 cannot speak for weariness.

I would, said Geraldine she were.--
So free from danger, free from fear,
They cross'd the court: right glad they were. Mark the result.
Outside her kennel, the mastiff old

But soon with alter'd voice, said she
Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold.

“ 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-
But when the lady pass'd, there came

Dear lady! it hath wilder'd you !
A tongue of light, a fit of flame;
And Christabel saw the lady's eye,

The lady wip'd her moist cold brow,

And faintly said, “ 'Tis over now !”
And nothing else saw she thereby,
Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall, Again the wild-flower wine she drank :
Which hung in a murky old nitch in the wall. Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright,
O softly tread, said Christabel,

And from the floor whereon she sank,
My father seldom sleepeth well.

The lofty lady stood upright :
Sweet Christabel her feet she bares,

She was most beautiful to see,
And they are creeping up the stairs ; Like a lady of a far countrée.
Now in glimmer, and now in gloom, After the notion of evil has once been
And now they pass the Baron's room,
still as death with stifled breath!

suggested to the reader, the external
I now have reach'd her chamber door;

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

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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


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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.
All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,

His dying words—but when I reach'd
Are all but ministers of Love,

That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
And feed his sacred flame.

My faultering voice and pausing harp

Disturb her soul with pity !
Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,

All impulses of soul and sense
When midway on the mount I lay,

Had thrilld my guileless Genevieve ;

The music, and the doleful tale,
Beside the ruin'd tower.

The rich and balmy eve;
The Moonshine, stealing o'er the scene,
Had blended with the lights of eve;

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
And she was there, my hope, my joy,

An undistinguishable throng,

And gentle wishes long subdued,
My own dear Genevieve !

Šubdued and cherish'd long !
She leant against the armed man,

She wept with pity and delight, The statue of the armed knight;

She blush'd with love, and virgin-shame :
She stood and listend to my lay,

And like the murmur of a dream,
Amid the lingering light.

I heard her breathe my name..
Few sorrows hath she of her own,

Her bosom heav'd-she stept aside,
My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve ! As conscious of my look she step-
She loves me best, whene'er I sing

Then suddenly, with timorous eye
The songs that make her grieve.

She fled to me and wept.
I play'd a soft and doleful air,

She half enclosed me with her arms, I sang an old and moving story

She press'd me with a meek embrace ;
An old rude song, that suited well

And bending back her head, look'd up,
That ruin wild and hoary.

And gazed upon my face.
She listen'd with a flitting blush,

'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,
Upon his shield a burning brand ;

And so I won my Genevieve,
And that for ten long years he woo'd
The Lady of the Land.

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."

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Never were any two poets more un- tion with the saddest and most mourn
like each other than Bowles and Cole- ful colours of reality. Fear and won-
ridge ; and we believe that the asso- der are the attendant spirits of Colem
ciating principle of contrast has now ridge--pity and sadness love to walk
recalled to our remembrance the au. by the side of Bowles. We have
thor of so many beautiful strains of heard indeed they themselves have
mere human affection and sensibility, told us that these poets greatly ada
after we have been indulging ourselves mire the genius of each other; nor
in the wild and wonderful fictions of is it surprising that it should be so;
that magician. Coleridge appears be for how delightful must it be for
fore us in his native might, only when Bowles, to leave, at times, the “ quiet
walking through the mistiness of pre- homestead” where his heart indulges
ternatural fear; and even over his its melancholy dreams of human life,
pictures of ordinary life, and its ordi- and to accompany the “ winged bard”
nary emotions, there is ever and anon on his wild flights into a far-off land !
the " glimmer and the gloom" of an -and how can it be less delightful to
imagination that loves to steal away Coleridge to return from the dreary
from the earth we inhabit, and to shadowiness of his own haunted re-
bring back upon it a lovelier, and rich- gions, back into the bosom of peace,
er, and more mysterious light, from tenderness, and quiet joy!
the haunts of another world. Bowles, We intend, on an early occasion,
on the contrary, looks on human life to take a survey of all Mr Bowles'
with delighted tenderness and love, poetical works; for some of them are,
and unreservedly opens all the pure we suspect, not very generally known,
and warm affections of the most ami, and even those which are established
able of hearts, to all those impulses, in the classical poetry of this age, are
and impressions, and joys, and sor not so universally familiar as they
rows, which make up the sum of our ought to be to our countrymen in
mortal happiness or misery. He is, Scotland. Mr Bowles was a popular
beyond doubt, one of the most pathe- poet before any one of the great poets
tic of our English poets. The past is of the day arose, except Crabbe and
to him the source of the tenderest in- and Rogers; and though the engrossa
spirations; and while Coleridge sum- ing popularity of some late splendid
mons from a world of shadows the productions has thrown his somewhat
imaginary beings of his own wild cre- into the shade, yet, though little
ation, to seize upon, to fascinate, and talked of, we are greatly mistaken if
to enchain our souls in a pleasing dread, they are not very much read—if they
---Bowles recalls from death and obli- have not a home and an abiding in
vion the human friends whom his the heart of England. The extreme
heart loved in the days of old-the grace and elegance of his diction, the
human affections that once flowed sweetness and occasional richness of
purely, peacefully, and beautifully be- his versification, and his fresh and
tween them and trusts, for his do- teeming imagery, would of themselves
minion over the spirits of his readers, be sufficient to give him a respectable
to thoughts which all human beings and permanent station among our
may recognise, for they are thoughts poets; but when to these qualities are
which all human beings must, in a added a pure, natural, and unaffected
greater or less degree, have experi- pathos, à subduing tenderness, and a
enced. Coleridge is rich in fancy and strain of genuine passion, we need not
imagination-Bowles in sensibility and scruple to say that Mr Bowles possess-
tenderest passion. The genius of the es more of the poetical character than
one would delight to fing the ra some who enjoy a more splendid res
diance or the mists of fiction over the putation, and that while they sink
most common tale of life--that of the with sinking fashion and caprice, he
other would clothe even a tale of fic will rise with rising nature and truth.

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* London, John Murray. 1816.

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