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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 curiously,
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
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 ;
Her lucky stars the lady blest,

But Christabel the lamp will trim.
And Christabel she sweetly said

She trimm'd the lamp, and made it bright, 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,

these hints of the true character of this And you to-night must sleep with me.

stranger imagined.-The difficulty of They cross'd the moat, and Christabel

passing the threshold—the dread and Took the key that fitted well ; 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 reThe gate that was iron’d within and without, kindling of the lying embers as she Where an army in battle array had marched passes the influence of the lamp

to fastened to the angel's feet.”-All The lady sank, belike thro' pain,

these are conceived in the most perfect And Christabel with might and main beauty. Lifted her up, a weary weight,

The next intimation is of a far more 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,

suggested to the reader, the external As still as death with stifled breath! And now have reach'd her chamber door;

beauty and great mildness of demeanAnd now with eager feet press down

our ascribed to the Stranger produce The rushes of her chamber floor.

only the deeper feeling of terror : and The moon shines dim in the open air,

they contrast, in a manner singularly And 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 acsay 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 teem haps 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 poetrý strength on any grounds of real or pre- of the senses strung to imaginationtended 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 ima a most noble class-a poet most ori- gination-having reference to the imaginal 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 land with the imagination like the beauty guage of poetry—it is impossible to of flowers. În 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 romàntic 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 Enga, 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 hopemand 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 human 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

That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
Are all but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.

My faultering voice and pausing harp

Disturb'd 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 stepShe 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 fitting blush,

'Twas partly Love, and partly Fear, With downcast eyes and modest grace ;

And partly 'twas a bashful art,

That I might rather feel, than see, For well she knew, I could not chuse

The swelling of her heart. But gaze upon her face.

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

My bright and beauteous Bride. The Lady of the Land.

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 par

ticular on his wonderful translation, or Interpreted my own.

rather improvement of the Wallenstein. She listen'd with a flitting blush, 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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THE MISSIONARY ; A POEM.

BY THE REV. W. L. BOWLES.

Never were any two poets more un- tion with the saddest and most mourna like each other than Bowles and Cole- ful colours of reality. Fear and wonridge ; 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 adafter 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 rebring 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,

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 themand 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 possesstenderest passion. The genius of the es more of the poetical character than one would delight to Aing the ra- some who enjoy a more splendid rediance 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.

on the

* London, John Murray. 1816.

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Never to hear the summer cocoa wave, At present we shall content our

Or weep upon thy father's distant grave." selves with quoting a few passages from Mr Bowles' last poem, the Mis

We can conceive nothing more nasionary-not that we think it, with tural, nor more affectingly beautiful all its manifold beauties, by any means

than the following description of the his best, but because we suspect that children of Atacapac, the mountainit is the least known of all his

chief.

productions.

In other days, when, in his manly pride,

Two children for a father's fondness vied, We give the author's words in his

Oft they essay'd, in mimic strife, to wield preface, in order to explain the ground- His lance, or laughing peep'd behind his shield.

Oft in the sun, or the magnolia's shade, work of the subject.

Lightsome of heart as gay of look, they play'd,

Brother and sister: She, along the dew, « The circumstance on which this poem Blithe as the squirrel of the forest few;

Blue rushes wreath'd her head; her dark brown hair is founded, that a Spanish commander, with

Fell, gently lifted, on her bosom bare; his army, in South America, was destroyed Her necklace shone, of sparkling insects made, by the Indians, in consequence of the treach- That flit, like specks of fire, from sun to shade;

Light was her form; a clasp of silver brac'd ery of his page, who was a native, and that

The azure-dyed ichella round her waist; only a priest was saved, is taken from his- Her ankles rung with shells, as, unconfind, tory.".

She danc'd, and sung wild carols to the wind.
With snow-white teeth, and laughter in her eye,

So beautiful in youth, she bounded by. The poem opens with the following Yet kindness sat upon her aspect bland; fine description of the scenery of South

The tame Alpaca stood and lick d her hand;

She brought him gather'd moss, and lov'd to deck America ;

With flow'ry twine his tall and stately neck,

Whilst he with silent gratitude replies, Beneath aerial cliffs, and glittering snows, And bends to her caress his large blue eyes, The rush-roof of an aged Warrior rose,

These children danc'd together in the shade, Chief of the mountaiņ tribes: high, overhead, Or stretch'd their hands to see the rainbow fade; The Andes, wild and 'desolate, were spread,

Or sat and mock'd, with imitative glee, Where cold Sierras shot their icy spires,

The paroquet, that laugh'd from tree to tree; And Chillan trail'd its smoke and smould'ring fires. Or through the forests wildest solitude, A glen beneath-a lonely spot of rest

From glen to glen, the marmozet pursued; Hung, scarce discoverd, like an eagle's nest.

And thought the light of parting day too short, Summer was in its prime;--the parrot-tlocks

That call them, ling'ring, from their daily sport, Darken'd the passing sunshine on the rocks;

In that fair season of awak’ning life, The chrysomel and purple butterfly,

When dawning youth and childhood are at strife; Amid the clear blue light, are wand'ring by;

When on the verge of thought gay boyhood stands The humming-bird, along the myrtle bow'rs, With twinkling wing, is spinning o'er the flow'rs,

Tiptoe, with glist'ning eye and outspread hands;

With airy look, and form and footsteps light, The woodpecker is heard with busy bill,

And glossy locks, and features berry-bright, The mock-bird sings—and all beside is still.

And eye like the young eaglet's, to the ray And look! the cataract that bursts so high,

Of noon, unblenching, as he sails away; As not to mar the deep tranquillity,

A brede of sea-shells on his bosom strung, The tumult of its dashing fall suspends,

A small stone hatchet o'er his shoulders slung, And, stealing drop by drop, in mist descends;

With slender lance, and feathers, blue and red, Through whose illumin’d spray and sprinkling dews,

That, like the heron's crest, wav'd on his head, Shine to the adverse sun the broken rainbow hues.

Buoyant with hope, and airiness, and joy, Check'ring, with partial shade, the beams of noon, Lautaro was the loveliest Indian boy: And arching the gray rock with wild festoon,

Taught by his sire, ev'n now he drew the bow, Here, its gay net-work, and fantastic twine,

Or track'd the jagguar on the morning snow; The purple cogul threads from pine to pine, Startled the Condor on the craggy height; And oft, as the fresh airs of morning breathe, Then silent sat, and mark'd its upward Aight, Dips its long tendrils in the stream bencath.

Lessening in ether to a speck of white. There, through the trunks, with moss and lichens

But when th' impassion'd Chieftain spoke of war, white,

Smote his broad breast, or pointed to a scar, The sunshine darts its interrupted light, And, 'mid the cedar's darksome boughs, illumes,

Spoke of the strangers of the distant main,

And the proud banners of insulting Spain, With instant touch, the Lori's scarlet plumes. of the barb'd horse and iron horseman spoke, So smiles the scene;-but can its smiles impart

And his red Gods, that wrapt in rolling smoke, Aught to console yon mourning Warrior's heart? He heeds not now, when beautifully bright,

Roard from the guns--the Boy, with still-drawn

breath, The humming-bird is circling in his sight;

Hung on the wondrous tale, as mute as death; Nor e'en, above his head, when air is still,

Then rais'd his animated eyes, and cried, Hears the green woodpecker's resounding bill;

"O let me perish by my father's side !" But gazing on the rocks and mountains wild, Rock after rock, in glittering masses pil'd

The Warrior blesses his young son, To the volcano's cone, that shoots so high

and the family retire to repose, when Gray smoke whose column stains the cloudless sky, He cries, “ Oh! if thy spirit yet be fled

their slumbers are suddenly broken by To the pale kingdoms of the shadowy dead, the attack of a fierce band of SpanIn yonder tract of purest light above, Dear long-lost object of a father's love,

iards, who, notwithstanding the desDost thou abide? or like a shadow come, Circling the scenes of thy remember'd home,

perate resistance of the distracted faAnd passing with the breeze? or, in the beam

ther, bear off, as their prize, his young Of evening, light the desert mountain stream? Or at deep midnight are thine accents heard,

son Lautaro. In the sad notes of that melodious bird,

Sev'n snows had fall'n, and sev'n green summers Which, as we listen with mysterious dread,

pass’d, Brings tidings from our friends and fathers dead? Since here he heard that son's lov'd accents last.

“ Perhaps, beyond those summits, far away, Still his beloved daughter sooth'd his cares, Thine eyes yet view the living light of day;

While time began to strew with white his hairs. Sad, in the stranger's land, thou may'st sustain Oft as his painted feathers he unbound, A weary life of servitude and pain,

Or gaz'd upon his hatchet on the ground, With wasted eye gaze on the orient beam,

Musing with deep despair, por strove to speak, And think of these white rocks and torrent-stream, Light she approach'd, and climb'd to reach his cheek,

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