At Christabel she look'd askance. * The maid devoid of guile and sin So deeply had she drunken in That look, those shrunken serpent eyes, To this sole image in her mind, And passively did imitate That look of dull and treacherous hate. This is as exquisite in its knowledge of the fascinating tendencies of fear as it is in its description. And what can surpass a line quoted already in the Essay (but I must quote it again!) for very perfection of grace and sentiment?-the line in the passage where Christabel is going to bed, before she is aware that her visitor is a witch. Quoth Christabel,-So let it be! And as the lady bade, did she. Her gentle limbs did she undress, And lay down in her loveliness. Oh! it is too late now; and habit and self-love blinded me at the time, and I did not know (much as I admired him) how great a poet lived in that grove at Highgate; or I would have cultivated its walks more, as I might have done, and endeavoured to return him, with my gratitude, a small portion of the delight his verses have given me. I must add, that I do not think Coleridge's earlier poems at all equal to the rest. Many, indeed, I do not care to read a second time; but there are some ten or a dozen, of which I never tire, and which will one day make a small and precious volume to put in the pockets of all enthusiasts in poetry, and endure with the language. Five of these are The Ancient Mariner, Christabel, Kubla Khan, Genevieve, and Youth and Age. Some, that more personally relate to the poet, will be added for the love of him, not omitting the Visit of the Gods, from Schiller, and the famous passage on the Heathen Mythology, also from Schiller. A short life, a portrait, and some other engravings perhaps, will complete the book, after the good old fashion of Cooke's and Bell's editions of the Poets; and then, like the contents of the Jew of Malta's casket, there will be Infinite riches in a little room. LOVE; OR, GENEVIEVE. All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, Are all but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour, The moonlight stealing o'er the scene, She leant against the armèd man, Few sorrows hath she of her own, I play'd a soft and doleful air, I sang an old and moving storyAn old rude song, that suited well That ruin wild and hoary. She listen'd with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes and modest grace, I told her of the knight that wore I told her how he pin'd, and-ah! She listen'd with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes and modest grace, And she forgave me, that I gaz'd Too fondly on her face! But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely knight, And that he cross'd the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night: That sometimes from the savage den, And sometimes from the darksome shade, And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade, There came and look'd him in the face An angel beautiful and bright; And that he knew it was a fiend, This miserable knight! And that, unknowing what he did, He leap'd amid a murderous band, And sav'd from outrage worse than death The lady of the land! And how she wept and claspt his knees; And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain; And that she nurs'd him in a cave; His dying words-but when I reach'd All impulses of soul and sense Had thrill'd 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, Subdued and cherished long. She wept with pity and delight, She blush'd with love and virgin-shame; Her bosom heav'd-she stept aside, She half enclos'd me in her arms, She press'd me with a meek embrace; 'Twas partly love and partly fear, I calm'd her fears, and she was calm, My own, my beauteous bride! I can hardly say a word upon this poem for very admiration. I must observe, however, that one of the charms of it consists in the numerous repetitions and revolvings of the words, one on the other, as if taking delight in their own beauty. |