sion. Coleridge has represented its most poetic ideality, and even to the emotions of the senses he has given the language of the imagination. It is he who makes a lover say, when speaking of his mistress

"Her voice, that even in her mirthful mood,

Has made me wish to steal away and weep."

The little poem of Genevieve abounds in touches no less charming. It is a sweet picture of the metaphysics of first love, and possesses a great deal of that grace which has been so highly admired in Dante's Qual giorno no leggiamo mai.

Genevieve was one of Wordsworth's collection of lyrical ballads; but Coleridge subsequently separated his works from those of his friend.

Accord

'ng to the plan mutually agreed upon between them, Coleridge was to make choice of imaginary heroes and subjects, without, however, renouncing the advantage of imparting to them a degree of interest and an air of probability, sufficient to obtain from his readers what he terms poetic faith that is to say, the voluntary suspension of the critical spirit of incredulous reason. The Ancient Mariner is Coleridge's best ballad. It is a whimsical conception; but I cannot, like the author's friends, pronounce it to be at once astonishing and original. It is, they affirm, a poem which must be felt, admired, and meditated upon, but which cannot possibly be described, analyzed, or criticised. I doubt whether it would, in France

be acknowledged to be the most singular of the creations of genius. But to the lakists it is not a thing of this material world. They regard the melodious verses of this poem as the melancholy and mysterious murmur of a dream; to them the images have the beauty, grandeur, and incoherence of a vision, in which imposing shadows are mingled with graceful and distinct forms. Every fault is pardoned, the superfluous ornaments, the redundance of the language, and the vagueness and confusion of the narrative. I will endeavour to give you an idea of the story.

;

The poem opens with the celebration of a wedding. Joyous music is heard, and lights burning at a distance guide the guests to the festival. One of them is stopped by an old man, who seizes him by the hand, and insists on speaking to him he gets away from him; but the stranger, who is the old mariner, has an irresistible charm in his look, and possesses a singular power of fascination. The sailor, without any preamble, relates that he once embarked on board a vessel to sail for the South Sea. The ship steered with a favourable wind as far as the Line, when suddenly a violent storm arose, and it was driven into the icy regions. A sea bird, the Albatross, is received with joy and hospitality by the ship's crew. The appearance of this bird is regarded as a good augury. It accompanies the vessel, but is killed by the old sailor. The fair weather ceases, and the crew overwhelm the sailor with reproaches; but, on the return of a favourable gale, they justify him, and

thus become accomplices in his crime. A calm suddenly arises, and the vessel is impeded in her course. The Albatross is now about to be avenged. The miseries which assail the ship's crew, the feverish thirst which torments them amidst the vast plain of water by which they are surrounded, all are the result of the old sailor's cruelty. An exclamation of joy escapes from them at the sight of an approaching vessel; but they are filled with horror, on discovering that the ship is sailing without the aid of either wind or current. It proves only to be the skeleton of a vessel.* The crew consists of two phantoms, viz.: Death, and another which the narrator terms Life in Death. These two phantoms dispute for the possession of the old sailor, and cast dice to determine which shall have the prize. Life in Death is the winner. The old sailor sees his comrades perish in the waves, venting imprecations on him in their dying moments. Amidst the Amidst the pangs of remorse, and the gloomy reflections of which he is now the victim, a sentiment of charity still lingers in his heart, and is the means of saving him. He ejaculates a prayer, and from that moment he is cheered by returning hope. The Holy Virgin sends to his aid a refreshing slumber and a shower of rain, and he hears strange voices and an extraordinary commotion in the elements.

The vessel moves, the dead bodies, which have been floating on the waves, utter groans, and rise

Sir Walter Scott has introduced this phenomenon of nautical superstition into his poem of Rokeby.

up, but without speaking or moving their eyes. The pilot stations himself at the helm, and the vessel sails on, though not a breath of air is stirring. The sailors are all at their posts, and their limbs are in motion like insensible machines.

However, the Spirit of the Pole claims his revenge, and obtains it. The misery of the sailor again commences; but after expiating his offence by a long series of torments and terrors, he at length reaches his native shore. The angels, who have temporarily re-animated the bodies of the ship's crew, re-assume their forms of light. A hermit receives the sailor on the shore. He unfolds to him his dreadful history, and he is afterwards doomed to wander through the world, and to tell his tale, in order to warn men, by his example, to respect God's creatures.

In the above description I have suppressed several details of great beauty, or, if you will, of singular extravagance. Coleridge has lavished a vast store of poetry and imagination on this little production; and he has displayed singular ingenuity in the management of the style. The language of the mariner is sometimes rapid and impetuous, like the tempest by which the vessel is hurled along; and to this succeeds a measured solemnity, indicative of the calm.* The interruptions of the auditor, the sprightly music of the nuptial festival, mingling with the accents of re

* "It is a great art in certain fictions to imitate by words the solemn stillness which imagination pictures in the empire of darkness and death."-Madame de Stael.

morse and fear, all are calculated to excite superstitious terror and melancholy. This poem, it is said, produces a most impressive effect when recited by Coleridge himself.

Christabel, which is a composition of the same class, has been too highly extolled by Lord Byron. It is an incomplete effusion..

There is certainly some analogy between the talent of Coleridge and that of the German poet, Burger, the author of Leonora. I should almost be inclined to say that the English poet is the most German of the two; for even in his pictures of ordinary life, where he has to trace the most natural emotions, his imagination loves to soar beyond the visible world, to gather rich and mysterious colours from the realms of illusion. Coleridge has even applied his phantasmagoria to politics. His pretended eclogue, entitled, Fire, Famine, and Carnage, was an energetic malediction upon Pitt, in the time of his power. In La Vendée, on a plain ravaged by war, the three personified scourges meet, and express their gratitude to the minister, who supplied them with so many victims. The scene of the three furies in Manfred would form an admirable pendant to this.

This dramatic sketch naturally leads me to speak of Coleridge's tragedies. I can say little about the Fall of Robespierre, as I have not yet perused it with sufficient attention. Coleridge has translated, or rather imitated Schiller's Wallenstein; for the German piece receives new beauty from its Eng