else like it,' says one of his critics; it is a poem by itself: between it and other compositions, in pari-materia, there is a chasm which you cannot over-pass. The sensitive reader feels himself insulated, and a sea of wonder and mystery flows round him as round the spell-stricken ship itself. Coleridge further illustrates his theory of the connection between the material and the spiritual world in his unfinished poem of 'Christabel,' a romantic supernatural tale, filled with wild imagery and the most remarkable modulation of verse. The versification is founded on what the poet calls a new principle-though it was evidently practised by Chaucer and Shakspeare-namely, that of counting in each line the number of accentuated words, not the number of syllables. "Though the latter,' he says, may vary from seven to twelve, yet in each line the accents will be found to be only four.' This irregular harmony delighted both Scott and Byron, by whom it was imitated. We add a brief specimen: The night is chill; the forest bare; Hush, beating heart of Christabel! She foldeth her arms beneath her cloak, There she sees a damsel bright. A finer passage is that describing broken friendships; Alas! they had been friends in youth; 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. And thus it chanced, as I divine. Each spake words of high disdain' And insult to his heart's best brother: But never either found another A dreary sea now flows between. But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, The marks of that which once hath been. This metrical harmony of Coleridge exercises a sort of fascination even when it is found united to incoherent images and absurd con ceptions. Thus in 'Khubla Khan,' a fragment written from recollections of a dream, we have the following melodious rhapsody: The shadow of the dome of pleasure Where was heard the mingled measure It was a miracle of rare device, Her symphony and song, To such deep delight 'twould win me, I would build that dome in air, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, A damsel with a dulcimer And all should cry, Beware! Beware! The odes of Coleridge are highly passionate and elevated in conception. That on France was considered by Shelley to be the finest English ode of modern times. The hymn on Chamouni is equally lofty and brilliant. His Genevieve' is a pure and exquisite lovepoem, without that gorgeous diffuseness which characterises the odes, yet more chastely and carefully finished, and abounding in the delicate and subtle traits of his imagination. Coleridge was deficient in the rapid energy and strong passion necessary for the drama. The poetical beauty of certain passages would not, on the stage, atone for the paucity of action and want of interest in his two plays, though, as works of genius, they vastly excel those of a more recent date which prove highly successful in representation. 'And now the storm-blast came, and he He struck with his o'ertaking wings, 'With sloping masts and dripping prow, 'And the good south-wind still blew behind, But no sweet bird did follow; And I had done a hellish thing, For all averred I had killed the bird The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, That made the breeze to blow. 'And now there came both mist and snow, "Ah, wretch," said they, "the bird to slay That made the breeze to blow!" 'Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, Then all averred I had killed the bird ""Twas right," said they, such birds to That bring the fog and mist." The fair breeze blew, the white foam Each throat "There passed a weary time. 'At first it seemed a little speck, It moved and moved, and took at last 'A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, We could nor laugh nor wail; Through utter drought all dumb we stood; 'Alas. thought I, and my heart beat loud, How fast she nears and nears; Are those her sails that glance in the sun Like restless gossameres? 'Are those her ribs through which the sun Did peer, as through a grate; And is that woman all her crew? 'Her lips were red. her looks were free, From the sails the dew did dripTill clomb above the eastern bar With throats unslaked, with black lips The horned moon, with one bright star baked, Agape they heard me call; Gramercy they for joy did grin, And all at once their breath drew in, "See! see!" I cried, "she tacks no more, Hither to work us weal; 'The western wave was all a-flame, When that strange shape drove suddenly Betwixt us and the sun. 'And straight the sun was flecked with bars Heaven's mother send us grace!- Within the nether tip. 'One after one, by the star-dogged moon, Too quick for groan or sigh, Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, 'Four times fifty living men- 'The souls did from their bodies fly- PART IV. I fear thee. ancient mariner, And thou art long. and lank, and brown, "I fear thee and thy glittering eye, 'Alone, alone. all, all alone, And never a saint took pity on 'The many men so beautiful! And a thousand thousand slimy things Lived on, and so did I. 'I looked upon the rotting sea, And drew my eyes away; I looked upon the rotting deck, 'I looked to heaven, and tried to pray; 'I closed my lids, and kept them close, For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky, Lay like a load on my weary eye, 'The cold sweat melted from their limbs, Nor rot nor reek did they; The look with which they looked on me Had never passed away. 'An orphan's curse would drag to hell But oh! more horrible than that "Within the shadow of the ship 'O happy living things! no tongue Their beauty might declare: A spring of love gushed from my heart, Sure my kind saint took pity on me, "The self-same moment I could pray; And from my neck so free The albatross fell off, and sank PART V. 'Oh, sleep! it is a gentle thing, Beloved from pole to pole! To Mary Queen the praise be given ! She sent the gentle sleep from heaven, That slid into my soul. "The silly buckets on the deck, That had so long remained, I dreamt that they were filled with dew; And when I awoke it rained. 'My lips were wet, my throat was cold, My garments all were dank; Sure I had drunken in my dreams, 'I moved, and could not feel my limbs: I was so light-almost I thought that I had died in sleep, .Seven days, seven nights, I saw that And was a blessed ghost. |