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the wrench as severe as that needed Roland had been friends in youth, and “ To drag the magnet from the pole,

cannot have forgotten Coleridge's ex'To chain the freedom of the soul,

quisite description of their quarrel and To freeze in ice desires that boil,

estrangement. He would have paintTo root the mandrake from the soil," &c.

ed their reconciliation in a few lines of

light. But attend to Tupper—and But Amador, after ten years' absence remember the parties are, each of -So Christabel was no girl—now re- them, bordering, by his account, on turned " with name and fame and for- fourscore. tune"_for

" Like aspens tall beside the brook, “ The Lion King, with his own right hand, The stalwarth warriors stood and shook, Had dubbed him Knight of Holy Land, And each advancing feared to look The crescent waned where'er he came,

Into the other's eye; And Christendom rung with his fame,

'Tis fifty years ago to-day And Saladin trembled at the name

Since in disdain and passion they Of Amador de Ramothaim !”

Had flung each other's love away Having leapt the moat, and flung him

With words of insult high ; self from his horse,

How had they luog'd and pray'd to meet ! “ In the hall

But memories cling; and pride is sweet ;

And-which could be the first to greet
He met her!—but how pale and wan !-
He started back, as she upon

The hap!y scornful other ?
His neck would fall;

What if De Vaux were haughty still,

Or Leoline's unbridled will
He started back, -for by her side
(o blessed vision !) he espied

Consented not his rankling ill
A thing divine,

In charity to smother ?
Poor Christabel was lean and white,
But oh, how soft, and fair, and bright,

“ Their knees give way, their faces are pale, Was Geraldine !

And loudly beneath the corslets of mail, Fairer and brighter, as he gazes

Their aged hearts in generous heat
All celestial beauty blazes

Almost to bursting boil and beat;
From those glorious eyes,

The white lips qaiver, the pulses throb,
And Amador no more can brook

They stifle and swallow the rising sob, — The jealous air and peevish look

And there they stand, faint and unmann'd, That in the other lies !"

As each holds forth his bare right hand ! This is rather sudden, and takes the Yes, the mail-clad warriors tremble,

All unable to dissemble reader aback-for though poor Chris- Penitence and love confest, tabel had had a strange night of it, she As within each aching breast was a lovely creature the day before, The flood of affection grows deeper and and could not have grown so very stronger " lean and white" in so short a time. Till they can refrain no longer, Only think of her looking "peevish"! But with,— Oh, my longt-lost brother !' But

To their hearts they clasp each other, A trampling of hoofs at the cullice-port,

Vowing in the face of heaven A hundred horse in the castle court!

All forgotten and forgiven ! From border wastes a weary way,

" Then, the full luxury of grief Through Halegarth wood and Knorren

That brings the smothered soul relief, A mingled numerous array,

Within them both so fiercely rushed On panting palfreys black and grey,

That from their vanquish'd eyes out-gushed With foam and mud bespattered o'er,

A tide of tears, as pure and deep

As children, yea as cherubs weep !
Hastily cross the flooded Irt,
And rich Waswater's beauty skirt,

Sir Roland tells Sir Leoline, that And Sparkling-Tairn, and rough Seatbe his daughter Geraldine could not help waite,

being amused with Bard Bracy's tale And now that day is dropping late, that she was in Langdale, seeing Have passed the drawbridge and the gate.' that she was sitting at home in her Here again Mr Tupper shows, some own latticed bower, but the false one what ludicrously, his unacquaintance imposes on the old gentleman with a with the Lake-Land, and makes Sir pleasant story, and, manifest impostor Roland perform a most circuitous and liar though she be, they take her journey.

-do not start from your chair-for You know that Sir Leoline and Sir the Virgin Mary!

moor,

“ Her beauty hath conquerid : a sunny smile “ The spirit said, and all in light Laughs into goodness her seeming guile.

Melted away that vision bright; Aye, was she not in mercy sent

My tale is told.” To heal the friendships pride had rent? Such is Geraldine, a Sequel to ColeIs she not here a blessed saint

ridge's Christabel! It is, indeed, a To work all good by subtle feint ?

most shocking likeness-call it ra. Yea, art thou not, mysterious dame,

ther a horrid caricature. Coleridge's Our Lady of Furness ?--the same, the same!

Christabel, in any circumstances beO holy one, we know thee now,

neath the sun, moon, and stars, “ lean O gracious one, before thee bow,

and white, and peevish"!!-a most Help us, Mary, hallowed one,

impious libel. Coleridge's Geraldine Bless us, for thy wondrous Son”

“ like a lady from a far countree"At that word, the spell is half-bro- with that dreadful bosom and side. ken, and the dotards, who had been stain still the most beautiful of all the kneeling, rise up; the Witch gives a

witches-and in her mysterious wick. slight hiss, but instantly recovers her

edness powerful by the inscrutable gentleness and her beauty, and both fall in love with her, like the elders best of human innocence—the dragon

secret of some demon-spell over the with Susanna.

daughter of an old red-raged hag, “ Wonder-stricken were they then, hobbling on wooden crutches! Where And full of love, those ancient men, is our own ? Coleridge's bold EngFull-fired with guilty love, as when lish Barons, stiff in their green eld as In times of old

oaks, Sir Leoline and Sir Roland, To young Susanna's fairness knelt

with rheumy eyes, slavering lips, and Those elders twain, and fouily felt

tottering knees, shamelessly wooing The lava-streams of passion melt

the same witch in each others presence, Their bosoms cold."

with all the impotence of the last stage They walk off as jealous as March of dotage! hares, and Amador, a more fitting wooer, supplies their place.

6. She had dreams all yesternight

Of her own betrothed knight; His head is cushioned on her breast,

And she in the midnight wood will pray Her dark eyes shed love on his,

For the weal of her lover that's far away! And his changing cheek is prest By her hot and thrilling kiss,

That is all we hear of him from Cole. While again from her moist lips

ridge-Mr Tupper brings before us The honeydew of joy he sips,

the handsome youth" (yes ! he calls And views, with rising transport warm, him so), with Her half-unveil'd bewitching form."

“a goodly shield, At this critical juncture Christabel Three wild-boars or, on an azure field, comes gliding ghost-like up to him

While scallop-shells on an argent sess and Amador, most unaccountably Proclaim him a pilgrim and knight no stung-

less !! Stung with remorse,

Enchased in gold on his helmet of steel Hath drop't at her feet as a clay-cold corse;":

A deer-hound stands on the high-plumed

keel!" &c. she raises him up and kisses him-Geraldine, with “an involuntary hiss and And thus equipped— booted and spur. snake-like stare," gnashes her teeth red-armed cap-a-pie-he leaps the on the loving pair. Bard Bracy plays moat-contrary to all the courtesies on his triple-stringed Welsh harp a

of chivalry-and, rushing up to the holy hymn-Geraldine is convulsed, lady, who had been praying for him grows lank and lean

for ten years (ten is too many), he

turns on his heel as if he had stumbled “ The spell is dead--the charm is o'er,

by mistake on an elderly vinegar-viWrithing and circling on the floor, While she curl'd in pain, and then was

saged chambermaid, and makes fu.

rious love before her face to the lady seen no more.”

hose arm she is fainting ;-and this Next day at noon Amador and is in the spirit of--Coleridge! It won't Christabel are wed—the spirit of the do to say Amador is under a spell. No bride's mother descending from heaven such spell can be tolerated—and so far to bless the nuptials—the bridegroom from being moved with pity for Amais declared by her to be Sir Rowland's dor as infatuated, we feel assured,

that there is not one Quaker in Ken

on

son

dal, who, on witnessing such brutality, shifting for itself, like certain animalwould not lend a foot to kick him down culæ set a-racing on a hot-plate by a stairs, and a hand to fling him into flaxen-headed cowboy; and though the moat among the barbels.

there are some hundreds of them, not As for the diction, it is equally des one is the property of Mr Tupper, but titute of grace and power-and not liable to be claimed by every versifier only without any colouring of beauty, from Cockaigne to Cape Wrath. but all blotch and varnish, laid on Let us turn, then, to his ambitious as with a shoe-brush. All sorts of and elaborate address to Imagination, images and figures of speech crawl and see if it conspicuously exhibit the over the surface of the Sequel, each qualities of the poetical character.

"6 Thou fair enchantress of my willing heart,
Who charmest it to deep and dreamy slumber,
Gilding mine evening clouds of reverie,
Thou lovely Siren, who, with still small voice
Most softly musical, dost lure me on
O'er the wide sea of indistinct idea,
Or quaking sands of untried theory,
Or ridgy shoals of fixt experiment
That wind a dubious pathway through the deep, --
Imagination, I am thine own child :
Have I not often sat with thee retired,
Alone yet not alone, though grave most glad,
All silent outwardly, but loud within,
As from the distant hum of many waters,
Weaving the tissue of some delicate thought,
And hushing every breath that might have rent
Our web of gossamer, so finely spun?
Have I not often listed thy sweet song,
(While in vague echoes and Æolian notes
The chambers of my heart have answered it),
With eye as bright in joy, and fluttering pulse,
As the coy village maiden's, when her lover
Whispers his hope to her delighted ear?”

Imagination is here hailed first as a - With still small voice" is too hal“ fair enchantress," then as a “ lovely lowed an expression to be properly siren," and then as the poet's mother applied to a “ lovely siren;" nor is it _“I am thine own child.” In the the part of a siren to lure poets on next paragraph—not quoted-she is

“ O'er the wide sea of indistinct idea, called “angelic visitant; again he or quaking sands of untried theory, says, “ me thy son ;” immediately af.

Or ridgy shoals of fixt experiment, ter, “indulgent lover, I am all thine That wind a dubious pathway through the own;" and then

deep." “ Imagination, art thou not my friend,

We do not believe that these lines have In crowds and solitude, my comrade dear, any real meaning; and then they were Brother and sister, mine own other self, manifestly suggested by two mighty The Hector to my soul's Andromache ?” ones of WordsworthThese last lines are prodigious non “ The intellectual power through words sense; and we could not have believed and things it possible so to burlesque the most Went sounding on its dim and perilous touching passage in all Homer. Nor can we help thinking the image of Imagination is then “ Triumphant Martin Farquhar Tupper, Esq., M.A., Beauty, bright Intelligence," and author of " Proverbial Philosophy"

“ The chastened fire of extacy suppressed With eye as bright in joy, and fluttering Beams from her eye,” pulse,

which is all true; but why thus beams As the coy village maiden's"

her eye? rather ridiculous—with Imagination “ Because thy secret heart, sitting by his side, and whispering soft Like that strange light, burning yet unconnothings into his ear,

sumed,

way.”

Is all on flame, a censer filled with odours, bush spoken of in the Old Testament And to my mind, who feel thy fearful -a censer filled with odours-and a power,

slumbering volcano ! That is not Suggesting passive terrors and delights, poetry. But here comes to us an asA slumbering volcano,” &c.

tounding personification - which we Here the heart of Imagination is—if leave, without criticism, to be admired we rightly understand it—the burning if you choose.

“ Thy dark cheek,
Warm and transparent, by its half-formed dimple
Reveals an under-world of wondrous things
Ripe in their richness,—as among the bays
Of blest Bermuda, through the sapphire deep,
Ruddy and white, fantastically branch
The coral groves : thy broad and supny brow,
Made fertile by the genial smile of heaven,
Shoots up an hundred fold the glorious crop
Of arabesque ideas; forth from thy curls
Half hidden in their black luxuriance
The twining sister-graces lightly spring,
The Muses, and the Passions, and Young Love,
Tritons and Naiads, Pegasus, and Sphinx,
Atlas, Briareus, Phæton, and Cyclops,
Centaurs, and shapes uncouth, and wild conceits :
And in the midst blazes the star of mind,
Illumining the classic portico
That leads to the high dome where Learning sits :
On either side of that broad sunny brow
Flame-coloured pinions, streaked with gold and blue,
Burst from the teeming brain; while under them
The forked ligbtning, and the cloud-robed thunder,
And fearful shadows, and unhallowed eyes,
And strange foreboding forms of terrible things
Lurk in the midnight of thy raven locks."

Here and there we meet with a Screened from the north by groves of rather goodish line-as for example rooted thoughts."

“ Thou hast wreathed me smiles, And hung them on a statue's marble lips,” will admire this too

You admire it ?—then probably you And again“ Hast made earth’s dullest pebbles bright"

So, too, the memory of departed joy, like gems.”

Walking in black with sprinkled tears of And still better, perhaps

pearl,

Passes before the mind with look less “ Hast lengthened out my nights with life

stern, long dreams.”

And foot more lightened, when thine in-We are willing, but scarcely able,

ward power, to be pleased with the following image: Most gentle friend, upon the clouded face “ First feelings, and young hopes, and

Sheds the fair light of better joy to come,

And throws round Grief the azure scarf of better aims, And sensibilities of delicate sort,

Hope." Like timorous mimosas, which the breath,

How far better had that thought The cold and cautious breath of daily life, Hath not, as yet, had power to blight or been, if expressed in simplest lankill,

guage, and without any figure at all! From my heart's garden ; for they stood The Invocation ends thus,

retired,

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So have I sped with thee, my bright-eyed love,
Imagination, over pathless wilds,
Bounding from thought to thought, unmindful of
The fever of my soul that shot them up
And made a ready footing for my speed,
As like the whirlwind I have flown along
Winged with ecstatic mind, and carried away,
Like Ganymede of old, o'er cloudcapt Ida,
Or Alps, or Andes, or the ice-bound shores
Of Arctic or Antarctic,-stolen from earth
Her sister-planets and the twinkling eyes
That watch her from afar, to the pure seat
Of rarest Matter's last created world,
And brilliant balls of self-existing Light.”

We call that bad. Like a cha an avalanche, though we are aware mois - like a whirlwind-like Gany that avalanches hold their places by mede! Shew us a flight--without a precarious tenure. However, the telling us what it is like-and leave sight of so minute a gentleman sliding us to judge for ourselves whether or unappalled on a huge avalanche from no you are a poet and can fly.

the Grindlewald to the Shrikeborn's Does Imagination inspire “ The edge, would be of itself worth a jourSong of an Alpine Elf ?" The Alpine ney to Switzerland. But what a cruel Elf sings

little wretch it is! not satisfied with My summer's home is the cataract's pushing the ibex over the precipice,

he does not scruple to avow, foam, As it floats in a frothing heap ;

" That my greatest joy is to lure and decoy My winter's rest is the weasel's nest,

To the chasm's slippery brink, Or deep with the mole I sleep."

The hunter bold, when he's weary

and old,

And there let him suddenly sink We daresay there are moles and wea

A thousand feet--dead !—he dropped like sels among the Alps, but one does

lead, not think of them there ; and had Mr

Hal he couldn't leap like me; Tupper ever taken up a weasel by

With broken back, as a felon on the rack, the tail, between his finger and thumb, He hangs on a split pine tree.” he would not, we are persuaded, have Why shove only the old hunter over conceived it possible that any Elf, ac the chasm ? 'Twould be far better customed to live during summer in sport, one would think, to an Alpine the froth of a cataract, could have cif, to precipitate the young bridebeen “ so far left to himself” as to have sought winter lodgings with an

groom. “ Hal he couldn't leap like

me," is a fine touch of cgotism and animal of such an intolerable stink.

insult--and how natural ! And what are the Alpine Elf's pur

And there mid his bones, that echoed suits ? “ I ride for a freak on the lightning streak, I make me a nest of his hair ; And mingle among the cloud,

The ribs dry and white rattle loud as in My swarthy form with the thunder-storm,

spite, Wrapp'd in its sable shroud."

When I rock in my cradle there : A very small thunder storm indeed Hurrah, hurrah, and ha, ha, ha! would suffice to wrap his Elf-ship in

I'm in a merry mood, its sable shroud ; but is he not too

For I'm all alone in my palace of bone, magniloquent for a chum of the mole

That's tapestried fair with the old man's

hair, and the weasel ? What would be the astonishment of the mole to see his

And dappled with clots of blood." bed-fellow as follows

At what season of the year? Du

ring summer his home is in a “ froth“ Often I launch the huge avalanche,

ing heat;' during winter he sleeps And make it my milk-white sledge, with the weasel or moudy-warp. It When unappalled to the Grindle wald I slide from the Shrikehorn's edge.”

must be in spring or autumn that he

makes his nest in a dead man's hair. By his own account he cannot be How imaginative! much more than a span long—and we Turn we now to a reality, and see are sceptical as to his ability to launch how Mr Tupper, who likened himself

with groans,

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