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, 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, She listen'd with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes and modest grace, For well she knew I could not choose But gaze upon her face. 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 There came and look'd him in the face An angel beautiful and bright; And that he knew it was a fiend, And that, unknowing what he did, And how she wept and claspt his knees; And how she tended him in vain 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, She wept with pity and delight, She blush'd with love and virgin shame: And like the murmur of a dream, Her bosom heav'd-she stept aside, She half enclos'd me in her arms, She press'd me with a meek embrace: And bending back her head, look'd up, And gazed upon my face. 'Twas partly love and partly fear, I calm'd her fears, and she was calm, And so I won my Genevieve, 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. KUBLA KHAN. SUGGESTED TO THE AUTHOR BY A PASSAGE IN PURCHAS'S PILGRIMAGE. In Xanadu did Kubla Khan1 A stately pleasure-dome decree, So twice five miles of fertile ground And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills, But oh, that deep romantic chasm which slanted And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, A mighty fountain momently was forc'd; Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far The shadow of the dome of pleasure Where was heard the mingled measure It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome, with caves of ice! In a vision once I saw : It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she play'd, Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight 't would win me, I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And drunk the milk of Paradise. 1 “In Xanadu.”—I think I recollect a variation of this stanza, as follows: In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-house ordain, The nice-eared poet probably thought there were too many ns in these rhymes; and man and main are certainly not the best neighbors: yet there is such an open, sounding, and stately intonation in the words pleasure-house ordain, and it is so superior to pleasure-dome decree, that I am not sure I would not give up the correctness of the other terminations to retain it. But what a grand flood is this, flowing down through measureless caverns to a sea without a sun! I know no other sea equal |