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When human ruin choked the streams,

Fell in connuest's glutted hour,
'Mid women's shrieks and infants' screams!
Spirits of the uncofined slain,

Sudden blasts of triumph swelling,
Oft, at night, in misty train,

Rush around her narrow dwelling!
The exterminating fiend is fled-

Foul her life, and dark her doom-
Mighty armies of the dead

Dance like death-fires round her temb!
Then with prophetic song relate

Each some tyrant-murderer's fate!
Departing year! 'twas on no earthly shore

My soul beheld thy vision ! Where alone,

Voiceless and stern, before the cloudy throne, Aye Memory sits; thy robe inscribed with gore, With many an imaginable groan

Thou storied'st thy sad hours! Silence ensued, Deep silence o'er the ethereal multitude. Whose locks with wreaths, whose wreaths with glories shone.

Then, his eye wild ardours glancing,

From the choirèd gods advancing,
The Spirit of the earth made reverence meet,
And stood up, beautiful, before the cloudy seat.

Not yet enslaved, not wholly vile,
O Albion ! O my mother isle!
Thy valleys, fair as Eden's bowers,
Glitter green with sunny showers ;
Thy grassy uplands' gentle swells

Echo to the bleat of flocks
(Those grassy hills, those glittering dells

Proudly ramparted with rocks);
And Oceán, ’mid his uproar wild,
Speaks safely to his island-child !
Hence, for many a fearless age
Has social Quiet loved thy shore!
Nor ever proud invader's rage
Or sacked thy towers, or stained thy fields with gore.
Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Chamouni.

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star
In his steep course? So long he seems to pause
On thy-bald awful head, O sovran Blanc !
The Arvé and Arveiron at thy base
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form!
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines,
How silently! Around thee and above,
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,
An ebon mass; methinks thou piercest it,
As with a wedge! But when I look again,
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,
Thy habitation from eternity !
O dread and silent mount! I gazed upon thee,
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,
Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer,
I worshipped the Invisible alone.

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody
So sweet, we know not we are listening to it,

Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought,
Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy ;
Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused,
Into the mighty vision passing—there,
As in her natural form, swelled väst to heaven!

Awake, my soul! not only passive praise
Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears,
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy. Awake,
Voice of sweet song ! awake, my heart, awake!
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn.

Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale !
Oh, struggling with the darkness all the night,
And visited all night by troops of stars,
Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink!
Companion of the morning-star at dawn,
Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn
Co-herald ; wake, o wake, and utter praise !
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth!
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light?
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?

And you, ye five wild torrents, fiercely glad !
Who called you forth from night and utter death,
From dark and icy caverns called you forth,
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,
For ever shattered, and the same for ever?
Who gave you your invulnerable life,
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy,
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ?
And who commanded-and the silence came-
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest ?

Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow
Adown enormous ravines slope amain-
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,
And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge!
Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts !
Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven
Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun
Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers
Of loveliest blue spread garlands at your feet ?
God !' let the torrents, like a shout of nations,
Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, 'God!'
God ! sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice!
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!
And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, ‘God!

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost! Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! Ye eagle's playmates of the mountain storm! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!. Ye signs and wonders of the element ! Utter forth God,' and fill the hills with praise ! Thou too, hoar mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene, Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast Thou too, again, stupendous mountain! thou, That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low

In adoration, upward from thy base
Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears,
Solemnly seemest like a vapoury cloud
To rise before me-Rise, oh, ever rise;
Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth!
Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills,
Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven,
Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.

All thoughts, all passions, all delights, But when I told the cruel scorn
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,

That crazed that bold and lovely knight, All are but ministers of love,

And that he crossed the mountain-woods. And feed his sacred flame.

Nor rested day nor night ; Oft in my waking dreams do I

That sometimes from the savage den, Live o'er again that happy hour,

And sometimes from the darksome shade When midway on the mount I lay, And sometimes starting up at once, Beside the ruined tower.

In green and sunny glade,
The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, There came and looked him in the face
Had blended with the lights of eve; An angel beautiful and bright;
And she was there, my hope, my joy, And that he knew it was a fiend,
My own dear Genevieve !

This miserable knight!
She leaned against the armed man, And that, unknowing what he did,
The statue of the armed knight ;

He leaped amid a murderous band,
She stood and listened to my lay

And saved from outrage worse than death Amid the lingering light.

The lady of the land ; Few sorrows hath she of her own, And how she wept and clasped his knees My hope, my joy, my Genevieve!, And how she tended him in vainShe loves me best whene'er I sing And ever strove to expiate The songs that make her grieve.

The scorn that crazed his brain. I played a soft and doleful air,

And that she nursed him in a cave; I sang an old and moving story

And how his madness went away, An old rude song that suited well

When on the yellow forest leaves That ruin wild and hoary.

A dying man he lay! She listened with a flitting blush, His dying words—but when I reached Wi downcast eyes and modest grace; That tenderest strain of all the ditty, For well she knew I could not choose My faltering voice and pausing harp But gaze upon her face.

Disturbed her soul with pity ! I told her of the knight that wore

Al impulses of soul and sense Upon his shield a burning brand; Had thrilled my guileless GenevieveAnd that for ten long years he wooed The music and the doleful tale, The lady of the land.

The rich and balmy eve; I told her how he pined ; and ah! And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, The deep, the low, the pleading tone An undistinguishable throng; With which I sang another's love, And gentle wishes long subdued, Interpreted my own.

Subdued and cherished long! She listened with a flitting blush, She wept with pity and delight, With downcast eyes and modest grace;

She blushed with love and virgin shame: And she forgave me that I gazed

And like the murmur of a dream
Too fondly on her face.

I heard her breathe my name.

Her bosom heaved, she stept aside; 'Twas partly love, and partly fear,
As conscious of my look she stept- And partly 'twas a bashful art,
Then suddenly, with timorous eye, That I might rather feel than see
She fled to me and wept.

The swelling of her heart.
She half inclosed me with her arms, I calmed her fears; and she was calm,
She pressed me with a meek embrace, And told her love with virgin pride;

bending back her head, looked up And so I won my Genevieve,
And gazed upon my face.

My bright and beauteous bride!
From · Frost at Midnight.”-
Dear babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,

up the interspersed vacancies
And momentary pauses of the thought!
My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart
With tender gladness thus to look at thee,
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore,
And in far other scenes! For I was reared
In the great city, pent ’mid cloister dim,
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.
But thou, my babe, shalt wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags : so shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language which thy God
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Great universal Teacher ! he shall mould
Thy spirit, and, by giving, make it ask.

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the evedrops fall,
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet moon.

Love, Hope, and Patience in Education.
O'er wayward childhood wouldst thou hold firm rule,
And sun thee in the light of happy faces;
Love, Hope, and Patience, these must be thy graces,
And in thine own heart let them first keep school.
For as old Atlas on his broad neck places
Heaven's starry globe, and there sustains it, 80
Do these upbear the little world lelow
Of education-Patience, Love, and Hope.
Methinks see them grouped in scemly show,
The straitened arms upraised, the palms aslope,
And robes that touching as adown they flow,
Distinctly blend, like snow embossed in snow.
O part them never! If Hope prostrate lie,

Love too will sink and die,
But Love is subtle, and doth proof derive
From her own life that Hope is yet alive:
And bending o'er, with soul-transfusing eyes,

And the soft murmurs of the mother-dove,
Woos back the fleeting spirit, end 2012 jul flies;
Thus Love repays to Hope wiat Hope rst gave to Love
Yet haply there will come a weary day,

When overtasked at length,
Both Love and Hope beneath the load give way.
Then will a statue's smile, å statue's strength,
Stands the mute sister, Patience, nothing loth,
And both supporting, does the work of both.

Youth and Age.
Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying, Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!
Where Hope clung feeding like a bee- O Youth ! for years so many and sweet.
Both were mine! Life went a-maying 'Tis known that thou and I were one;
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,

I'll think it but a fond conceit-
When was young!

It cannot be that thou art gone!
When I was young? Ah, woful when! Thy vesper-bell hath not yet tolled,
Ah, for the change 'twixt Now and And thou wert aye a masker ball!
Then !

What strange disguise hast now put on, This breathing house not built with To make-believe that thou art gone? hands,

I see these locks in silvery slips,
This body that does me grievous wrong, This drooping gait, this altered size;
O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands, But springtide blossoms on thy lips,
How lightly then it flashed along:

And tears take sunshine from thine eyes
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, Life is but thought: so think I will
On winding lakes and rivers wide,

That Youth and I are housemates stin. That ask no aid of sail or oar, That fear no spite of wind or tide! Dewdrops are the gems of morning, Nought cared this body for wind or But the tears of mournful eve! weather,

Where no hope is, life's a warning When Youth and I lived in 't together. That only serves to make us grieve

When we are old : Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like; That only serves to make us grieve Friendship is a sheltering tree;

With oft and tedious taking leave; O the joys that came down shower-like, Like some poor nigh-related guest, Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, That may not rudely be dismissed, Ere I was old!

Yet hath outstayed his welcome while, Ere I was old ? Ah woful Ere,

And tells the jest without the smile. Among the day-dreams of Coleridge, as we have already men. tioned, was the hope of producing a great philosophical work, which he conceived would ultimately effect

a revolution

in what has been called philosophy or metaphysics in England and France. The only complete philosophical attempt of the poet was a slight introduction to the Encyclopædia ‘Metropolitana,' a preliminary treatise on Method,' from which we subjoin an extract.

Importance of Method. The habit of method should always be present and effective; but in order to render it so, a certain training or education of the mind is indispensably necessary. Events and images, the lively and spirit-stirring machinery of the external world, are like ligut, and air, and moisture to the seed of the mind, which would else rot and perish.

In all processes of mental - tion the objects of the senses must stimulate the mind ; and the mind must in n assimilate and digest the food which it thus receives from without. Method, therefore, must result from the due mean or balance between our passive impressions and the mind's reaction on them. So in the healthful state of the human body, waking, and sleeping, rest and labour, reciprocally succeed each other, and mutually contribute to liveliness, and activity, And strength. There are certain stores proper, and, as it were, indigenous to the

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