an old oak-tree, a furlong from the castle-gate. Why she chooses this spot, we are not informed; but the fantastical personages of these authors have no doubt good reasons for their unreasonable actions, though we ordinary mortals cannot possibly guess at them. While engaged in her devotion, she hears a moaning near her; and, with more courage than we could have expected in a young lady frightened by dreams, she steals round to the other side of the oak, and discovers there a beautiful lady, richly attired.-This lady, in a most incoherent story, relates that her name is Geraldine, and that she has been carried from her father's castle by five warriors, of whose names, persons, motives, and intentions, she is totally ignorant. Christabel charitably makes the lady an offer of sharing her bed, and assures her of the protection of her father, Sir Leoline. She accepts the offer, and they steal home to the castle, "cautiously creeping up the stairs," lest they should awaken the Baron, who seems to be rather a testy old gentleman. They reach the chamber of Christabel, who retires to rest. But "so many thoughts pass to and fro" in her mind, that she cannot sleep: and she views the transformation of Geraldine into a sorceress, who lies down by her side, and mutters over her a fascinating spell. In the morning they arise; but Christabel remains disturbed by the charm of the sorceress, who has resumed ber original form. When they enter the hall, Sir Leoline discovers in Geraldine the daughter of Sir Roland de Vaux, who had been his friend in youth, and is sorely displeased by the jealousies of Christabel, who still remembers, with shuddering sensations, the adventure of the former night. Here the narrative breaks off. It is proposed by the author to finish it in the course of the present year. The poem opens with the following lines, which introduce an interesting personage, who, as far as we remember, is entirely new to poetry: "Tis the middle of night by the castle clock, And hark again! the crowing cock, How drowsily it crew. "Sir Leoline, the Baron rich, Hath a toothless mastiff-bitch; From her kennel beneath the rock She makes answer to the clock, Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour; NO.XV.-VOL.III.—Aug.Rev. Sixteen short howls, not over loud; Some say, she sees my lady's shroud. "Is the night chilly and dark? The night is chilly, but not dark," &c. -p. 3, 4. Here is a spring-landscape, which we think is worthy of Mr. Wordsworth, in some of his " diviner moods:" "The night is chill, the forest bare; On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky."-p. 6. Can any thing be more truly simple and infantine than the passage which describes the entrance of Christabel and Geraldine into the castle? Mr. Coleridge's own "Ideot Boy" could not have made his conjectures about the howling of the old toothless mastiff-bitch, with a more natural lisp? "The lady sunk, belike through pain, And moved, as she were not in pain. "So free from danger, free from fear, To the lady by her side, Praise we the Virgin all divine, Who hath recued thee from thy distress! Alas, alas! said Geraldine, I cannot speak for weariness. So free from danger, free from fear, They cross'd the court: right glad they were. Outside her kennel, the mastiff old Lay fast asleep, in the moonshine cold. Yet she an angry moan did make! For what can ail the mastiff-bitch ?" -p. 11, 12. Then we have an imitation of some of those parts of Lord Byron's poetry which describe an utter desolation of mind— intended, we doubt not, to be very original and energetic, but which appears to us to be the vilest jargon we ever had the misfortune to read: "Alas! they had been friends in youth, To free the hollow heart from paining- But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, The marks of that which once hath been." -p. 32, 33. After telling us, that the legitimate mode of expressing love is "in words of imminent bitterness," the poem concludes with these verses, which appear to us a good deal like the ravings of insanity "Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together (O sorrow and shame should this be true!) Comes seldom, save from rage and pain, -p. 48. We will now point out what appear to us to be beauties in this production; and we regret that there are many fine things which cannot be extracted, being closely connected with the grossest absurdities. The tares and the wheat grow up together so, that the eradication of the one would be the destruction of the other. The first thing that strikes us as very good is, the description of the magnificent Gothic chamber with its decorations: "The moon shines dim in the open air, And not a moonbeam enters here. But they, without its light, can see The lamp, with two-fold silver chain, The silver lamp burns dead and dim," &c. p. 13, 14. The manner in which the transformation of the sorceress is told, is excellent; and the obscurity in which the author has left the passage, has a powerful effect on the imagination: "Beneath the lamp the lady bow'd, And she is to sleep by Christabel." p. 17, 18. But the exquisite picture of Christabel is perhaps the finest thing in the collection; and reminds us, in attitude and expression, of some of the inimitable saintly figures of Guido Rheni and Dominichino : "It was a lovely sight to see And both blue eyes more bright than clear, p. 20, 21. We give, too, the awakening of Christabel from her in chanted dream: "And see, the lady Christabel Gathers herself from out her trance; Close o'er her eyes; and tears she sheds- p. 22. The idea in the following passage is highly poetical, and is expressed by the author with considerable felicity, though too minutely: "A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy, And with somewhat of malice, and more of dread One moment-and the sight was fled! The maid, alas! her thoughts are gone, That look, those shrunken serpent eyes, And passively did imitate That look of dull and treacherous hate. And thus she stood, in dizzy trance, Still picturing that look askance, p. 42, 43. The idea of the character of Christabel is altogether very lovely, though there is nothing original or striking about it. Kubla Khan is prefaced by the following extraordinary relation: "In the summer of 1797, the author, then in ill health, had retired to a lonely farm-house, between Porlock and Linton, on the Exmoor confines of Somerset and Devonshire. In consequence of a slight indisposition, an anodyne had been prescribed, from the effects of which he fell asleep in his chair at the moment that he was reading the following sentence, or words of the same substance, in Purchas's Pilgrimage: 'Here the Khan Kubla commanded a palace to be built, and a stately garden thereunto. And thus ten miles of fertile ground were inclosed with a wall.' The author continued for about three hours in a profound sleep, at least of the external senses, during which time be has the most vivid confidence that he could not have composed less than from two to three hundred lines; if that, indeed, can be called composition in which all the images rose up before him as things, with a parallel production of the correspondent expression, without any sensation or consciousness of effort. On awaking, he appeared to himself to have a distinct recollection of the whole; and taking his pen, ink, and paper, instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines that are here preserved. At this moment he was unfortunately called out by a person on business, from Porlock, and detained by him above an hour, and, on his return to his room, he found, to his no small surprise and mortification, that though he still retained some vague and dim recollection of |