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saying, that in regard to this and a very great number of subjects besides, they stand quite in a different situation from our English readers. The reading-public of England (speaking largely) have not understood Mr Coleridge's poems as they should have dore The reading-public of Scotland are in general ignorant that any such poems exist, and of those who are aware of their existence, the great majority owe the whole of their information concerning them to a few reviews, which, being written by men of talent and understanding, could not possibly have been written from any motives but those of malice, or with any purposes but those of misrepresentation.

THERE is no question many of our readers will think we are doing a very useless, if not a very absurd thing, in writing, at this time of day, any thing like a review of the poetry of Mr Coleridge. Several years have elapsed since any poetical production, entitled to much attention, has been published by him-and of those pieces yhtich the true strength and originality of his genius have been expressed, by far the greater part were presented to the world before any of the extensively popular poetry of the present day exist ed. In the midst, however, of the many new claimants which have arisen on every hand to solicit the ear and the favour of the readers of poetry, we are not sure that anyone has had so much reason to complain of the slowness and inadequacy of the attention bestowed upon him as this gentleman, who is, comparatively speaking, a veteran of no It is not inconsiderable standing. easy to determine in what proportions the blame of his misfortunes should be divided between himself and his muse. That both have concountrymen. ducted themselves very culpably-at least very unwisely-begins at length, we believe, to be acknowledged by most of those whose opinion is of any consequence. As for us, we can

never

suppose ourselves to be ill employed when we are doing any thing that may serve in any measure to correct the errors of the public judgment on the one hand, or to stimulate the efforts of ill-requited, and thence, perhaps, desponding or slumbering genius on the other. To our Scottish readers we owe no apology whatever; on the contrary, we have no hesitation in VOL. VI.

The exercise of those unfair, and indeed wicked arts, by which the superficial mass of readers are so easily swayed in all their judgments, was, in this instance, more than commonly easy, by reason of the many singular eccentricities observable in almost all the productions of Mr Coleridge's

What was already fantastic, it could not be no difficult matter for those practised wits, to represent, as utterly unmeaning, senseless, and absurd. But perhaps those who are accustomed to chuckle over the ludicrous analysis of serious poems, so common in our most popular reviews, might not be the worse for turning to the Dictionnaire Philosophique, and seeing with what success the same weapons have been employed there, (by much greater wits, it is true) to transform and degrade into subjects of vulgar merriment all the beautiful narratives of the sacred books-their A 2

sublime simplicity and most deep tenderness. It is one of the most melancholy things in human nature, to see how often the grandest mys teries of the meditative soul lie at the mercy of surface-skimming ridicule, and self-satisfied rejoicing ignorance-It is like seeing the most solemn gestures of human dignity mimicked into grotesque absurdity by monkeys. Now, to our mind, the impropriety of the treatment which has been bestowed upon Mr Coleridge, is mightily increased by the very facilities which the peculiarities of the poet himself afforded for its infliction. It is a thing not to be denied, that, even under the most favourable of circumstances, the greater part of the readers of English poetry could never have been expected thoroughly and intimately to understand the scope of those extraordinary productions-but this ought only to have acted as an additional motive with those who profess to be the guides of public opinion, to make them endeavour, as far as might in them lie, to render the true merits of those productions more visible to the eye of the less penetrating or less reflective. Unless such be the duty of professional critics on such occa sions and one, too, of the very noblest duties they can ever be called upon to discharge we have erred very widely in all our ideas concern ing such matters.

However well he might have been treated by the critics-nay, however largely he might have shared in the sweets of popularity-there is no doubt Mr Coleridge must still have continued to be a most eccentric author. But the true subject for regret is, that the unfavourable reception he has met with, seems to have led him to throw aside almost all regard for the associations of the multitude and to think, that nothing could be so worthy of a great genius, so unworthily despised, as to reject in his subsequent compositions every standard save that of his own private whims Now it was a very great pity that this remarkable man should have come so hastily to such a resolution as this and by exaggerating his own original peculiarities, thus widened the breach every day between himself and the public. A poet, although he may have no great confidence in the public taste, as a guide to excellence, should

always, at least, retain the wish to please it by the effect of his pieceseven while he may differ very widely from common opinions, with regard to the means to be employed. This is a truth which has unfortunately been very inadequately attended to by several of the most powerful geniuses of our time; but we know of none upon whose reputation its neglect has been so severely visited as on that of Mr Coleridge. It is well, that in spite of every obstacle, the native power of his genius has still been able to scatter something of its image upon all his performances-it is well, above all things, that in moods of more genial enthusiasm he has created a few poems, which are, though short, in conception so original, and in execution so exquisite, that they cannot fail to render the name of Coleridge co-extensive with the language in which he has written-and to associate it for ever in the minds of all feeling and intelligent men, with those of the few chosen spirits that have touched in so many ages of the world the purest and most delicious chords of lyrical enchantment.

Those who think the most highly of the inborn power of this man's genius, must now, perhaps, be contented, if they would speak of him to the public with any effect, to suppress their enthusiasm in some measure→→→→ and take that power alone for granted which has been actually shown to exist. Were we to speak of him without regard to this prudential rule

and hazard the full expression of our own belief in his capacities-there is no question we should meet with many to acknowledge the propriety, to use the slightest phrase, of all that we might say-but these, we apprehend, would rather be found among those who have been in the society of Mr Coleridge himself, and witnessed the astonishing effects which, according to every report, his eloquence never fails to produce upon those to whom it is addressed-than among men who have (like ourselves) been constrained to gather their only ideas of him from the printed productions of his genius. We are very willing to acknowledge, that our own excess of admiration may have been in some measure the result of peculiar circumstances-that it may have arisen out of things too minute to be ex

plained and which, if explained, would be regarded by many as merely fantastic and evanescent. What, according to our belief, Mr Coleridge might have been-what, according to the same belief, he may yet be-these are matters in regard to which it may be wise to keep silence. We have no desire, had we the power, to trouble our readers with any very full exposition of our opinions, even concerning what he has done in poetry. Our only wish for the present, is to offer a few remarks in regard to one or two of his individual productions, which may perhaps excite the attention of such of our readers as have never yet paid any considerable attention to any of them-and this, more particularly, as we have already hinted, with a view to our own countrymen in Scotland.

The longest poem in the collection of the Sibylline Leaves, is the Rime of the Ancient Mariner-and to our feeling, it is by far the most wonderful also the most original-and the most touching of all the productions of its author. From it alone, we are inclined to think an idea of the whole poetical genius of Mr Coleridge might be gathered, such as could scarcely receive any very important addition either of extent or of distinctness, from a perusal of the whole of his other works To speak of it at all is extremely difficult; above all the poems with which we are acquainted in any language-it is a poem to be felt-cherished-mused upon-not to be talked about-not capable of being described-analyzed -or criticised. It is the wildest of all the creations of genius-it is not like a thing of the living, listening, moving world-the very music of its words is like the melancholy mysterious breath of something sung to the sleeping ear-its images have the beauty-the grandeur-the incoherence of some mighty vision. The loveliness and the terror glide before us in turns-with, at one moment, the awful shadowy dimness-at another, the yet more awful distinctness of a majestic dream.

Dim and shadowy, and incoherent, however, though it be-how blind, how wilfully, or how foolishly blind must they have been who refused to see any meaning or purpose in the Tale of the Mariner! The imagery,

indeed, may be said to be heaped up to superfluity-and so it is the language to be redundant-and the narrative confused. But surely those who cavilled at these things, did not consider into whose mouth the poet has put this ghastly story. A guest is proceeding to a bridal-the sound of the merry music is already in his ears and the light shines clearly from the threshold to guide him to the festival. He is arrested on his way by an old man, who constrains him to listen-he seizes him by the hand-that he shakes free-but the old man has a more inevitable spell, and he holds him, and will not be silent.

He holds him with his glittering eye,

And listens like a three-years child:
The wedding-guest stood still,

The mariner hath his will.

The wedding guest sat on a stone,

He cannot ehuse but hear
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed mariner.

The bride hath paced into the hall,

Red as a rose is she:

Nodding their heads before her goes

The merry minstrelsy.

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At length did cross an Albatross :
Thorough the fog it came;

As if it had been a Christian soul,
We hailed it in God's name.
It ate the food it ne'er had eat,
And round and round it flew.
The ice did split with a thunder-fit;
The helmsman steer'd us through!
And a good south wind sprung up behind;
The Albatross did follow,
And every day, for food or play,

Came to the Mariner's hollo!
In mist or cloud, or mast or shroud,
It perch'd for vespers nine;

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Glimmered the white Moon-shine.

"God save thee, ancient Mariner ! From the fiends that plague thee thus !Why look'st thou so?"With my crossbow

I shot the ALBATROSS!

All the subsequent miseries of the crew are represented by the poet as having been the consequences of this violation of the charities of sentiment; and these are the same miseries which the critics have spoken of, as being causeless and unmerited! We have no difficulty in confessing, that the ideas on which the intent of this poem hinges, and which to us seem to possess all beauty and pathos, may, after all, have been selected by the poet with a too great neglect of the ordinary sympathies. But if any one will submit himself to the magic that is around him, and suffer his senses and his imagination to be blended together, and exalted by the melody of the charmed words, and the splendour of the unnatural apparitions with which the mysterious scene is opened, surely he will experience no revulsion towards the centre and spirit of this lovely dream. There is the very essence of tenderness in the remorseful delight with which the Mariner dwells upon the image of the "pious bird of omen good," as it

Every day, for food or play,
Came to the Mariner's hollo!

And the convulsive shudder with
which he narrates the treacherous
issue, bespeaks to us no pangs more
than seem to have followed justly on
that inhospitable crime. It seems as
if the very spirit of the universe had
been stunned by the wanton cruelty
of the Mariner-as if earth, sea,
and sky, had all become dead and
stagnant in the extinction of the mov-
ing breath of love and gentleness.
All in a hot and copper sky,
The bloody Sun, at noon,
Right up above the mast did stand,
No bigger than the moon.

Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion,
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.
Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to drink.

The very deep did rot: O Christ!
That ever this should be!

Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs Upon the slimy sea.

About, about, in reel and rout
The death-fires danced at night;
The water, like a witch's oils,
Burnt green, and blue, and white.
Ah! well a-day! what evil looks
Had I from old and young!
Instead of the cross, the Albatross
About my neck was hung.
In the "weary time" which follows,
a spectre-ship sails between them and
the "broad bright sun" in the west.
This part of the poem is much im-
proved in this last edition of it. The
male and the female skeleton in the
spectre-ship, or, as they are now called,
"DEATH and LIFE-IN-DEATH," have
diced for the ship's crew-and she,
the latter, has won the ancient Mari-
ner. These verses are, we think,
quite new. The second of them is,
perhaps, the most exquisite in the
whole poem.

The naked hulk alongside came,
And the twain were casting dice;
"The game is done! I've won, I've won!"
Quoth she, and whistles thrice.
The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out:
At one stride comes the dark;
With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea,
Off shot the spectre-bark.

We listen'd and look'd sideways up!
Fear at my heart, as at a cup,
My life-blood seem'd to sip!

The stars were dim, and thick the night, The steersman's face by his lamp gleam'd white;

From the sails the dews did drip-
Till clombe above the eastern bar
The horned Moon, with one bright star
Within the nether tip.

The crew, who had approved in calm-
ness the sin that had been committed
in wantonness and madness, die,-and
the Mariner alone is preserved by the
rise of an expiatory feeling in his
mind. Pain, sorrow, remorse, there
are not enough ;-the wound must be
healed by a heartfelt sacrifice to the
same spirit of universal love which
had been bruised in its infliction.
The moving Moon went up the sky,
And no where did abide :
Softly she was going up,
And a star or two beside-

Her beams bemock'd the sultry main,
Like April hoar-frost spread;
But where the ship's huge shadow lay,
The charmed water burnt alway
A still and awful red.

Beyond the shadow of the ship,
I watch'd the water-snakes:

They moved in tracts of shining white,
And when they reared, the elfish light
Fell off in hoary flakes.

Within the shadow of the ship
I watch'd their rich attire:
Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,
They coiled and swam; and every track
Was a flash of golden fire.

O happy living things! no tongue
Their beauty might declare:
A spring of love gusht from my heart,
And I blessed them unaware!

Sure my kind saint took pity on me,
And I blessed them unaware.

The self same moment I could pray;
And from my neck so free
The Albatross fell off, and sank
Like lead into the sea.

The conclusion has always appeared to us to be happy and graceful in the utmost degree. The actual surface-life of the world is brought close into contact with the life of sentiment-the soul that is as much alive, and enjoys, and suffers as much in dreams and visions of the night as by daylight. One feels with what a heavy eye the Ancient Mariner must look and listen to the pomps and merry-makings— even to the innocent enjoyments-of those whose experience has only been of things tangible. One feels that to him another world-we do not mean a supernatural, but a more exquisitely and deeply natural world-has been revealed and that the repose of his spirit can only be in the contemplation of things that are not to pass away. The sad and solemn indifference of his mood is communicated to his hear

ing what he had heard, it were better
to "turn from the bridegroom's door."
O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been
Alone on a wide wide sea:
So lonely 'twas, that God himself
Scarce seemed there to be.

It is needless to proceed any longer in this, for the principle of the poem is all contained in the last of these extracts. Had the ballad been more interwoven with sources of prolonged emotion extending throughout-ander-and we feel that even after readhad the relation of the imagery to the purport and essence of the piece been a little more close-it does not seem to us that any thing more could have been desired in a poem such as this. As it is, the effect of the wild wandering magnificence of imagination in the details of the dream-like story is a thing that cannot be forgotten. It is as if we had seen real spectres, and were for ever to be haunted. The unconnected and fantastic variety of the images that have been piled up before us works upon the fancy, as an evening sky made up of half lurid castellated clouds-half of clear unpolluted azure-would upon the eye. It is like the fitful concert of fine sounds which the Mariner himself hears after his spirit has been melted, and the ship has begun to sail homewards. Around, around, flew each sweet sound, Then darted to the Sun;

Slowly the sounds came back again,
Now mixed, now one by one.
Sometimes a-dropping from the sky
I heard the sky-lark sing;
Sometimes all little birds that are,
How they seem'd to fill the sea and air
With their sweet jargoning!

And now 'twas like all instruments,
Now like a lonely flute;

And now it is an angel's song,
That makes the Heavens be mute.
It ceased; yet still the sails made on
A pleasant noise till noon,

A noise like of a hidden brook
In the leafy month of June,
That to the sleeping woods all night
Singeth a quiet tune.

sweeter than the marriage-feast,
"Tis sweeter far to me,
To walk together to the kirk
With a goodly company!—
To walk together to the kirk,
And all together pray,

While each to his great Father bends,
Old men, and babes, and loving friends,
And youths and maidens gay!"
Farewell, farewell! but this I tell
To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!
He prayeth well, who loveth well
Both man, and bird, and beast.
He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,

He made and loveth all.

The Mariner, whose eye is bright,
Whose beard with age is hoar,
Is gone; and now the Wedding-guest
Turned from the bridegroom's door.

He went like one that hath been stunned,
And is of sense forlorn :

A SADDER AND A WISER MAN,
HE ROSE THE MORROW MORN.-

Of all the author's productions, the one which seems most akin to the Ancient Mariner, is Christabel, a wonderful piece of poetry, which has been far less understood, and is as yet far less known than the other. This performance does not make its appearance in the Sibylline Leaves-but we hope Mr Coleridge will never omit it in any

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