who dwells in the wood on the seashore, thus giving the mariner over to the care of his fellow human beings:

"Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat;

And, by the holy rood!

A man all light, a seraph-man,

On every corse there stood.

The poem of "Christabel" is a more pleasing production than the "Ancient Mariner." There is less wildness of imagination, though quite as high an effect of it. It has more of human interest, presenting, however, the same remarkable combination of the natural and supernatural. It is a story of witchcraft, but not the witchcraft of ugly hags like the weird-sisters in Macbeth, but the magic power of a beautiful sorceress. It is a

story of the alliance of the strength of goodness and prayer with the guardianship of the sainted dead, potent against the demoniac power of evil. The heroine, Christabel, is as lovely a creation as ever poet's imagination formed. Orphaned of her mother, the pride and sole prop of her aged father, the betrothed of a knightly lover,-gentle, innocent, pious, and beautiful, -she is the fairest victim witchcraft ever struck at. It must also be noticed that the poem is one of the most remarkable specimens of versification in the lan

guage, and shows Coleridge's great powers in that important branch of his art. To the eye it has the appearance of very irregular verse; to the ear and to the feelings no such effect is produced, for the variations it presents accord with some transitions of the imagery or the passion, and the rhythm throughout may be said to be faultless. The poem was recognised as a perfect specimen of musical versification by Sir Walter Scott and Lord Byron, and imitated by them both. It was the acknowledged model of metre of the "

Last Minstrel."

σει

Lay of the

The scene of "Christabel" is laid in an ancient baronial castle, at midnight, when the only sounds are the hootings of the owls and the howling of the old mastiff, answering the striking of the clock :

"Is the night chilly and dark?

:

The night is chilly, but not dark;
The thin gray cloud is spread on high;

It covers but not hides the sky.

The moon is behind, and at the full,
And yet she looks both small and dull;
The night is chill, the cloud is gray;
"Tis a month before the month of May,
And the spring comes slowly up this way.

"The lovely lady, Christabel,

Whom her father loves so well,

What makes her in the wood so late,

A furlong from the castle-gate?
She had dreams all yesternight

Of her own betrothed knight,

And she in the midnight wood will pray
For the weal of her lover that's far away.

"She stole along; she nothing spoke;
The sighs she heaved were soft and low,

And naught was green upon the oak
But moss and rarest misletoe:
She kneels beneath the huge oak-tree,
And in silence prayeth she.
The lady sprang up suddenly,
The lovely lady, Christabel;

It moaned as near as near can be,
And what it is she cannot tell;
On the other side it seems to be

Of the huge, broad-breasted old oak-tree.

"The night is chill, the forest bare :
Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?
There is not wind enough in the air
To move away the ringlet-curl
From the lovely lady's cheek;
There is not wind enough to twirl
The one red leaf, the last of its clan,
That dances as often as dance it can,
Hanging so light, and hanging so high,
On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky

"Hush, beating heart of Christabel!

Jesu, Maria, shield her well.

She folded her arms beneath her cloak,

And stole to the other side of the oak:
What sees she there?"

While the innocent Christabel is thinking her prayers from the depths of her pure and loving heart, the witch is close by, in the shape of a woman richly clad and exceedingly beautiful. She asks for pity on her distress, telling that her name is Geraldine, and giving a deceitful story. The tender heart of Christabel is touched, and she bids the witch welcome to share her couch with her. The supernatural thickens as they enter into the castle, and the victim is getting entangled in the meshes of sorcery. According to the popular superstition, the witch

sinks, as if in sudden pain, at the threshold, and is lifted over by Christabel, who devoutly proposes a thanksgiving for their safety; but the evil spirit eludes it :

"Alas, alas!' said Geraldine;

'I cannot speak for weariness.""

As they move along, the sleeping mastiff utters an angry moan, and the dying embers on the hearth dart forth a tongue of flame, while a beautiful relief is given to the supernatural by an impulse of simple nature, in Christabel's tender thoughtfulness for her aged parent:

"They passed the hall, that echoes still

Pass as lightly as you will!

The brands were flat; the brands were dying,

Amid their own white ashes lying:

But when the lady passed, there came

A tongue of light, a fit of flame,

And Christabel saw the lady's eye,

And nothing else saw she thereby,

Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall,
Which hung in a murky old niche in the wall.
'Oh, softly tread,' said Christabel ;

'My father seldom sleepeth well.'"

Christabel speaks, too, of her departed mother, when, lo! at her child's fond and innocent wish, echoed mysteriously by the witch, the guardian spirit of the mother is at hand, invisible except to the spectral sight of the sora conflict ensues between the good and evil

and

ceress ; spirits:

"O mother dear! that thou wert here!'

'I would,' said Geraldine,' she were!'

But soon with altered voice said she,
'Off, wandering mother! Peak and pine!

I have power to bid thee flee.'
Alas! what ails poor Geraldine?
Why stares she with unsettled eye?
Can she the bodiless dead espy?
And why with hollow voice cries she,
'Off, woman! off! this hour is mine,
Though thou her guardian spirit be;
Off, woman! off! 'tis given to me!'
"Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side,
And raised to heaven her eyes so blue,
'Alas!' said she, 'this ghastly ride,
Dear lady! it hath wildered you.'

The lady wiped her moist, cold brow,

And faintly said, "Tis over now!"

The power of witchcraft goes on increasing. Geraldine's silken robe falls; and, beautiful and stately lady as she shone before, there is now disclosed to the heartstricken Christabel an untold sight of some hidden, hideous deformity, some superhuman stump, such as could only belong to a witch's body. The poor maiden sinks into a trance, and her power of speech is sealed up by the incantation that is uttered over her by the demon drawing close to her side:

"In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell

Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel."

I cannot trace the story of the poem without too much impairing the effect, and shall therefore only notice one or two passages in the remainder of it. ing of these is the apostrophe to the

The most strik

friends, and the

sublimest image of a broken friendship to be found in the whole range of poetry:

"Alas, they had been friends in youth;

But whispering tongues can poison truth,