There he sate all heavily, As he heard the night-wind sigh. Was it the wind, through some hollow stone,* He lifted his head, and he look'd on the sea, But it was unrippled as glass may be ; He look'd on the long grass-it waved not a blade; He look'd to the banners-each flag lay still, And he felt not a breath come over his cheek; XX. He started up with more of fear The maid who might have been his bride! The rose was yet upon her cheek, Her rounded arm show'd white and bare: And ere yet she made reply, Once she raised her hand on high; It was so wan, and transparent of hue, You might have seen the moon shine through. • 1 must here acknowledge a close, though unintentional, resemblance in these twelve lines to a passage in an unpublished poem of Mr. Coleridge, called "Christabel." It was not till after these lines were written that I heard that wild and singularly original and beautiful poem recited; and the MS. of that production I never saw till very recently, by the kindness of Mr. Coleridge himself, who, I hope, is convinced that I have not been a wilful plagiarist. The original idea undoubtedly pertains to Mr. Coleridge, whose poem has been composed above fourteen years. Let me conclude by a hope that be will not longer delay the publication of a production, of which I can only add my mite of approbation to the applause of far more competent Judges.-B. XXI. "I come from my rest to him I love best, From a maid in the pride of her purity; And the Power on high, that can shield the good Hath extended its mercy to guard me as well In falling away from thy father's creed: "And where should our bridal couch be spread? Shall be left upon the morn: But thee will I bear to a lovely spot, Where our hands shall be join'd, and our sorrow forgot. There thou yet shalt be my bride, When once again I've quell'd the pride Of Venice; and her hated race Have felt the arm they would debase, Scourge, with a whip of scorpions, those Whom vice and envy made my foes." Upon his hand she laid her own Light was the touch, but it thrill'd to the bone, Which fix'd him beyond the power to start. Though slight was that grasp so mortal cold, Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear, Froze through his blood by their touch that night. The feverish glow of his brow was gone, And his heart sank so still that it felt like stone, As he look'd on the face, and beheld its hue, So deeply changed from what he knew; Fair but faint-without the ray Of mind, that made each feature play And her words came forth without her breath, And there rose not a heave o'er her bosom's swell. So seen by the dying lamp's fitful light, As they seem, through the dimness, about to come down Fearfully flitting to and fro, As the gusts on the tapestry come and go. "If not for love of me be given Thus much, then, for the love of heaven,- From off thy faithless brow, and swear A heavy doom 'tis thine to meet, Alp look'd to heaven, and saw on high The sign she spake of in the sky; But his heart was swoll'n, and turn'd aside, By deep interminable pride. This first false passion of his breast Roll'd like a torrent o'er the rest. I have been told that the idea expressed from lines 598 to 603 has been admired by those whose approbation is valuable. I am glad of it: but it is not original-at least not mine; it may be found much better expressed in pages 182, 183, 184 of the English version of "Vathek" (I forget the precise page of the French), a work to which I have before referred; and never recur to, or read, without a renewal of gratification.-B. There is, likewise, something like the same idea, and bearing a comparison with both in "Corinne." He, wrong'd by Venice, vow to save No-though that cloud were thunder's worst, He look'd upon it earnestly, He watch'd it passing; it is flown: The reed in storms may bow and quiver, Nothing is there but the column stone. Hath she sunk in the earth, or melted in air? XXII. The night is past, and shines the sun, And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn, Strike your tents, and throng to the van; Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain, That the fugitive may flee in vain, When he breaks from the town; and none escape, Aged or young, in the Christian shape; While your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass, The horsetail, fixed upon a lance, a Pacha's standard.-. B. The khan and the pachas are all at their post; A priest at her altars, a chief in her halls, Up to the skies with that wild halloo ! "There the breach lies for passage, the ladder to scale; Thus utter'd Coumourgi, the dauntless vizier ; XXIII. As the wolves, that headlong go On the stately buffalo, Though with fiery eyes, and angry roar, And hoofs that stamp, and horns that gore, He tramples on earth, or tosses on high The foremost, who rush on his strength but to dis Thus against the wall they went, Thus the first were backward bent; The ground whereon they moved no more: Even as they fell, in files they lay, Like the mower's grass at the close of day, When his work is done on the levell'd plain; XXIV. As the spring-tides, with heavy splash, Huge fragments, sapp'd by the ceaseless flow, Till white and thundering down they go, Like the avalanche's snow On the Alpine vales below; Thus at length, outbreathed and worn, Corinth's sons were downward borne By the long and oft-renew'd Charge of the Moslem multitude. In firmness they stood, and in masses they fell, Heap'd, by the host of the infidel, Hand to hand, and foot to foot: Nothing there, save death, was mute; |