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She turned her from Sir Leoline;
Softly gathering up her train,

That o'er her right arm fell again;

And folded her arms across her chest, 580 And couched her head upon her breast, And looked askance at ChristabelJesu Maria, shield her well!

A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy, And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her head, 585 Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye,

And with somewhat of malice, and more of dread,
At Christabel she looked askance!-

One moment-and the sight was fled!
But Christabel in dizzy trance

590 Stumbling on the unsteady ground
Shuddered aloud, with a hissing sound;
And Geraldine again turned round,
And like a thing that sought relief,
Full of wonder and full of grief,

595 She rolled her large bright eyes divine
Wildly on Sir Leoline.

The maid, alas! her thoughts are gone,
She nothing sees-no sight but one!
The maid, devoid of guile and sin,
Soo I know not how, in fearful wise
So deeply had she drunken in
That look, those shrunken serpent eyes,
That all her features were resigned
To this sole image in her mind;

605 And passively did imitate

That look of dull and treacherous hate!
And thus she stood in dizzy trance,
Still picturing that look askance
With forced unconscious sympathy
610 Full before her father's view-
As far as such a look could be,
In eyes so innocent and blue!

And when the trance was o'er, the maid
Paused awhile, and inly prayed:
615 Then falling at the Baron's feet,

"By my mother's soul do I entreat That thou this woman send away!" She said: and more she could not say: For what she knew she could not tell, 620 O'ermastered by the mighty spell.

Why is thy cheek so wan and wild,
Sir Leoline? Thy only child
Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride,
So fair, so innocent, so mild;

625 The same, for whom thy lady died!
Oh by the pangs of her dear mother
Think thou no evil of thy child!
For her, and thee, and for no other,
She prayed the moment ere she died:
330 Prayed that the babe for whom she died,
Might prove her dear lord's joy and pride!
That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled,

635

Sir Leoline!

And wouldst thou wrong thy only child,
Her child and thine?

Within the Baron's heart and brain
If thoughts, like these, had any share,
They only swelled his rage and pain,
And did but work confusion there.

640 His heart was cleft with pain and rage,

His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were wild-
Dishonored thus in his old age;
Dishonored by his only child,

And all his hospitality

645 To the insulted daughter of his friend
By more than woman's jealousy
Brought thus to a disgraceful end-
He rolled his eye with stern regard
Upon the gentle minstrel bard,
650 And said in tones abrupt, austere—
"Why, Bracy! dost thou loiter here?
I bade thee hence!" The bard obeyed;
And turning from his own sweet maid,
The aged knight, Sir Leoline,

655 Led forth the lady Geraldine!

THE CONCLUSION OF PART II.

A little child, a limber elf,
Singing, dancing to itself,

A fairy thing with red round cheeks,
That always finds, and never seeks,

660 Makes such a vision to the sight
As fills a father's eyes with light;
And pleasures flow in so thick and fast
Upon his heart, that he at last

Must needs express his love's excess

665 With words of unmeant bitterness. Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together Thoughts so unlike each other;

To mutter and mock a broken charm, To dally with wrong that does no harm. 670 Perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty

At each wild word to feel within
A sweet recoil of love and pity.

And what, if in a world of sin

(O sorrow and shame should this be true!). 676 Such giddiness of heart and brain Comes seldom save from rage and pain, So talks as it's most used to do.

KUBLA KHAN; OR, A VISION IN A DREAM.

A FRAGMENT.

In the summer of the year 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 effect of which he fell asleep in his chair at the moment 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 he 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 expressions, 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, found, to his no small surprise and mortification, that though he still retained some vague and dim recollection of the general purport of the vision, yet, with the exception of some eight or ten scattered lines and images, all the rest had passed away like the images on the sur face of a stream into which a stone had been cast, but. alas! without the after restoration of the latter.

Then all the charm

Is broken-all that phantom-world so fair
Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread,
And each mis-shape the other. Stay awhile,

Poor youth! who scarcely dar'st lift up thine eyes-
The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon

The visions will return! And lo! he stays,

And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms

Come trembling back, unite, and now once more
The pool becomes a mirror.

Yet from the still surviving recollections in his mind, the Author has frequently purposed to finish. for himself what had been originally, as it were, given

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