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And ever strove to expiate
The scorn that crazed his brain;
And that she nurs'd him in a cave;
And how his madness went away,
His dying words—but when I reach'd
All impulses of soul and sense
Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve;
And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
She wept with pity and delight,
She blush'd with love and virgin shame, And like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name.
Her bosom heav'd-she stept aside,
As conscious of my look she stept Then suddenly, with timorous eye, She fled to me and wept.
She half enclos'd me in her arms,
She press'd me with a meek embrace: And bending back her head, look'd up, And gazed upon my face.
'Twas partly love and partly fear,
And partly 't was a bashful art That Imight rather feel than see, The swelling of her heart.
I calm'd her fears, and she was calm,
And so I won my Genevieve,
I can hardly say a word upon this poem for very admiration. I must observe, however, that one of the charms of it consists in the numerous repetitions and revolvings of the words, one on the other, as if taking delight in their own beauty.
SUGGESTED TO THE AUTHOR BY A PASSAGE IN PURCHAS'S PILGRIMAGE.
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan1
A stately pleasure-dome decree,
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round;
And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
But oh, that deep romantic chasm which slanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Where was heard the mingled measure
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome, with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she play'd,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 't would win me,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
1 “ In Xanadu.”—I think I recollect a variation of this stanza, as follows:
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-house ordain,
The nice-eared poet probably thought there were too many ns in these rhymes; and man and main are certainly not the best neighbors: yet there is such an open, sounding, and stately intonation in the words pleasure-house ordain, and it is so superior to pleasure-dome decree, that I am not sure I would not give up the correctness of the other terminations to retain it.
But what a grand flood is this, flowing down through measureless caverns to a sea without a sun! I know no other sea equal
to it, except Keats's, in his Ode to a Nightingale; and none can surpass that.
2 "Ancestral voices prophesying war."-Was ever anything more wild, and remote, and majestic, than this fiction of the "ancestral voices?" Methinks I hear them, out of the blackness of the past.
YOUTH AND AGE.
Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying,
When I was young? Ah, woful when!
Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like:
Ere I was old? Ah, woful ere!
It cannot be that thou art gone!
And thou wert aye a masker bold !
That Youth and I are house-mates still.
This is one of the most perfect poems, for style, feeling, and everything, that ever were written.
FROM THE TRANSLATION OF SCHILLER'S PICCOLOMINI.
-Fable is Love's world, his home, his birthplace:
The intelligible forms of ancient poets,
The power, the beauty, and the majesty,
Or chasms and wat'ry depths; all these have vanish'd,