So strange a dream hath come to me:
That I had vow'd with music loud

To clear yon wood from thing unblest,
Warn'd by a vision in my rest!

The dream is then related by Bracy; it is an outline of the past, and a prophecy of the future. -The Baron listens with a smile, turns round, and looks at Geraldine,

"His eyes made up of wonder and love;
And said in courtly accents fine,
Sweet maid, Lord Roland's beauteous dove,
With arms more strong than harp or song,
Thy sire and I will crush the snake !”
He kissed her forehead as he spake,
And Geraldine in maiden wise,
Casting down her large bright eyes;
With blushing cheek and courtesy fine,
She turn'd her from Sir Leoline;
Softly gathering up her train,

That o'er her right arm fell again;
And folded her arms across her chest,

And couch'd her head upon her breast.
And look'd askance at Christabel-
Jesu, Maria, shield her well!

Then takes place that extraordinary change which, being read in a party at Lord Byron's, is said to have caused Shelley to faint:

A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy,
And the lady's eyes, they shrunk in her head,
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,
Stumbling on the unsteady ground-
Shudder'd aloud, with a hissing sound;
And Geraldine again turn'd round,
And like a thing, that sought relief,
Full of wonder and full of grief;

She roll'd her large bright eyes divine,
Wildly on Sir Leoline.

The maid, alas! her thoughts are gone,

She nothing sees—no sight but one!

The look, those shrunken serpent eyes, had made such a deep impression on Christabel,

That all her features were resign'd
To the sole image in her mind:

And passively did imitate

That look of dull and treacherous hate.

And thus she stood in dizzy trance,

Still picturing that look askance.

But when the trance was o'er, the maid
Paus'd awhile and inly pray'd,
"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
O'er master'd by the mighty spell.

The poet now describes the Baron as suffering under the confused emotions of love for Christabel, and anger at her apparent jealousy, and the insult offered to the daughter of his friend, which so wrought upon him that,

He roll'd his eye with stern regard
Upon the gentle minstrel bard,
And said in tones abrupt, austere―
"Why, Bracy? dost thou loiter here?

"I bade thee hence!" The bard obey'd,
And turning from his own sweet maid,
The aged knight, Sir Leoline

Led forth the lady Geraldine!

Here ends the second canto.

In the conclusion to the second canto, he speaks of a child and its father's fondness, so often expressed by "you little rogue,' little rascal," with an endearing kiss, says

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

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

With words of unmeant bitterness.

66

you

The following relation was to have occupied a third and fourth canto, and to have closed the tale.

Over the mountains, the Bard, as directed by Sir Leoline, "hastes" with his disciple; but in consequence of one of those inundations supposed to be common to this country, the spot only where the castle once stood is discovered, -the edifice itself being washed away. He determines to return. Geraldine being acquainted with all that is passing, like the Weird Sisters in Macbeth, vanishes. Re-appearing, however, she waits the return of the Bard, exciting in

the mean time, by her wily arts, all the anger she could rouse in the Baron's breast, as well as that jealousy of which he is described to have been susceptible. The old Bard and the youth at length arrive, and therefore she can no longer personate the character of Geraldine, the daughter of Lord Roland de Vaux, but changes her appearance to that of the accepted though absent lover of Christabel. Next ensues a courtship most distressing to Christabel, who feelsshe knows not why-great disgust for her once favoured knight. This coldness is very painful to the Baron, who has no more conception than herself of the supernatural transformation. She at last yields to her father's entreaties, and consents to approach the altar with this hated suitor. The real lover returning, enters at this moment, and produces the ring which she had once given him in sign of her betrothment. Thus defeated, the supernatural being Geraldine disappears. As predicted, the castle bell tolls, the mother's voice is heard, and to the exceeding great joy of the parties, the rightful marriage takes place, after which follows a reconciliation and explanation between the father and daughter.

Lamb, who visited us soon after Coleridge's death, and not long before his own, talking of the Christabel, observed, "I was very angry with Coleridge, when I first heard that he had written a second canto, and that he intended to

finish it; but when I read the beautiful apostrophe to the two friends, it calmed me." He was one of those who strongly recommended Coleridge to leave as a fragment what he had so beautifully begun. With the first edition of the Christabel was given Kubla Khan, the dream within a dream, written in harmonious and fluent rhythm. The Pains of Sleep was also added. This is a poem communicating a portion of his personal sufferings.* All these were published in 1816.

In the introduction to The Lay of the last Minstrel, 1830, Sir Walter says, "Were I ever to take the unbecoming freedom of censuring a man of Mr. Coleridge's extraordinary talents, it would be on account of the caprice and indolence with which he has thrown from him, as in mere wantonness, those unfinished scraps of poetry, which, like the Tasso of antiquity, defied the skill of his poetical brethren to complete them. The charming fragments which the author abandons to their fate, are surely too valuable to be treated like the proofs of careless engravers, the sweepings of whose studies often make the fortune of some pains-taking collector. And in a note to the Abbot, alluding to Coleridge's beautiful and tantalizing fragment of

* He had long been greatly afflicted with nightmare; and, when residing with us, was frequently roused from this painful sleep by any one of the family who might hear him.