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Every warning in thy word,
Signs and tokens all array'd

In proof of that for which we pray'd,
The coming of the Lord!


I NUMBER you by thousands, unseen friends,
And dearly precious is your love to me;
Yea, what a goodly company ye be!

Far as the noble brotherhood extends

Of Saxon hearts and tongues o'er land and sea: How rich am I in love! the sweet amends

For all whatever little else of pain

Some few unkindly cause; most rich in love, From mine own home to earth's remotest ends: Let me then count my store, my glorious gain,

This wealth, that my poor merit far transcends, Your loving kindness, echoing from above The Highest Blessing on my works and ways, E3 doûte àyaðé, my Father's praise:

Yea, let me thank you; let my heart outpour
Unbidden notes of honest gratitude
To all whose yearnings follow me with good,
Loving my mind and all its humble store:
O generous friends! a cordial multitude
Hived in the West, upon that busy shore
Where fair Columbia, Britain's child, is throned
Imperial, yet with empire all unowned,
O generous friends! - another cordial band,
From far Australia to the Arctic seas,
And crowds around me in my own dear land, –
How, how to thank for mercies rich as these?
Lo, let me stand and bless from East to West,

From North to South, because I thus am blest! Aye: blest indeed above the lot of men,

And rich in joys that reach the true sublime! For that the magic-music of my pen

Hath won such wealth of love in every clime,
And still shall win such treasure for all time,
Therefore my soul is glad: judge me, my friends,
Is not the poet wealthier in his joys
Than Attalus with all his golden toys?
And, as his growing dynasty extends

To children's children, reigning in the mind,
Is he not great, a monarch of his kind?

Ah me! not so: this thought of pride destroys: Give God the praise: His blessings send this store Of unseen friends by thousands evermore!







THE Christabel of Coleridge is a poem of which it is almost impossible to give shortly a fair and perfect abstract. Every word tells; every line is a picture: simple, beautiful, and imaginative, it retains its hold upon the mind by so many delicate feelers and touching points, that to outline harshly the main branches of the tree, would seem to be doing the injustice of neglect to the elegance of its foliage, and the microscopic perfection of every single leaf. Those who now read it for the first time, will scarcely be disposed to assent to so much praise; but the man to whom it is familiar, will remember how it has grown to his own liking, how much of melody, depth, nature, and invention, he has found from time to time hiding in some simple phrase, or unobtrusive epithet. Most gladly, therefore, do I refer my readers to the Christabel itself, however it may tell to the disadvantage of Geraldine: at the same time, inasmuch as there may be many to whom the sequel will be obscure, from having had no opportunity of perusing the prior poem, I trust I shall be pardoned, if, in consulting the interest of some of my readers, I mar the fair memory of Christabel by a sketch so imperfect, as only to serve the purpose of explaining myself.

The heroine of Coleridge is a "bluc-eyed" girl, "O call her fair, not pale;" and is introduced as "praying in the midnight wood," "beneath the huge oak tree," "for the weal of her lover that's far away." While thus engaged, she is startled by "moanings," and on the "other side of the oak," finds "a damsel bright" "in sore distress" and "weariness;' in fact, the dark-eyed Geraldine, whose sudden appearance is by herself very suspiciously explained. Christabel, "comforting her," takes her

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