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of this.-Out on those who would melt down the golden strings of the poet's harp to be coined at the mint, and would cut up the ivory frame into tooth-brushes! Out on those who would banish Homer from their republic, declaiming against poetry as a vain and useless art! Is it nothing, in this harsh and jarring sphere of ours, to have our noblest impulses and kindliest feelings called forth like fountains by the prophet? Is it nothing to have our selfishness counteracted by sympathy with others ?-We appeal to these compositions; and if the reader does not rise from them, like their own marriage-guest, wiser and a sadder man," he is, indeed, what such theories would make him—a machine, whose thoughts go by clock-work, and his actions by steam; and Coleridge is not so sure of his immortality as we had believed.

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Yet even volumes like these are matters of regret: how much more might not, ought not, Coleridge to have done! His fine imagination has rioted in its own idleness; he has been content to think, or rather dream, so much of his life away :-too fanciful an architect, he has carved the marble, and planned the princely halls, but wandered continually away and left the palace in fragments, from which other artists may copy more finished works; and of which, like those from the Elgin Marbles, how few will" equal the grace and beauty of the original! The first to break through the trammels of artificial versification, to deem nature in its simplicity meet study for the poet, Coleridge is the founder of our present noble and impassioned school of poetry: his spirit, like the fire which fertilises the soil it pervades, has impregnated the mind of most of our modern bards, "giving a truth and beauty of its own."

We are now going to quote just a few fragments, just lines, stanzas, or but a single image, yet all of them bearing the stamp of everlasting fame, each and all of the finest poetry. Speaking of change produced in him by happy love

"Even there, beneath that light-house tower In the tumultuous evil hour,

Ere peace with Sara came;
Time was I should have thought it sweet
To count the echoings of my feet,

And watch the storm-vexed flame.
And there in black soul-jaundiced fit,
A sad gloom-pampered man to sit,
And listen to the roar :
When mountain surges bellowing deep
With an uncouth monster leap

Plunged foaming on the shore.

Then by the lightning's blaze to mark
Some toiling tempest-shattered bark,

Her vain distress-guns hear;
And when a second sheet of light
Flash'd o'er the blackness of the night,
To see no vessel there!

But fancy now more gaily sings;
Or if awhile she droop her wings,

As skylarks 'mid the corn,

On summer fields she grounds her breast:
The oblivious poppy o'er her nest

Nods, till returning morn.

O mark those smiling tears that swell
The opened rose! from heaven they fell,
And with the sunbeam blend.
Blessed visitations from above,
Such are the tender woes of Love,
Fostering the heart they bend !"

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The minstrelsy that solitude loves best,) And from the sun, and from the breezy air, Sweet influences trembled o'er his frame; And he, with many feelings, many thoughts, Made up a meditative joy, and found Religious meanings in the forms of nature! And so, his senses gradually wrapt

In a half sleep, he dreams of better worlds, And dreaming hears thee still, O singing-lark, That singest like an angel in the clouds!"

Never in any fiction has nature so finely blended with the supernatural as in the Ancient Mariner: what a picture of desolation, relieved by a gleam of hope, is in this verse!

"At length did cross an albatross,

Through the fog it came ;

As if it had been a Christian soul,
We hailed it in God's name."

How vivid the following:

"The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,
The furrow followed free;

We were the first that ever burst
Into that silent sea.

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,
"Twas sad as sad could be ;

And we did speak only to break
The silence of the sea!

All in a hot and copper sky,

The bloody sun, at noon,

Right up above the mast did stand,

No bigger than the moon.

Day after day, day after day,

We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.'

Then how exquisite the way in which the charm begins to break!

"Beyond the shadow of the ship,

I watched the water-snakes;

They moved in tracks of shining white,
And when they reared, the elfish light
Fell off in hoary flakes.

Within the shadow of the ship

I watched their rich attire:

Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,
They coiled and swam, and every track
Was a flash of golden fire.

O happy living things! no tongue
Their beauty might declare :
A spring of love gushed from my heart,
And I blessed them unaware.
Sure my kind saint took pity on me,
And I blessed them unaware.

The self same moment I could pray;
And from my neck so free
The albatross fell off, aud sank
Like lead into the sea."

Then this description of music :—

"And now 'twas like all instruments,
Now like a lonely flute;

And now it is an angel's song,
That makes the heavens be mute.
It ceased; yet still the sails made on

A pleasant noise till noon,

A noise like of a hidden brook
In the leafy month of June,

That to the sleeping woods all night
Singeth a quiet tune."

Perhaps the supernatural was never so depicted by a single touch as in the ensuing :

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"But soon there breathed a wind on me,
Nor sound nor motion made;

Its path was not upon the sea,
In ripple or in shade.

14 ATHENEUM, VOL. 1, 3d series.

It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek,
Like a meadow-gale of spring-
It mingled strangely with my fears,
Yet it felt like a welcoming."

And his return!

"Oh, dream of joy! is this indeed
The light-house top I see!
Is this the hill? is this the kirk?
Is this mine own countree?

We drifted o'er the harbor bar,
And I with sobs did pray-
O let me be awake, my God!
Or let me sleep alway."

Never did poet compress into single lines more of strength and beauty :"the silence sank

Like music on my heart."

"Large tears that leave the lashes bright!" "Hope draws towards itself The flame with which it kindles."

"And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!"

But the following exquisite ballad we must quote entire.

"All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of Love,

And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I lay,

Beside the ruined tower.

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene,
Had blended with the lights of eve;
And she was there, my hope, my joy,
My own dear Genevieve!

She leant against the armed man,
The statue of the armed knight;
She stood and listened to my lay,

Amid the lingering light.

Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!
She loves me best whene'er I sing
The songs that make her grieve.

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I played a soft and doleful air,
sang an old and moving story-
And old rude song that suited well
That ruin wild and hoary.

She listened with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;
For well she knew I could not choose
But gaze upon her face.

I told her of the knight that wore
Upon his shield a burning brand;
And that for ten long years he wooed
The lady of the land.

I told her how he pined; and ah!
The deep, the low, the pleading tone
With which I sang another's love,
Interpreted my own.

She listened with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;
And she forgave me that I gazed

Too fondly on her face.

But when I told the cruel scorn
That crazed that bold and lovely knight,
And that he crossed the mountain woods,
Nor rested day nor night;

That sometimes from the savage den,
And sometimes from the darksome shade,
And sometimes starting up at once

In green and sunny glade

There came and looked him in the face
An angel beautiful and bright;
And that he knew it was a fiend,
This miserable knight!

And that, unknowing what he did,
He leaped amid a murderous band,
And saved from outrage worse than death
The lady of the land!

And how she wept and clasped his knees,
And how she tended him in vain,
And ever strove to expiate

The scorn that crazed his brain.
And that she nursed him in a cave;
And how his madness went away,
When on the yellow forest-leaves

A dying man he lay.

His dying words-but when I reached
That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
My faltering voice and pausing harp

Disturbed her soul with pity.

All impulses of soul and sense
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve;
The music and the doleful tale,

The rich and balmy eve,

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
An undistinguishable throng,
And gentle wishes long subdued,

Subdued and cherished long.

She wept with pity and delight,
She blushed with love and virgin shame;
And like the murmur of a dream,

I heard her breathe my name.

Her bosom heaved-she stepped aside,
As conscious of my look she stepped-
Then suddenly, with timorous eye,

She fled to me and wept.

She half enclosed me with her arms,
She pressed me with a meek embrace;
And bending back her head, looked up,
And gazed upon my face.

"Twas partly love, and partly fear,
And partly 'twas a bashful art,
That I might rather feel than see

The swelling of her heart.

I calmed her fears, and she was calm,
And told her love with virgin pride:
And so I won my Genevieve,

My bright and beauteous bride."

We shall insert but one other little piece, as a variety among our specimens; a piece which well suits its playful title.

"Something childish, but very natural.

If I had but two little wings,

And were a little feathery bird,
To you I'd fly, my dear!
But thoughts like these are idle things,
And I stay here.

But in my sleep to you I fly :

I'm always with you in my sleep!
The world is all one's own.

But then one wakes, and where am I?
All, all alone.

Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids:
So I love to wake ere break of day;
For though my sleep be gone,
Yet, while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids,
And still dreams on."

From the mode in which the foregoing is introduced, it is evident that whenever Coleridge condescends to trifle he is aware of the fact, which is not always the case with poets, many of whom esteem their poorest productions more than their most successful efforts. It is curious, however, to remark, that with this just sense of the pure ore and the dross, even Coleridge frequently falls into the errors of puerility and doggrel. But this is not a review of censure it is of well-earned admiration.

And we may boldly ask, what can be added to a mosaic of poetical gems like these? We have only one other observation to make, which is,-how much the force of his description is increased by the reiteration of images: for instance, how the repeated allusion to the lark in our second quotation impresses it on the imagination. This is a part of his art in which he is eminently happy.

We shall not at present attempt to analyse the magnificent translation of Wallenstein: we have done enough for our readers in the specimens we have given of three of the most exquisite poetical volumes in the English language.

ESSAYS ON PHYSIOLOGY, OR THE LAWS OF ORGANIC LIFE.*

ESSAY II-THE DISTINCTIONS BETWEEN THE ANIMAL AND VEGETABLE KINGDOMS, AND THE POWERS BY WHICH THE OPERATIONS OF THE ORGANIC FRAME ARE CARRIED ON.

HAVING thus stated the general results, or demonstrative characters, of the vital principle, as manifested by organic bodies, we may proceed to examine the more immediate powers or agents, by which the living body is enabled to perform the various and multiform operations, necessary to its organic existence.-As it is to the animal system, however, that we purpose especially to direct our inquiries, it may be as well, for the sake of clearness, before entering on this branch of our subject, to offer a condensed sketch of the distinctions which separate the two great kingdoms of organic bodies, namely, the animal and the vegetable. And here we may remark, that although, upon a cursory view, they may seem perfectly distinct and separate; yet, upon a more deliberate examination, the line of demarkation may not perhaps be so readily ascertained, as we were led at first to imagine; since it would appear that from the highest order of animals, to the plant, there may be traced a regular chain or series of gradations. For instance: examine a plant; it will be found to consist of a multitude of tubes, capable of effecting a conversion in the nature of the fluids they absorb, and of propelling, also, those fluids onwards, as nutriment, through branches, leaves, and flowers, whence their freshness and their beauty are derived ;-and although incapable of locomotion, the plant is enabled to obey the influence of warmth and air,—the buds unfold, and the leaves and flowers expand, and turn to meet the rays of the sun. In most cases, the plant is capable of being divided into slips, each slip having independently in itself every part and property equal to the parent stock, and producing flowers and seeds. From the plant, let us next ad

vance to the polypus, an animal as simple as the plant in organization, without volition, and forming one of the lowest links in the chain of animal existence. Here we find a tube composed of an homogeneous mass, capable of contracting and dilating,―or exerting itself by an involuntary power, in obedience to the action of external causes,-possessing, however, neither heart, nor vessels, nor distinct nerves ;-fixed also, as the plant, while every part is endowed with complete vital independence; so that however divided, each portion becomes a new and perfect animal, capable again of re-division with the same effects.

Next to the polypus, are the worms, -a tribe unfurnished with a heart, but possessing sensibility, and considerable power of muscular motion;-capable, also, of reproduction by division, although not bearing it to so great an extent ;-nor, indeed, is there so complete a vital independence of parts, as in the polypus.

Above these, again, rank the crustaceous tribes, including the crab, lobster, &c. In these, distinct muscles, nerves, and vessels, are discovered, and, although imperfect, a heart and brain;-they have, therefore, some degree of intelligence. With this more complete organization, they are consequently incapable of division into distinct animals, as the polypus or worm; nevertheless, however, they are endowed with the power of reproducing, on their loss or abscission, the claws, and parts non-essential to the continuance of life.

Rising still higher in the chain, with respect to indications of intelligence, and corporeal endowments, are the tribes of fishes, and reptiles, or amphibious animals ;—above these, birds; and again, the mammalia, with Man

* See page 28.

at their head, towering high above them all their intellectual lord. Thus may we trace the links rising gradually through the series of organized beings. But though not so evident, as perhaps a superficial view would lead us to suppose, still, however nearly the two kingdoms may at one point approximate, distinguishing characteristics do exist, which draw a line between them.

First, then, animals differ from plants in the arrangement and combination of their constituent principles. The essential elements of organized matter appear to be carbon, oxygen, hydrogen, and azote or nitrogen, together with alkaline and earthy salts:-now, the solid parts of all plants contain carbon, oxygen, and hydrogen, with scarcely a trace of azote. The solid parts of animals consist of lime, or magnesia, united with carbonic or phosphoric acids;— and in those beings of both kingdoms, which appear to be destitute of solid parts, the points of difference are even more numerous. We find the gum or mucilage of soft plants, differing widely from the gelatine, or albumen, of soft animals, the former being destitute of azote, which enters as a constituent into the latter.-In the soft animals, there is no extensive combination of carbon, oxygen, and hydrogen, into which azote does not enter, or, in other words, no substance of a vegetable kind. In consequence of this difference of composition, animal and vegetable matters may be easily distinguished when burning, the odor of each being peculiar, and affording an infallible criterion. Besides, as vegetables abound in oxygen, they have a tendency, after death, to become acid, by its forming new combinations with carbon and hydrogen; -whereas, the soft parts of animals, after death, are disposed to become alkaline, the azote entering into new combinations with the hydrogen, and forming ammonia.

Secondly, animals and plants exhibit a difference in structure ;-this, indeed, in the higher classes is ob

vious, and the same remark will, on close examination, be found to hold good, as it regards those animals and plants which bear the nearest affinity. For instance, the solid parts of vegetables consist of bundles of fibres, or threads, which lie parallel to one another, each fibre constituting a tube, or vessel, for the circulation of the sap. Their construction is cylindrical throughout; and they are aggregated into bundles, the volume of which diminishes, as they proceed onward to the extremities of the plant; but it is not the subdivision of the tubes themselves, which occasions this decrease, but the separation of a certain number of tubes from the general aggregation, in order to form smaller bundles. Of these tubes, or fibres, we have observed the solid parts of plants to consist: but, on the contrary, the tubes, or vessels, for the circulation of the fluids, in animals, never constitute the solid parts,—they are all conical,-never proceed in bundles by a parallel course, and each vessel, giving off branches from itself, diminishes by subdivision.

Thirdly, animals differ from plants in their nutrition. Every animal is furnished with an apparatus, for the reception of food internally, where it undergoes certain changes, before its admission into the system, and this admission is effected by means of a class of vessels, termed lacteals, or absorbents, which all originate on the inside of this apparatus. There is nothing similar to this in plants ;—that is, they have no digestive apparatus of a similar nature. In these, the absorbing vessels of nutrition all arise externally on the surface. This, indeed, constitutes a most obvious and essential mark of distinction, and hence Dr. Alston was led fancifully to term plants inverted animals.

Fourthly, animals are endowed with sensation-the powers of voluntary motion-and for the most part, of locomotion.

Plants possess not one of these qualifications. In all animals, it is true, a nervous system (on which sensation depends) cannot be disco

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