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REFLECTIVE LINES ON THE GENIUS OF 

 COLERIDGE. 



I LOVE thee, love thee, Christabel ! but chief 

 Thy meek and timid innocence I love, 

 The bending down of thy unconscious brow, 

 The crossing of thy white arms o'er thy breast, 

 When evil, like a harlot, at thy side 

 Her deadly hate envenom'd in the garb 

 Of bland persuasion serpent-tongued and soft 

 Stands whispering ! oh ! must I love thee then ! 

 And my soul pants to bear thee eager aid, 

 And my heart follows, where my eyes essay 

 To find thee ; and my arms are stretched out 

 To clasp thee to thy home, my yearning breast, 

 And thou art gone! 



# * * # 



Coleridge ! in tenderness thou wert a dove : 

 But thy deep heart had warmer strains within, 

 And if its lesser notes might make the tribe 

 Of forest-warblers burst their throats for spite, 1 

 How proudly went its nobler utterings forth 

 When patriotism struck the thrilling chords 

 And burning indignation gave them tongue ! 

 Thou wert majestic then, yet simple too ; 

 Free without effort, eloquent with grace, 

 Rising, retiring like some restless sea, 

 The ripple of whose tiniest wave is harmony ! 



Yet pause not here ! another charm was thine, 

 A fairer charm than all, thou wondrous man ! 

 (For not a bard could ever give it voice, 

 And it hath died with thee ; but o'er thy grave 

 I ween it flutters yet on airy wings !) 

 The magic of the muse ! the difficult art 

 Of drawing feelings from forbidden things, 

 Of grafting gentle sympathies upon 

 Corruption's barren roots, and budless boughs ! 

 Of clothing fancy though a clay- cold corpse 

 With such a hue and fragrancy that time 

 Can neither dim, nor cast away, nor quench, 

 The beauty brightening o'er the brow of Death ! 



Oh wild, yet tender ! sweet, yet sublime bard ! 

 Thy race is run on earth, thy lyre is mute ! 

 Those hands, that often from responsive strings 

 Drew notes as sweet as angel-songs, are cold ! 

 Those lips, which never open'd but to breathe 

 The dying thoughts that men still treasure up, 

 Are breathless now ! thy heart hath ceas'd to beat ! 



