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her part towards a reconcilia tion with her mother, she was married to him. And here the third part of the Tale begins.
I was not led to choose this story from any partiality to tragic, much less to monstrous events (though at the time that I composed the verses, somewhat more than twelve years ago, I was less averse to such subjects than at present), but from finding in it a striking proof of the possible effect on the imagination, from an Idea violently and sud. denly impressed on it. I had been reading Bryan Ed. wards' account of the effect of the Oby witchcraft on the Negroes in the West Indies, and Hearne's deeply interesting anecdotes of similar workings on the imagination of the Copper Indians (those of my readers who have it in their power will be well repaid for the trouble of referring to those works for the passages alluded to) and I conceived the design of showing that instances of this kind are not peculiar to savage or barbarous tribes, and of illustrating the mode in which the mind is affected in these cases, and the process and symptoms of the morbid action on the fancy from the beginning.
The Tale is supposed to be narrated by an old Sexton, in a country church-yard, to a traveller whose curiosity had been awakened by the appearance of three graves, close by each other, to two only of which there were grave-stones. On the first of these was the name, and dates, as isual: on the second, no name, but only a date, and the words, The Mercy of God is infinite."]
THE grapes upon the Vicar's wall
Were ripe as ripe could be ;
Were falling from the tree.
On the hedge-elms in the narrow lane
Still swung the spikes of corn:
Young Edward's marriage-morn.
The halcyon hears the voice of vernal hours
Eve following eve,
And when-O Friend ! my comforter and guide!
" A beautiful white cloud of fuam at momentary intervals coursed by the side of the vessel with a roar, and little stars of flame danced and sparkled and went out in it; and every now and then light detachments of this white cloud-like foam darted off from the vessel's side, each with its own small constellation, over the sea, and scoured out of sight like a Tartar troop over a wilderness.”—Biographia Literaria, p. 197
A CONVERSATION POEM.
Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip
pierced With the remembrance of a grievous wrong, Or slow distemper, or neglected love, (And so, poor wretch ! filled all things with him
“ Most musical, most melancholy." This passage in Milton possesses an excellence far superior to that of mere description. It is spoken in the character of the melancholy man, and has therefore a dramatic propriety. The author makes this remark, to rescue himself from the charge of having alluded with levity, to a line in Milton.
many a poet echoes the conceit: Poet who hath been building up the rhyme When he had better far have stretched his limbs Beside a brook in
My Friend, and thou, our Sister! we have learnt A different lore; we may not thus profane Nature's sweet voices, always full of love And joyance! 'Tis the merry Nightingale That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates With fast thick warble his delicious notes, As he were fearful that an April night Would be too short for him to utter forth His love-chaunt, and disburthen his full soul Of all its music!
And I know a grove
grass, Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths.
But never elsewhere in one place I knew
your eyes, you might almost
full, Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade Lights up her love-torch.
A most gentle Maid,