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To rest by cool Eurotas they resort.-
The dame herself—the goddess well express'd,
Not more distinguished by her purple vest-
Than by the charming features of the face-
And e'en in slumber—a superior grace :
Her comely limbs-compos’d with decent care,
Her body shaded-by a light cymarr,
Her bosom to the view—was only bare;
Where two beginning paps were scarcely spied-
For yet their places were but signified.-
The fanning wind upon her bosom blows-
To meet the fanning wind—the bosom rose ;
The fanning wind—and purling stream-continue her repose..

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For a further variety take, from the same author's Theodore and Honoria, a passage in which the couplets are run one into the other, and all of it modulated, like the former, according to the feeling demanded by the occasion :

Whilst listening to the murmuring leaves he stood-
More than a mile immers'd within the wood
At once the wind was laid.1-The whispering sound
Was dumb.- A rising earthquake rock'd the ground.
With deeper brown the grove was overspread-
A sudden horror seiz'd his giddy head-
Und his ears tinkled--and his colour fled.

Nature was in alarm.-Some danger nigh
Seem'd threaten'd—though unseen to mortal eye.
Unus'd to fear-he summon’d all his soul,
And stood collected in himself and whole :
Not long.–

But for a crowning specimen of variety of pause and accent, apart from emotion, nothing can surpass the account, in Paradise Lost, of the Devil's search for an accomplice :

There was a plàce,
Nòw nòt—though Sìn—not Time—first wroùght the change,
Where Tìgris--at the foot of Paradise,
Into a gùlf-shòt under ground—till part
Ròse up a fountain by the Tree of Lìfe.
In with the river sunk-and with it rose
Sàtan-invòlv'd in rìsing mìst—then soùght
Where to lie hìd.-Sèa he had search'd-and land
From Eden over Pòntus—and the pool
Mæotis–up beyond the river Ob;
Dòwnward as far antàrctic ;- and in length
Wèst from Oròntes—to the ocean bàrr'd
At Dàriën-thènce to the lànd whère fòws
Ganges and Indus.—Thùs the òrb he roam'd
With narrow search ;-and with inspection deep
Consider'd every crèature—which of all
Mòst opportune might sèrve his wiles -and found
The sèrpent-sùbtlest bèast of all the field.

If the reader cast his eye again over this passage, he will not find a verse in it which is not varied and harmonized in the most remarkable manner. Let him notice in particular that curious balancing of the lines in the sixth and tenth verses:

In with the river sunk, &c.

and

Up beyond the river Ob.

It might, indeed, be objected to the versification of Milton, that it exhibits too constant a perfection of this kind. It sometimes forces upon us too great a sense of consciousness on the part of the composer. We miss the first sprightly runnings of verse,—the ease and sweetness of spontaneity. Milton, I think, also too often condenses weight into heaviness.

Thus much concerning the chief of our two most popular measures. The other, called octosyllabic, or the measure of eight syllables, offered such facilities for namby-pamby, that it had become a jest as early as the time of Shakspeare, who makes Touchstone call it the “butterwoman's rate to market," and the

very false gallop of verses." It has been advocated, in opposition to the heroic measure, upon the ground that ten syllables lead a man into epithets and other superfluities, while eight syllables compress him into a sensible and pithy gentleman. But the heroic measure laughs at it. So far from compressing, it converts one line into two, and sacrifices every thing to the quick and importunate return of the rhyme. With Dryden, compare Gay, even in the strength of Gay,

The wind was high, the window shakes ;
With sudden start the miser wakes;
Along the silent room he stalks,

(A miser never “stalks;" but a rhyme was desired for “walks")

Looks back, and trembles as he walks :
Each lock and every bolt he tries,
In every creek and corner pries;
Then opes the chest with treasure storid,
And stands in rapture o'er his hoard ;

(“Hoard” and “treasure stor’d” are just made for one another)

But now, with sudden qualms possess’d,
He wrings his hands, he beats his breast;
By conscience stung, he wildly stares,

And thus his guilty soul declares. And so he denounces his gold, as miser never denounced it; and sighs, because

Virtue resides on earth no more!

Coleridge saw the mistake which had been made with regard to this measure, and restored it to the beautiful freedom of which it was capable, by calling to mind the liberties allowed its old musical professors the minstrels, and dividing it by time instead of syllables ;—by the beat of four into which you might get as many syllables as you could, instead of allotting eight syllables to the poor time, whatever it might have to say. He varied it further with alternate rhymes and stanzas, with rests and omissions precisely analogous to those in music, and rendered it altogether worthy to utter the manifold thoughts and feelings of himself and his lady Christabel. He even ventures, with an exquisite sense of solemn strangeness and license (for there is witchcraft going forward), to introduce a couplet of blank verse, itself as mystically and beautifully modulated as anything in the music of Gluck or Weber.

'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,
And the owls have awaken’d the crowing cock;
Tu-whit!-Tu-whoo !
And hark, again! the crowing cock,
How drowsily he crew.
Sir Leoline, the baron rich,
Hath a toothless mastiff bitch;
From her kennel beneath the rock
She maketh answer to the clock,
Four fór thě quarters ånd twelve for the hoùr ;
Ever and aye, by shine and shower,
Sixteen short howls, not over loud :
Some say, she sees my lady's shroud.

Is the night chilly and dùrk?
The night is chilly, but not dàrk.
The thin grey cloud is spread on high,
It covers, but not hides, the sky.
The moon is behind, and at the full,
And yet she looks both small and dull.
The night is chilly, the cloud is grey ;

(These are not superfluities, but mysterious returns of importunate feeling)

'Tis a month before the month of May,
And the spring comes slowly up this way.
The lovely lady, Christabel,
Whom her father loves so well,
What makes her in the wood so late,
A furlong from the castle-gate?

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