Imatges de pàgina
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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.

The harbor-bay was clear as glass,
So smoothly it was strewn!

And on the bay the moonlight lay,
And the shadow of the moon.

He singeth loud his godly hymns
That he makes in the wood.
He'll shrive my soul, he'll wash

away

The Albatross's blood.

PART VII.

THIS Hermit good lives in that wood
Which slopes down to the sea.
How loudly his sweet voice he rears!
He loves to talk with marineres
That come from a far countrée.

He kneels at morn, and noon, and

.eve

He hath a cushion plump:
It is the moss that wholly hides
The rotted old oak-stump.

The skiff-boat near'd: I heard them

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talk,

'Why this is strange, I trow!
Where are those lights so many and
fair,

The rock shone bright, the kirk no That signal made but now?"

less

That stands above the rock:

The moonlight steep'd in silentness
The steady weathercock.

And the bay was white with silent
light,

The angelic spir- Till, rising from the same,

its leave the dead bodies,

And appear in their own forms of light.

The Hermit of the Wood,

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"And they answer not our cheer!
The planks look warp'd! and see
those sails,

How thin they are and sere!
I never saw aught like to them,

Full many shapes that shadows were, Unless perchance it were
In crimson colors came.

A little distance from the prow
Those crimson shadows were:
I turn'd my eyes upon the deck-
Oh, Christ! what saw I there!

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat;
And, by the holy rood!

A man all light, a seraph-man,
On every corse there stood.

This seraph band, each waved
hand:

It was a heavenly sight!
They stood as signals to the land
Each one a lovely light;

"Brown skeletons of leaves that lag
My forest-brook along;

When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow,
And the owlet whoops to the wolf
below,

That eats the she-wolf's young.”

"Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look-
(The Pilot made reply,)

I am a-fear'd "—"Push on, push on!"
his Said the Hermit cheerily.

This seraph band, each waved his
hand,

The boat came closer to the ship,
But I nor spake nor stirr❜d;
The boat came close beneath the ship,
And straight a sound was heard.

Under the water it rumbled on,
Still louder and more dread:

No voice did they impart-
No voice; but oh! the silence sank It reach'd the ship, it split the bay;
Like music on my heart.
The ship went down like lead.

But soon I heard the dash of oars,

I heard the Pilot's cheer;

The ship suddenly sinketh.

Stunn'd by that loud and dreadful The ancient Ma

sound,

Which sky and ocean smote,

My head was turn'd perforce away, Like one that hath been seven days

And I saw a boat appear.

The Pilot and the Pilot's boy,
I heard them coming fast:
Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy
The dead men could not blast.

I saw a third-I heard his voice :
It is the Hermit good!

drown'd

My body lay afloat;

But swift as dreams, myself I found
Within the Pilot's boat.

Upon the whirl, where sank the ship,
The boat spun round and round;
And all was still, save that the hill
Was telling of the sound.

riner is saved in

the Pilot's boat.

I moved my lips-the Pilot shriek'd, But in the garden-bower the bride
And fell down in a fit;

The holy Hermit raised his eyes,
And pray'd where he did sit.

I took the oars: the Pilot's boy,
Who now doth crazy go,

And bride-maids singing are:
And hark! the little vesper-bell,
Which biddeth me to prayer.

O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been
Alone on a wide wide sea:

Laugh'd loud and long, and all the So lonely 'twas, that God himself

while

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And ever and anon throughout his future life an

agony constrain

eth him to travel from land to land,

The Hermit cross'd his brow.
'Say quick," quoth he, "I bid thee

say

-What manner of man art thou?"

Forthwith this frame of mine was
wrench'd

With a woful agony,

Scarce seemed there to be.

O sweeter than the marriage-feast,
"Tis sweeter far to me,
To walk together to the kirk,
With a goodly company!-

To walk together to the kirk,
And all together pray,

While each to his great Father bends,
Old men, and babes, and loving
friends,

And youths and maidens gay!

Farewell, farewell! but this I tell
To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!
He prayeth well, who loveth well

Both man and bird and beast.

Which forced me to begin my tale; He prayeth best, who loveth best

And then it left me free.

Since then, at an uncertain hour,
That agony returns:
And till my ghastly tale is told,
This heart within me burns.

I pass, like night, from land to land
I have strange power of speech;
That moment that his face I see,

I know the man that must hear me :
To him my tale I teach.

;

All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.

The Mariner, whose eye is bright,
Whose beard with age is hoar,

Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest
Turn'd from the bridegroom's door.

He went like one that hath been
stunn'd,

What loud uproar bursts from that And is of sense forlorn,

door!

The wedding-guests are there:

A sadder and a wiser man
He rose the morrow morn.

And to teach, by his own example, love and reverence to all things that God made and loveth.

Christabel.

PREFACE.*

at either of the former periods, or if even the first and second part had been published in the year 1800, the impression of its originality would have been much greater than I dare at present expect. But

THE first part of the following poem was written in for this, I have only my own indolence to blame. the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety-The dates are mentioned for the exclusive purpose seven, at Stowey in the county of Somerset. The of precluding charges of plagiarism or servile imisecond part, after my return from Germany, in the tation from myself. For there is amongst us a set of year one thousand eight hundred, at Keswick, Cum-critics, who seem to hold, that every possible thought berland. Since the latter date, my poetic powers and image is traditional; who have no notion that there have been, till very lately, in a state of suspended animation. But as, in my very first conception of the tale, I had the whole present to my mind, with the wholeness, no less than with the loveliness of a vision, I trust that I shall yet be able to embody in verse the three parts yet to come.

It is probable, that if the poem had been finished

To the edition of 1816.

are such things as fountains in the world, small as well as great; and who would therefore charitably derive every rill they behold flowing, from a perforation made in some other man's tank. I am confident, however, that as far as the present poem is concerned, the celebrated poots whose writings I might be suspected of having imitated, either in particular passages, or in the tone and the spirit of the whole, would be among the first to vindicate me from the

charge, and who, on any striking coincidence, would permit me to address them in this doggrel version of two monkish Latin hexameters.

'Tis mine and it is likewise yours;
But an' if this will not do,

Let it be mine, good friend! for I
Am the poorer of the two..

I have only to add that the metre of the Christabel is not, properly speaking, irregular, though it may seem so from its being founded on a new principle: namely, that of counting in each line the accents, not the syllables. Though the latter may vary from seven to twelve, yet in each line the accents will be found to be only four. Nevertheless this occasional variation in number of syllables is not introduced wantonly, or for the mere ends of convenience, but in correspondence with some transition, in the nature of the imagery or passion.

CHRISTABEL.

PART I.

'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 it crew.

Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,

Hath a toothless mastiff, which

From her kennel beneath the rock

Maketh answer to the clock,

Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour;
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 dark?
The night is chilly, but not dark.
The thin gray 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 chill, the cloud is gray:
'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?
She had dreams all yesternight
Of her own betrothed knight;
And she in the midnight wood will pray
For the weal of her lover that's far away.

She stole along, she nothing spoke,
The sighs she heaved were soft and low,
And naught was green upon the oak,
But moss and rarest misletoe :
She kneels beneath the huge oak-tree,
And in silence prayeth she.

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My sire is of a noble line,
And my name is Geraldine :

Five warriors seized me yestermorn,

Me, even me, a maid forlorn:

They choked my cries with force and fright,
And tied me on a palfrey white.
The palfrey was as fleet as wind,
And they rode furiously behind.

They spurr'd amain, their steeds were white;
And once we cross'd the shade of night.
As sure as Heaven shall rescue me,
I have no thought what men they be;
Nor do I know how long it is
(For I have lain entranced I wis)
Since one, the tallest of the five,
Took me from the palfrey's back,
A weary woman, scarce alive.

Some mutter'd words his comrades spoke :
He placed me underneath this oak,

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The lady wiped her moist cold brow, And faintly said, ""T is over now!"

Again the wild-flower wine she drank:
Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright,
And from the floor whereon she sank,
The lofty lady stood upright;
She was most beautiful to see,
Like a lady of a far countrée.

And thus the lofty lady spake-
All they, who live in the upper sky,
Do love you, holy Christabel!
And you love them, and for their sake
And for the good which me befell,
Even I in my degree will try,
Fair maiden! to requite you well.
But now unrobe yourself; for I
Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie.

Quoth Christabel, So let it be!
And as the lady bade, did she.
Her gentle limbs did she undress,
And lay down in her loveliness.

But through her brain of weal and woe So

many thoughts moved to and fro,

That vain it were her lids to close;
So half-way from the bed she rose,
And on her elbow did recline
To look at the Lady Geraldine.

Beneath the lamp the lady bow'd,
And slowly roll'd her eyes around;
Then drawing in her breath aloud,
Like one that shudder'd, she unbound
The cincture from beneath her breast:
Her silken robe, and inner vest,
Dropt to her feet, and full in view,
Behold! her bosom and half her side-
A sight to dream of, not to tell!
O shield her! shield sweet Christabel

Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs ;
Ah! what a stricken look was hers!
Deep from within she seems half-way
To lift some weight with sick assay,
And eyes the maid and seeks delay;
Then suddenly as one defied
Collects herself in scorn and pride,
And lay down by the Maiden's side!-
And in her arms the maid she took,
Ah well-a-day!

And with low voice and doleful look
These words did say:

In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell,
Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel!
Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow
This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow;
But vainly thou warrest,

For this is alone in Thy power to declare,

That in the dim forest Thou heardest a low moaning,

And foundest a bright lady, surpassingly fair:
And didst bring her home with thee in love and in

charity,

To shield her and shelter her from the damp air.

THE CONCLUSION TO PART I.

IT was a lovely sight to see
The lady Christabel, when she
Was praying at the old oak-tree.
Amid the jagged shadows
Of mossy leafless boughs,
Kneeling in the moonlight,
To make her gentle vows;
Her slender palms together prest,
Heaving sometimes on her breast;
Her face resign'd to bliss or bale-
Her face, O call it fair, not pale!

And both blue eyes more bright than clear,
Each about to have a tear,

With open eyes (ah woe is me!)
Asleep, and dreaming fearfully,
Fearfully dreaming, yet I wis,
Dreaming that alone, which is

O sorrow and shame! Can this be she,
The lady, who knelt at the old oak-tree?
And lo! the worker of these harms,
That holds the maiden in her arms,
Seems to slumber still and mild,
As a mother with her child.

A star hath set, a star hath risen,
O Geraldine! since arms of thine
Have been the lovely lady's prison.
O Geraldine! one hour was thine-
Thou 'st had thy will! By tairn and rill,
The night-birds all that hour were still.
But now they are jubilant anew,
From cliff and tower, tu-whoo! tu-whoo!
Tu-whoo! tu-whoo! from wood and fell!

And see! the lady Christabel
Gathers herself from out her trance;
Her limbs relax, her countenance
Grows sad and soft; the smooth thin lids
Close o'er her eyes; and tears she sheds-
Large tears that leave the lashes bright!
And oft the while she seems to smile
As infants at a sudden light!

Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep,
Like a youthful hermitess,
Beauteous in a wilderness,
Who, praying always, prays in sleep,
And, if she move unquietly,
Perchance, 't is but the blood so free,
Comes back and tingles in her feet.
No doubt, she hath a vision sweet:
What if her guardian spirit 't were,
What if she knew her mother near?
But this she knows, in joys and woes,
That saints will aid if men will call:
For the blue sky bends over all!

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