Kubla Khan
¶IN Xanadu did Kubla KhanA stately pleasure-dome decree:Where Alph, the sacred river, ranThrough caverns measureless to manDown to a sunless sea.So twice five miles of fertile groundWith walls and towers were girdled round:And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree[702]And here were forests ancient as the hills,Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
p. 702¶But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slantedDown the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!A savage place! as holy and enchantedAs e'er beneath a waning moon was hauntedBy woman wailing for her demon-lover!And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seethingAs if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,A mighty fountain momently was forced;Amid whose swift half-intermitted burstHuge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and everIt flung up momently the sacred river.Five miles meandering with a mazy motionThrough wood and dale the sacred river ran,Then reached the caverns measureless to man,And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from farAncestral voices prophesying war!
¶The shadow of the dome of pleasureFloated midway on the waves;Where was heard the mingled measureFrom the fountain and the caves.It was a miracle of rare device,A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
¶A damsel with a dulcimerIn a vision once I saw:It was an Abyssinian maid,And on her dulcimer she played,Singing of Mount Abora.Could I revive within meHer symphony and song,To such a deep delight 'twould win me,That with music loud and long,I would build that dome in air,[703]That sunny dome! those caves of ice!And all who heard should see them there,And all should cry, Beware! Beware!His flashing eyes, his floating hair!Weave a circle round him thrice,And close your eyes with holy dread,For he on honey-dew hath fed,And drunk the milk of Paradise.
Youth and Age
¶VERSE, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying,Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee—Both were mine! Life went a-mayingWith Nature, Hope, and Poesy,When I was young!When I was young?—Ah, woful When!Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then!This breathing house not built with hands,This body that does me grievous wrong,O'er aery cliffs and glittering sandsHow lightly then it flash'd along:Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,On winding lakes and rivers wide,That ask no aid of sail or oar,That fear no spite of wind or tide!Nought cared this body for wind or weatherWhen Youth and I lived in't together.
¶Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;Friendship is a sheltering tree;O! the joys, that came down shower-like,Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,Ere I was old!Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere,Which tells me, Youth's no longer here.O Youth! for years so many and sweet,'Tis known that Thou and I were one,I'll think it but a fond conceit—It cannot be, that Thou art gone!Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd:—[704]And thou wert aye a masker bold!What strange disguise hast now put onTo make believe that Thou art gone?I see these locks in silvery slips,This drooping gait, this alter'd size:But Springtide blossoms on thy lips,And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!Life is but Thought: so think I willThat Youth and I are housemates still.
¶Dew-drops are the gems of morning,But the tears of mournful eve!Where no hope is, life's a warningThat only serves to make us grieveWhen we are old:—That only serves to make us grieveWith oft and tedious taking-leave,Like some poor nigh-related guestThat may not rudely be dismist,Yet hath out-stay'd his welcome while,And tells the jest without the smile.
Love
¶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 ILive o'er again that happy hour,When midway on the mount I lay,Beside the ruin'd tower.
¶The moonshine stealing o'er the sceneHad blended with the lights of eve;And she was there, my hope, my joy,My own dear Genevieve!
¶She lean'd against the armed man,The statue of the armed knight;She stood and listen'd to my lay,Amid the lingering light.[705]Few sorrows hath she of her own,My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!She loves me best, whene'er I singThe songs that make her grieve.
¶I play'd a soft and doleful air,I sang an old and moving story—An old rude song, that suited wellThat ruin wild and hoary.
¶She listen'd with a flitting blush,With downcast eyes and modest grace;For well she knew, I could not chooseBut gaze upon her face.
¶I told her of the Knight that woreUpon his shield a burning brand;And that for ten long years he woo'dThe Lady of the Land.
¶I told her how he pined: and ah!The deep, the low, the pleading toneWith which I sang another's loveInterpreted my own.
¶She listen'd with a flitting blush,With downcast eyes and modest grace;And she forgave me, that I gazedToo fondly on her face!
¶But when I told the cruel scornThat crazed that bold and lovely Knight,And that he cross'd the mountain-woods,Nor rested day nor night;
¶That sometimes from the savage den,And sometimes from the darksome shadeAnd sometimes starting up at onceIn green and sunny glade[706]There came and look'd him in the faceAn angel beautiful and bright;And that he knew it was a Fiend,This miserable Knight!
¶And that unknowing what he did,He leap'd amid a murderous band,And saved from outrage worse than deathThe Lady of the Land;
¶And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees;And how she tended him in vain;And ever strove to expiateThe scorn that crazed his brain;
¶And that she nursed him in a cave,And how his madness went away,When on the yellow forest-leavesA dying man he lay;
¶—His dying words—but when I reach'dThat tenderest strain of all the ditty,My faltering voice and pausing harpDisturb'd her soul with pity!
¶All impulses of soul and senseHad thrill'd 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 cherish'd long!
¶She wept with pity and delight,She blush'd with love, and virgin shame;And like the murmur of a dream,I heard her breathe my name.[707]Her bosom heaved—she stepp'd aside,As conscious of my look she stept—Then suddenly, with timorous eyeShe fled to me and wept.
¶She half enclosed me with her arms,She press'd me with a meek embrace;And bending back her head, look'd up,And gazed upon my face.
¶'Twas partly love, and partly fear,And partly 'twas a bashful artThat I might rather feel, than see,The swelling of her heart.
¶I calm'd her fears, and she was calm,And told her love with virgin pride;And so I won my Genevieve,My bright and beauteous Bride.
Hymn Before Sunrise, in the Vale of Chamouni
¶HAST thou a charm to stay the morning-starIn his deep course? So long he seems to pauseOn thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc!The Arve and Arveiron at thy baseRave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form!Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines,How silently! Around thee and aboveDeep is the air and dark, substantial, black,An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it,As with a wedge! But when I look again,It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,Thy habitation from eternity!0 dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee,Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayerI worshipped the Invisible alone.
¶Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody,So sweet, we know not we are listening to it,[708]Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my Thought,Yea, with my Life and Life's own secret joy:Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused,Into the mighty vision passing—thereAs in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven.
¶Awake, my soul! not only passive praiseThou owest! not alone these swelling tears,Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake,Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake!Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn.
¶Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the Vale!O struggling with the darkness all the night,And visited all night by troops of stars,Or when they climb the sky or when they sink:Companion of the morning-star at dawn,Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawnCo-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise!Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth?Who fill'd thy countenance with rosy light?Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?
¶And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!Who called you forth from night and utter death,From dark and icy caverns called you forth,Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,For ever shattered and the same for ever?Who gave you your invulnerable life,Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy,Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?And who commanded (and the silence came),Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?
¶Ye Ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's browAdown enormous ravines slope amain—Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge!Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!Who made you glorious as the gates of HeavenBeneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun[709]Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowersOf loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?—God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations,Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice!Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!
¶Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest!Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm!Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!Ye signs and wonders of the element!Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise!
¶Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks,Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,Shoots downward, glittering through the pure sereneInto the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast—Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thouThat as I raise my head, awhile bowed lowIn adoration, upward from thy baseSlow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears,Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud,To rise before me—Rise, O ever rise,Rise like a cloud of incense from the Earth!Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills,Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven,Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.
ChristabelPart the First
¶'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,And the owls have awakened the crowing cock;Tu—whit! Tu—whoo!And hark, again! the crowing cock,How drowsily it crew I[710]Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,Hath a toothless mastiff bitch;From her kennel beneath the rockMaketh 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 prayFor 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 oakBut moss and rarest mistletoe:She kneels beneath the huge oak-tree,And in silence prayeth she.
¶The lady sprang up suddenly,The lovely lady, Christabel!It moaned as near, as near can be,But what it is she cannot tell.—On the other side it seems to be,Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak-tree.[711]The night is chill; the forest bare;Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?There is not wind enough in the airTo move away the ringlet curlFrom the lovely lady's cheek—There is not wind enough to twirlThe one red leaf, the last of its clan,That dances as often as dance it can,Hanging so light, and hanging so high,On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.
¶Hush, beating heart of Christabel!Jesu, Maria, shield her well!She folded her arms beneath her cloak,And stole to the other side of the oak.What sees she there?
¶There she sees a damsel brightDrest in a silken robe of white,That shadowy in the moonlight shone:The neck that made that white robe wan,Her stately neck, and arms were bare;Her blue-veined feet unsandalled were,And wildly glittered here and thereThe gems entangled in her hair.I guess, 'twas frightful there to see—A lady so richly clad as she—Beautiful exceedingly!
¶The lady strange made answer meet,And her voice was faint and sweet:—Have pity on my sore distress,I scarce can speak for weariness:Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear!Said Christabel, How earnest thou here?And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet,Did thus pursue her answer meet:—[712]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 spurred amain, their steeds were whiteAnd once we crossed 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 muttered words his comrades spoke:He placed me underneath this oak;He swore they would return with haste;Whither they went I cannot tell—I thought I heard, some minutes past,Sounds as of a castle bell.Stretch forth thy hand (thus ended she),And help a wretched maid to flee.
¶Then Christabel stretched forth her hand,And comforted fair Geraldine:O well, bright dame! may you commandThe service of Sir Leoline;And gladly our stout chivalryWill he send forth and friends withalTo guide and guard you safe and freeHome to your noble father's hall.
¶She rose: and forth with steps they passedThat strove to be, and were not, fast.Her gracious stars the lady blest,And thus spake on sweet Christabel:[713]All our household are at rest,The hall as silent as the cell;Sir Leoline is weak in health,And may not well awakened be,But we will move as if in stealth,And I beseech your courtesy,This night, to share your couch with me.
¶They crossed the moat, and ChristabelTook the key that fitted well;A little door she opened straight,All in the middle of the gate,The gate that was ironed within and without,Where an army in battle array had marched out,The lady sank, belike through pain,And Christabel with might and mainLifted her up, a weary weight,Over the threshold of the gate:Then the lady rose again,And moved, as she were not in pain.
¶So free from danger, free from fear,They crossed the court: right glad they were.And Christabel devoutly criedTo the lady by her side,Praise we the Virgin all divineWho hath rescued thee from thy distress!Alas, alas! said Geraldine,I cannot speak for weariness.So free from danger, free from fear,They crossed the court: right glad they were.
¶Outside her kennel, the mastiff oldLay fast asleep, in moonshine cold.The mastiff old did not awake,Yet she an angry moan did make!And what can ail the mastiff bitch?Never till now she uttered yellBeneath the eye of Christabel.Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch:For what can ail the mastiff bitch?[714]They passed the hall, that echoes still,Pass as lightly as you will!The brands were Hat, the brands were dying,Amid their own white ashes lying;But when the lady passed, there cameA tongue of light, a fit of flame;And Christabel saw the lady's eye,And nothing else saw she thereby,Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall,Which hung in a murky old niche in the wall.O softly tread, said Christabel,My father seldom sleepeth well.
¶Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare,And jealous of the listening airThey steal their way from stair to stair,Now in the glimmer, and now in gloom,And now they pass the Baron's room,As still as death, with stifled breath!And now have reached her chamber door;And now doth Geraldine press downThe rushes of the chamber floor.
¶The moon shines dim in the open air,And not a moonbeam enters there.But they without its light can seeThe chamber carved so curiously,Carved with figures strange and sweet,All made out of the carver's brain,For a lady's chamber meet:The lamp with twofold silver chainIs fastened to an angel's feet.
¶The silver lamp burns dead and dim;But Christabel the lamp will trim.She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright,And left it swinging to and fro,While Geraldine, in wretched plight,Sank down upon the floor below.[715]0 weary lady, Geraldine,I pray you, drink this cordial wine!It is a wine of virtuous powers;My mother made it of wild flowers.
¶And will your mother pity me,Who am a maiden most forlorn?Christabel answered—Woe is me!She died the hour that I was born.
¶I have heard the gray-haired friar tellHow on her death-bed she did say,That she should hear the castle-beliStrike twelve upon my wedding-day.0 mother dear! that thou wert here!I would, said Geraldine, she were!
¶But soon with altered voice, said she—'Off, wandering mother! Peak and pine!I have power to bid thee flee.'Alas! what ails poor Geraldine?Why stares she with unsettled eye?Can she the bodiless dead espy?And why with hollow voice cries she,'Off, woman, off! this hour is mine—Though thou her guardian spirit be,Off, woman, off! 'tis given to me.'
¶Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side,And raised to heaven her eyes so blue—'Alas!' said she, 'this ghastly ride—Dear lady! it hath wildered you!The lady wiped her moist cold brow,And faintly said, ' 'Tis 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 countree.[716]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 sakeAnd for the good which me befel,Even I in my degree will try,Fair maiden, to requite you well.But now unrobe yourself; for IMust 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 woeSo 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 reclineTo look at the lady Geraldine.
¶Beneath the lamp the lady bowed,And slowly rolled her eyes around;Then drawing in her breath aloud,Like one that shuddered, she unboundThe 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-wayTo lift some weight with sick assay,And eyes the maid and seeks delay;Then suddenly, as one defied,Collects herself in scorn and pride,[717]And lay down by the Maiden's side!—And in her arms the maid she took,Ah wel-a-day!And with low voice and doleful lookThese 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 inThy power to declare,That in the dim forestThou heard'st a low moaning,And found'st a bright lady, surpassingly fair;And didst bring her home with thee in love and incharity,To shield and shelter her from the damp air.'
The Conclusion to Part the First
¶It was a lovely sight to seeThe lady Christabel, when sheWas praying at the old oak-tree;Amid the jagged shadowsOf mossy leafless boughs,Kneeling in the moonlight,To make her gentle vows;Her slender palms together prest,Heaving sometimes on her breast;Her face resigned to bliss or bale—Her face, oh 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,[718]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 thineHave 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 countenanceGrows sad and soft; the smooth thin lidsClose o'er her eyes; and tears she sheds—Large tears that leave the lashes bright!And oft the while she seems to smileAs 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, 'tis but the blood so freeComes back and tingles in her feet.No doubt, she hath a vision sweet.What if her guardian spirit 'twere,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!
Part the Second
¶Each matin bell, the Baron saith,Knells us back to a world of death.These words Sir Leoline first said,When he rose and found his lady dead;These words Sir Leoline will sayMany a morn to his dying day!
¶And hence the custom and law beganThat still at dawn the sacristan,Who duly pulls the heavy bell,Five and forty beads must tellBetween each stroke—a warning knell,Which not a soul can choose but hearFrom Bratha Head to Wyndermere.
¶Saith Bracy the bard, So let it knell!And let the drowsy sacristanStill count as slowly as he can!There is no lack of such, I ween,As well fill up the space between.In Langdale Pike and Witch's Lair,And Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent,With ropes of rock and bells of airThree sinful sextons' ghosts are pent,Who all give back, one after t'other,The death-note to their living brother;And oft too, by the knell offended,Just as their one! two! three! is ended,The devil mocks the doleful taleWith a merry peal from Borrowdale.
¶The air is still! through mist and cloudThat merry peal comes ringing loud;And Geraldine shakes off her dread,And rises lightly from the bed;Puts on her silken vestments white,And tricks her hair in lovely plight,[720]And nothing doubting of her spellAwakens the lady Christabel.'Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel?I trust that you have rested well?'
¶And Christabel awoke and spiedThe same who lay down by her side—O rather say, the same whom sheRaised up beneath the old oak tree!Nay, fairer yet! and yet more fair!For she belike hath drunken deepOf all the blessedness of sleep!And while she spake, her looks, her air,Such gende thankfulness declare,That (so it seemed) her girded vestsGrew tight beneath her heaving breasts.'Sure I have sinn'd!' said Christabel,'Now heaven be praised if all be well!'And in low faltering tones, yet sweet,Did she the lofty lady greetWith such perplexity of mindAs dreams too lively leave behind.
¶So quickly she rose, and quickly arrayedHer maiden limbs, and having prayedThat He, who on the cross did groan,Might wash away her sins unknownShe forthwith led fair GeraldineTo meet her sire, Sir Leoline.The lovely maid and the lady tallAre pacing both into the hall,And pacing on through page and groom,Enter the Baron's presence-room.
¶The Baron rose, and while he prestHis gentle daughter to his breast,With cheerful wonder in his eyesThe lady Geraldine espies,And gave such welcome to the same,As might beseem so bright a dame![721]But when he heard the lady's tale,And when she told her father's name,Why waxed Sir Leoline so pale,Murmuring o'er the name again,Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine?
¶Alas! they had been friends in youth;But whispering tongues can poison truth;And constancy lives in realms above;And life is thorny; and youth is vain;And to be wroth with one we loveDoth work like madness in the brain.And thus it chanced, as I divine,With Roland and Sir Leoline.Each spake words of high disdainAnd insult to his heart's best brother:They parted—ne'er to meet again!But never either found anotherTo free the hollow heart from paining—They stood aloof, the scars remaining,Like cliffs which had been rent asunder;A dreary sea now flows between.But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,Shall wholly do away, I ween,The marks of that which once hath been.
¶Sir Leoline, a moment's space,Stood gazing on the damsel's face:And the youthful Lord of TryermaineCame back upon his heart again.O then the Baron forgot his age,His noble heart swelled high with rage;He swore by the wounds in Jesu's sideHe would proclaim it far and wide,With trump and solemn heraldry,That they, who thus had wronged the dameWere base as spotted infamy!'And if they dare deny the same,My herald shall appoint a week,And let the recreant traitors seek[722]My tourney court—that there and thenI may dislodge their reptile soulsFrom the bodies and forms of men!'He spake: his eye in lightning rolls!For the lady was ruthlessly seized; and he kennedIn the beautiful lady the child of his friend!
¶And now the tears were on his face,And fondly in his arms he tookFair Geraldine, who met the embrace,Prolonging it with joyous look.Which when she viewed, a vision fellUpon the soul of Christabel,The vision of fear, the touch and pain!She shrunk and shuddered, and saw again—(Ah, woe is me! Was it for thee,Thou gentle maid! such sights to see?)
¶Again she saw that bosom old,Again she felt that bosom cold,And drew in her breath with a hissing sound:Whereat the Knight turned wildly roundAnd nothing saw but his own sweet maidWith eyes upraised, as one that prayed.The touch, the sight, had passed away,And in its stead that vision blest,Which comforted her after-rest,While in the lady's arms she lay,Had put a rapture in her breast.And on her lips and o'er her eyesSpread smiles like light!With new surprise,'What ails then my beloved child?'The Baron said—His daughter mildMade answer, 'All will yet be well!'I ween, she had no power to tellAught else: so mighty was the spell.Yet he, who saw this Geraldine,Had deemed her sure a thing divine.Such sorrow with such grace she blended,[723]As if she feared she had offendedSweet Christabel, that gende maid!And with such lowly tones she prayedShe might be sent without delayHome to her father's mansion.'Nay!Nay, by my soul!' said Leoline.'Ho! Bracy the bard, the charge be thine!Go thou, with music sweet and loud,And take two steeds with trappings proud,And take the youth whom thou lov'st bestTo bear thy harp, and learn thy song,And clothe you both in solemn vest,And over the mountains haste along,Lest wandering folk, that are abroadDetain you on the valley road.'And when he has crossed the Irthing flood,My merry bard! he hastes, he hastesUp Knorren Moor, through Halegarth Wood,And reaches soon that castle goodWhich stands and threatens Scotland's wastes.
¶'Bard Bracy! bard Bracy! your horses are fleet,Ye must ride up the hall, your music so sweet,More loud than your horses' echoing feet!And loud and loud to Lord Roland call,Thy daughter is safe in Langdale hall!Thy beautiful daughter is safe and free—Sir Leoline greets thee thus through me.He bids thee come without delayWith all thy numerous array;And take thy lovely daughter home;And he will meet thee on the wayWith all his numerous arrayWhite with their panting palfreys' foam:And, by mine honour! I will say,That I repent me of the dayWhen I spake words of fierce disdainTo Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine!——For since that evil hour hath flown,[724]Many a summer's sun hath shone;Yet ne'er found I a friend againLike Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine.'
¶The lady fell, and clasped his knees,Her face upraised, her eyes o'erflowing;And Bracy replied, with faltering voice,His gracious hail on all bestowing:'Thy words, thou sire of Christabel,Are sweeter than my harp can tell;Yet might I gain a boon of thee,This day my journey should not be,So strange a dream hath come to me;That I had vowed with music loudTo clear yon wood from thing unblest,Warn'd by a vision in my rest!For in my sleep I saw that dove,That gentlest bird, whom thou dost love,And call'st by thy own daughter's name—Sir Leoline! I saw the same,Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan,Among the green herbs in the forest alone.Which when I saw and when I heard,I wonder'd what might ail the bird;For nothing near it could I see,Save the grass and green herbs underneath the old tree.
¶'And in my dream, methought, I wentTo search out what might there be found;And what the sweet bird's trouble meant,That thus lay fluttering on the ground.I went and peered, and could descryNo cause for her distressful cry;But yet for her dear lady's sakeI stooped, methought, the dove to take,When lo! I saw a bright green snakeCoiled around its wings and neck.Green as the herbs on which it couched,Close by the dove's its head it crouched;And with the dove it heaves and stirs,[725]Swelling its neck as she swelled hers!I woke; it was the midnight hour,The clock was echoing in the tower;But though my slumber was gone by,This dream it would not pass away—It seems to live upon my eye!And thence I vowed this self-same dayWith music strong and saintly songTo wander through the forest bare,Lest aught unholy loiter there.'
¶Thus Bracy said: the Baron, the while,Half-listening heard him with a smile;Then turn'd to Lady Geraldine,His eyes made up of wonder and love;And said in courtly accents fine,'Sweet maid, Lord Roland's beauteous dove,With arms mote strong than harp or song,Thy sire and I will crush the snake!'He kissed her forehead as he spake,And Geraldine in maiden wiseCasting down her large bright eyes,With blushing cheek and courtesy fineShe turned her from Sir Leoline;Softly gathering up her train,That o'er her right arm fell again;And folded her arms across her chest,And couched her head upon her breast,And looked askance at Christabel—Jesu, Maria, shield her well!
¶A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy,And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her head,Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye,And with somewhat of malice, and more of dread,At Christabel she look'd askance!—One moment—and the sight was fled!But Christabel in dizzy tranceStumbling on the unsteady groundShuddered aloud, with a hissing sound;[726]And Geraldine again turned round,And like a thing that sought relief,Full of wonder and full of grief,She rolled her large bright eyes divineWildly on Sir Leoline.
¶The maid, alas! her thoughts are gone,She nothing sees—no sight but one!The maid, devoid of guile and sin,I know not how, in fearful wise,So deeply had she drunken inThat look, those shrunken serpent eyes,That all her features were resignedTo this sole image in her mind:And passively did imitateThat look of dull and treacherous hate!And thus she stood, in dizzy trance,Still picturing that look askanceWith forced unconscious sympathyFull before her father's view—As far as such a look could beIn eyes so innocent and blue!And when the trance was o'er, the maidPaused awhile, and inly prayed:Then falling at the Baron's feet,'By my mother's soul do I entreatThat thou this woman send away!'She said: and more she could not say:For what she knew she could not tell,O'er-mastered by the mighty spell.
¶Why is thy cheek so wan and wild,Sir Leoline? Thy only childLies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride.So fair, so innocent, so mild;The same, for whom thy lady died!O, by the pangs of her dear motherThink thou no evil of thy child!For her, and thee, and for no other,She prayed the moment ere she died:[727]Prayed that the babe for whom she died,Might prove her dear lord's joy and pride!That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled,Sir Leoline!And wouldst thou wrong thy only child,Her child and thine?
¶Within the Baron's heart and brainIf thoughts, like these, had any share,They only swelled his rage and pain,And did but work confusion there.His heart was cleft with pain and rage,His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were wild,Dishonour'd thus in his old age;Dishonour'd by his only child,And all his hospitalityTo the insulted daughter of his friendBy more than woman's jealousyBrought thus to a disgraceful end—He rolled his eye with stern regardUpon the gentle minstrel bard,And said in tones abrupt, austere—'Why, Bracy! dost thou loiter here?I bade thee hence!' The bard obeyed;And turning from his own sweet maid,The aged knight, Sir Leoline,Led forth the lady Geraldine!
The Conclusion to Part the Second
¶A little child, a limber elf,Singing, dancing, to itself,A fairy thing with red round cheeks,That always finds, and never seeks,Makes such a vision to the sightAs fills a father's eyes with light;And pleasures flow in so thick and fastUpon his heart, that he at lastMust needs express his love's excessWith words of unmeant bitterness.Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together[728]Thoughts so all unlike each other;To mutter and mock a broken charm,To dally with wrong that does no harm.Perhaps 'tis tender too and prettyAt each wild word to feel withinA sweet recoil of love and pity.And what, if in a world of sin(O sorrow and shame should this be true!)Such giddiness of heart and brainComes seldom save from rage and pain,So talks as it's most used to do.
Dejection: an Ode
¶hate, late yestreen I saw the new Moon,With the old Moon in her arms;And I fear, I fear, my master dear!We shall have a deadly storm.Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence
i
¶WELL! If the Bard was weather-wise, who madeThe grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,This night, so tranquil now, will not go henceUnroused by winds, that ply a busier tradeThan those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes,Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakesUpon the strings of this ^olian lute,Which better far were mute.For lo! the New-moon winter-bright!And overspread with phantom light,(With swimming phantom light o'erspreadBut rimmed and circled by a silver thread)I see the old Moon in her lap, foretellingThe coming-on of rain and squally blast,And oh! that even now the gust were swelling,And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast!Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awedAnd sent my soul abroad,Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give,Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live!
II
¶A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief,Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,In word, or sigh, or tear—0 Lady! in this wan and heartless mood,To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd,All this long eve, so balmy and serene,Have I been gazing on the western sky,And its peculiar tint of yellow green;And still I gaze—and with how blank an eye!And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars,That give away their motion to the stars:Those stars, that glide behind them or between,Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen;Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it grewIn its own cloudless, starless lake of blue;I see them all so excellently fair,I see, not feel, how beautiful they are!
¶in
¶My genial spirits fail;And what can these availTo lift the smothering weight from off my breast?It were a vain endeavour,Though I should gaze for everOn that green light that lingers in the west;I may not hope from outward forms to winThe passion and the life, whose fountains are within.
IV
¶O Lady! we receive but what we give,And in our life alone does Nature live;Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud!And would we aught behold, of higher worth,Than that inanimate cold world allowedTo the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,Ah! from the soul itself must issue forthA light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud[730]Enveloping the Earth—And from the soul itself must there be sentA sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,Of all sweet sounds the life and element!
v
¶O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of meWhat this strong music in the soul may be!What, and wherein it doth exist,This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,This beautiful and beauty-making power.Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given,Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,Life, and life's effluence, cloud at once and shower,Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power,Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower,A new Earth and new Heaven,Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud—Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud—We in ourselves rejoice!And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,All melodies the echoes of that voice,All colours a suffusion from that light.
VI
¶There was a time when, though my path was rough,This joy within me dallied with distress,And all misfortunes were but as the stuffWhence Fancy made me dreams of happiness:For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine.But now afflictions bow me down to earth:Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth;But oh! each visitationSuspends what nature gave me at my birth,My shaping spirit of Imagination.For not to think of what I needs must feelBut to be still and patient, all I can;And haply by abstruse research to steal[731]From my own nature all the natural man—This was my sole resource, my only plan;Till that which suits a part infects the whole,And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.
VII
¶Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,Reality's dark dream!I turn from you, and listen to the wind,Which long has raved unnoticed. What a screamOf agony by torture lengthened outThat lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that rav'st without,Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted tree,Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers,Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers,Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song,The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among.Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds!Thou mighty Poet, even to frenzy bold!What tell'st thou now about?'Tis of the rushing of an host in rout,With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds—At once they groan with pain and shudder with the cold!But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence!And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,With groans, and tremulous shudderings—all is over—It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud!A tale of less affright,And tempered with delight,As Otway's self had framed the tender lay.'Tis of a little child,Upon a lonesome wild,Not far from home, but she hath lost her way;And now moans low in bitter grief and fear,And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear.
VIII
¶'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep:Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing,And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth!With light heart may she rise,Gay fancy, cheerful eyes.Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice;To her may all things live, from pole to pole,Their life the eddying of her living soul!O simple spirit, guided from above,Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice,Thus may'st thou ever, evermore rejoice.