And the ancient eth his native The angelic spir its leave the dead bodies, And appear in their own forms of light. It raised my hair, it fann'd my cheek Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed Is this the hill? is this the kirk? We drifted o'er the harbor bar, The harbor-bay was clear as glass, And on the bay the moonlight lay, He singeth loud his godly hymns The Albatross's blood. PART VII. THIS Hermit good lives in that wood He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve He hath a cushion plump: The skiff-boat near'd: I heard them Why this is strange, I trow! The rock shone bright, the kirk no That signal made but now?" less That stands above the rock: The moonlight steep'd in silentness And the bay was white with silent Till, rising from the same, The Hermit of the Wood, Strange, by my faith!" the Hermit Approacheth the "And they answer not our cheer! How thin they are and sere! Full many shapes that shadows were, Unless perchance it were No voice did they impart- 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 saw a third-I heard his voice: drown'd My body lay afloat; But swift as dreams, myself I found Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, riner is saved in the Pilot's boat. The ancient Mariner earnestly entreateth the Hermit to shrive him; and the penance of life falls on him. And ever and anon throughout his future life an agony constrain eth him to travel from land to land, I moved my lips-the Pilot shriek'd, But in the garden-bower the bride The holy Hermit raised his eyes, I took the oars: the Pilot's boy, And bride-maids singing are: Which biddeth me to prayer. O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been Laugh'd loud and long, and all the So lonely 't was, that God himself while With a woful agony, 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, I pass, like night, from land to land; I know the man that must hear me : All things both great and small; He went like one that hath been What loud uproar bursts from that And is of sense forlorn, door! The wedding-guests are there : A sadder and a wiser man 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 poets 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. "T is mine and it is likewise yours; 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, 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; Is the night chilly and dark? The lovely lady, Christabel, What makes her in the wood so late, And she in the midnight wood will pray She stole along, she nothing spoke, She kneels beneath the huge oak-tree, My sire is of a noble line, 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; Some mutter'd words his comrades spoke The lady wiped her moist cold brow, And faintly said, ""T is over now!" Again the wild-flower wine she drank: And thus the lofty lady spake- And you love them, and for their sake 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 Beneath the lamp the lady bow'd, Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs ; And with low voice and doleful look In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell, 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: charity, To shield her and shelter her from the damp air. THE CONCLUSION TO PART I. It was a lovely sight to see With open eyes (ah woe is me!) A star hath set, a star hath risen, And see the lady Christabel Gathers herself from out her trance; As infants at a sudden light! Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep, |