And the rain pour'd down from one It ceased; yet still the sails made on black cloud; The moon was at its edge. A pleasant noise till noon, A noise like of a hidden brook The thick black cloud was cleft, and That to the sleeping woods all night still The moon was at its side: Like waters shot from some high crag, The bodies of the The loud wind never reach'd the But not by the souls of the men, nor by dæmons of earth or middle air, but by a ship, Yet now the ship moved on! Beneath the lightning and the moon Singeth a quiet tune. Till noon we quietly sailed on, Under the keel nine fathom deep, They groan'd, they stirr'd, they all And the ship stood still also. uprose, Nor spake, nor moved their eyes; The sun, right up above the mast, The helmsman steer'd, the ship moved Backwards and forwards half her on; Yet never a breeze up blew ; The mariners all 'gan work the ropes, tools We were a ghastly crew The body of my brother's son "I fear thee, ancient mariner!" blessed troop of pain, angelic spirits, Which to their corses came again, sent down by the But a troop of spirits blest: invocation of the guardian saint. For when it dawn'd-they dropp'd their arms, And cluster'd round the mast; And from their bodies pass'd. Around, around, flew each sweet Then darted to the sun; Sometimes, a-drooping from the sky, With their sweet jargoning! And now 'twas like all instruments, The lonesome spirit from the south pole carrie on the ship as far as the line, ia obedience to the angelic troop, but still requireth Vengeance. The polar spirit's fellow demoes, the invisible inhabitants of the element, take part in his wrong; and two of them relate, one to the other, that penance long and heavy for the an cient mariner hath been accorded to the pola spirit, who re turneth southward. Fly, brother, fly! more high, more The moonlight steep'd in silentness, All stood together on the deck The steady weathercock. Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat; The pang, the curse, with which they On every corse there stood. died, Had never pass'd away: I could not draw my eyes from theirs, This seraph band, each waved his hand: It was a heavenly sight! They stood as signals to the land, The curse is final. And now the spell was snapt: once Each one a lovely light; ly expiated. more I view'd the ocean green, And look'd far forth, yet little saw Like one, that on a lonesome road And turns no more his head; This seraph band, each waved his No voice did they impart- But soon I heard the dash of oars, But soon there breathed a wind on me, The pilot and the pilot's boy, And appear in their own forins of light. the wood. THIS hermit good lives in that wood The hermit of That come from a far countrée. He kneels at morn, and noon, and "Ha! ha!" quoth he, "full plain I eve He hath a cushion plump: It is the moss that wholly hides The rotted old oak stump. see, The devil knows how to row." And now, all in my own countrée, I stood on the firm land! The skiff-boat near'd: I heard them The hermit stepp'd forth from the talk, "Why this is strange, I trow! boat, And scarcely he could stand. Where are those lights, so many and « O shrive me, shrive me, holy man!" fair, That signal made but now ?" Approacheth the "Strange, by my faith!" the hermit ship with wonder. The ship suddenby sinketh. said "And they answer not our cheer! The planks look'd warp'd! and see those sails, How thin they are and sere! I never saw aught like to them, 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, Which forced me to begin my tale; Since then, at an uncertain hour, "Brown skeletons of leaves that lag And till my ghastly tale is told, "Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look(The pilot made reply,) 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. I am a-fear'd."-" Push on, push on!" What loud uproar bursts from that Said the hermit cheerily. The boat came closer to the ship, The boat came close beneath the ship, Under the water it rumbled on, It reach'd the ship, it split the bay; The ancient ma- Stunn'd by that loud and dreadful riner is saved in the pilot's boat. sound, Which sky and ocean smote, door! The wedding-guests are there O wedding-guest! this soul hath been So lonely 'twas, that God himself O sweeter than the marriage-feast, To walk together to the kirk, Like one that hath been seven days With a goodly company!— 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, I moved my lips-the pilot shriek'd, I took the oars: the pilot's boy, To walk together to the kirk, And all together pray, The ancient ma riner earnestly ea treateth the her mit to thrive himg While each to his great Father bends, Farewell, farewell! but this I tell He prayeth best, who loveth best All things, both great and small; For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all. The mariner, whose eye is bright, Laugh'd loud and long, and all the Whose beard with age is hoar, while is eyes went to and fro, Is gone and now the wedding-guest Turn'd from the bridegroom's door. and the penanCO of life falls on him And ever and anon throughout his future life an agony constraineth him to travel from land to land. And to teach, by his own example, love and reverence to all things that God made and loveth. He went like one that hath been stunn'd, And is of sense forlorn, A sadder and a wiser man He rose the morrow morn. CHRISTABEL. PREFACE.* THE first part of the following poem was written in the year one thousand seven hundred and ninetyseven, at Stowey in the county of Somerset. The second part, after my return from Germany, in the year one thousand eight hundred, at Keswick, Cumberland. Since the latter date, my poetic powers 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 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 for this, I have only my own indolence to blame. The dates are mentioned for the exclusive purpose of precluding charges of plagiarism or servile imitation from myself. For there is amongst us a set of critics, who seem to hold, that every possible thought and image is traditional; who have no notion that there 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 doggerel 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 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 syllaoles 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. To the edition of 1816. 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 nighthi ly and dark? The lovely lady, Christabel, Whom her father loves so well, She stole along, she nothing spoke, The night is chill; the forest bare; Hush, beating heart of Christabel! There she sees a damsel bright, Drest in a silken robe of white, 564 That shadowy in the moonlight shone: I guess, 'twas frightful there to see Mary mother, save me now! (Said Christabel,) And who art thou? I scarce can speak for weariness: And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet, My sire is of a noble line. And my name is Geraldine; Five warriors seized me yestermorn, They choked my cries with force and fright, They spurr'd amain, their steeds were white; Nor do I know how long it is Some mutter'd words his comrades spoke: He swore they would return with haste: Stretch forth thy hand, (thus ended she,) Then Christabel stretch'd forth her hand, And comforted fair Geraldine : O well bright dame! may you command And gladly our stout chivalry She rose; and forth with steps they pass'd All our household are at rest, The hall as silent as the cell; Sir Leoline is weak in health, And may not well awaken'd be, But we will move as if in stealth; And I beseech your courtesy, This night, to share your couch with me. They cross'd the moat, and Christabel Took the key that fitted well; The gate that was iron'd within and without, And moved, as she were not in pain. So free from danger, free from fear, To the lady by her side, Praise we the Virgin all divine Who hath rescued thee from thy distress! I cannot speak for weariness. So free from danger, free from fear, They cross'd the court: right glad they were. Outside her kennel, the mastiff old They pass'd the hall, that echoes still, The brands were flat, the brands were dying, But when the lady pass'd, there came A tongue of light, a fit of flame; Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall, Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare; The moon shines dim in the open air, Is fasten'd to an angel's feet. |