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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
In the leafy month of June,

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 lightning fell with never a jag,
A river steep and wide.

The bodies of the The loud wind never reach'd the
ship's crew are
inspired, and the
shin moves on.

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
The dead men gave a groan.

Singeth a quiet tune.

Till noon we quietly sailed on,
Yet never a breeze did breathe:
Slowly and smoothly went the ship,
Moved onward from beneath.

Under the keel nine fathom deep,
From the land of mist and snow,
The spirit siid: and it was he
That made the ship to go.
The sails at noon left off their tune,

They groan'd, they stirr'd, they all And the ship stood still also.

uprose,

Nor spake, nor moved their eyes;
It had been strange, e'en in a dream,
To have seen those dead men rise.

The sun, right up above the mast,
Had fix'd her to the ocean:
But in a minute she 'gan to stir,
With a short uneasy motion-

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,
Where they were wont to do;
They raised their limbs like lifeless

tools

We were a ghastly crew

The body of my brother's son
Stood by me, knee to knee;
The body and I pull'd at one rope,
But he said naught to me.

"I fear thee, ancient mariner!"
Be calm, thou wedding-guest:
'Twas not those souls that fled in

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;
Sweet sounds rose slowly through
their mouths,

And from their bodies pass'd.

Around, around, flew each sweet
sound,

Then darted to the sun;
Slowly the sounds came back again,
Now mix'd, now one by one.

Sometimes, a-drooping from the sky,
I heard the skylark sing;
Sometimes all little birds that are,
How they seem'd to fill the sea and
air,

With their sweet jargoning!

And now 'twas like all instruments,
Now like a lonely flute;
And now it is an angel's song,
That makes the heavens be mute.

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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.

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Fly, brother, fly! more high, more The moonlight steep'd in silentness,

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All stood together on the deck
For a charnel-dungeon fitter:
All fix'd on me their stony eyes,
That in the moon did glitter.

The steady weathercock.

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Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat;
And, by the holy rood!
A man all light, a seraph-man,

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,
Nor turn them up to pray.

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
Of what had else been seen-

Like one, that on a lonesome road
Doth walk in fear and dread,
And having once turned round walks
on,

And turns no more his head;
Because he knows a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.

This seraph band, each waved his
hand,

No voice did they impart-
No voice; but O! the silence sank
Like music on my heart.

But soon I heard the dash of oars,
I heard the pilot's cheer;
My head was turn'd perforce away,
And I saw a boat appear.

But soon there breathed a wind on me, The pilot and the pilot's boy,

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And appear in their own forins of light.

the wood.

THIS hermit good lives in that wood The hermit of
Which slopes down to the sea.
How loudly his sweet voice he rears!
He loves to talk with mariners

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,
Unless perchance it were

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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;
And then it left me free.

Since then, at an uncertain hour,
That agony returns:

"Brown skeletons of leaves that lag And till my ghastly tale is told,

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"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,
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:

It reach'd the ship, it split the bay;
The ship went down like lead.

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
But in the garden-bower the bride
And bridemaids 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

So lonely 'twas, that God himself
Scarce seemed there to be.

O sweeter than the marriage-feast,
'Tis sweeter far to me,

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

I moved my lips-the pilot shriek'd,
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,

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,
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.

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
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 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,
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 nighthi ly 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.
The lady sprang up suddenly,
The lovely lady, Christabel!
It moan'd as near as near could be,
But what it is she cannot tell.-
On the other side it seems to be,
Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree

The night is chill; the forest bare;
Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?
There is not wind enough in the air
To move away the ringlet curl
From the lovely lady's cheek-
There is not wind enough to twirl
The 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 bright, Drest in a silken robe of white,

564

That shadowy in the moonlight shone:
The neck that made that white robe wan,
Her stately neck, and arms were bare;
Her blue-vein'd feet unsandall'd were,
And wildly glitter'd here and there
The gems entangled in her hair.

I guess, 'twas frightful there to see
A lady so richly clad as she
Beautiful exceedingly!

Mary mother, save me now!

(Said Christabel,) And who art thou?
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 camest thou here?

And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet,
Did thus pursue her answer meet :-

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,

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 stretch'd forth her hand, And comforted fair Geraldine :

O well bright dame! may you command
The se vice of Sir Leoline;

And gladly our stout chivalry
Will he send forth and friends withal,
To guide and guard you safe and free
Home to your noble father's hall.

She rose; and forth with steps they pass'd
That strove to be, and were not, fast.
Her gracious STARS the lady blest,
And thus spake on sweet Christabel:-

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;
A little door she open'd straight,
All in the middle of the gate;

The gate that was iron'd within and without,
Where an army in battle array had march'd out
The lady sank, belike through pain,
And Christabel with might and main
Lifted 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 cross'd the court: right glad they were
And Christabel devoutly cried

To the lady by her side,

Praise we the Virgin all divine

Who hath rescued thee from thy distress!
Alas, alas! said Geraldine,

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
Lay 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 utter'd yell
Beneath the eye of Christabel.
Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch;
For what can ail the mastiff bitch?

They pass'd the hall, that echoes still,
Pass as lightly as you will!

The brands were flat, the brands were dying,
Amid their own white ashes lying:

But when the lady pass'd, there came

A 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 air,
They steal their way from stair to stair:
Now in glimmer, and now in gloom-
And now they pass the baron's room,
As still as death with stifled breath!
And now have reach'd her chamber-door;
And now doth Geraldine press down
The rushes of the chamber floor.

The moon shines dim in the open air,
And not a moonbeam enters here.
But they without its light can see
The 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 chain

Is fasten'd to an angel's feet.

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