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 lightning fell with never a jag, Singeth a quiet tune. Till noon we quietly sailed on, The bodies of the The loud wind never reach'd the Under the keel nine fathom deep, ship's crew are inspired, and the ship moves on. ship, Yet now the ship moved on! Beneath the lightning and the moon From the land of mist and snow, 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, But in a minute she 'gan to stir, The helmsman steer'd, the ship moved Backwards and forwards half her length With a short uneasy motion. Then like a pawing horse let go, How long in that same fit I lay, But ere my living life return'd, The lonesomDS spirit from the south pole carries on the ship as far as the line, ia obedience to the angelic troop, but still requireth vengeance. The polar spirits fellow demons, the invisible inhabitants of the element, take part in his wrong; and two of them relate, one to the Fly, brother, fly! more high, more The moonlight steep'd in silentness, The steady weathercock. The pang, the curse, with which they On every corse there stood. died, But soon there breathed a wind on me, 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: He singeth loud his godly hymns He'll shrive my soul, he'll wash away PART VII. And appear in their own forms of light. Approacheth the ship with wonder. The ship sudden ly sinketh. 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 "Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look(The pilot made reply,) 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, Like one that hath been seven days 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, door! The wedding-guests are there O wedding-guest! this soul hath been O sweeter than the marriage-feast, To walk together to the kirk, and the penance of life falls on him. While each to his great Father bends, Farewell, farewell! but this I tell He prayeth best, who loveth best The mariner, whose eye is bright, Laugh'd loud and long, and all the Whose beard with age is hoar, while His eyes went to and fro, Is gone and now the wedding-guest Turn'd from the bridegroom's door. 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 rever ence 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 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. 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: And hark, again! the crowing cock, Sir Leoline, the baron rich, Hath a toothless mastiff, which From her kennel beneath the rock Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour; Is the night chilly and dark? The lovely lady, Christabel, Whom her father loves so well, And she in the midnight wood will pray She stole along, she nothing spoke, The night is chill; the forest bare; Hush, beating heart of Christabel! There she sees a damsel bright, That shadowy in the moonlight shone: Mary mother, save me now! Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear! 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, O well, bright dame! may you command She rose; and forth with steps they pass'd 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, 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; Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall, Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare; The moon shines dim in the open air, |