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.

died,

But soon there breathed a wind on me,
Nor sound nor motion made:

Its path was not upon the sea,

In ripple or in shade.

It raised my hair, it fann'd my cheek
Like a meadow gale of spring-
It mingled strangely with my fears
Yet it felt like a welcoming.

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,
Yet she sail'd softly, too:
Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze-
On me alone it blew.

And the ancient O! dream of joy! is this, indeed,
mariner behold-
eth his native The light-house top I see?
Is this the hill? is this the kirk?
Is this my own countrée ?

This seraph band, each waved his hand:

It was a heavenly sight!

They stood as signals to the land,

Each one a lovely light;

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.

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:
It is the hermit good!
He singeth loud his godly hymns
That he makes in the wood.

He'll shrive my soul, he'll wash away
The albatross's blood.

PART VII.

And appear in their own forms of light.

Approacheth the ship with wonder.

The ship sudden ly sinketh.

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!

"Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look(The pilot made reply,)

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,

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,
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,

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,
With a goodly company!-

To walk together to the kirk,
And all together pray,

and the penance of life falls on him.

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,

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
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 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.

PART 1.

'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 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 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,

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 ås 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 service 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;

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 o
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.