Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep, "Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel? Like a youthful hermitess, Who, praying always, prays in sleep. PART II. "EACH matin-bell," the Baron saith, "Knells us back to a world of death." These words Sir Leoline first said, When he rose and found his lady dead: These words Sir Leoline will say Many a morn to his dying day! And hence the custom and law began, Which not a soul can choose but hear Saith Bracy the bard, "So let it knell ! And let the drowsy sacristan Still count as slowly as he can! There is no lack of such, I ween, As well fill up the space between. In Langdale Pike and Witch's Lair, And Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent, With ropes of rock and bells of air Three sinful sextons' ghosts are pent, Who all give back, one after t' other, The death-note to their living brother; And oft, too, by the knell offended, Just as their one! two! three! is ended, The devil mocks the doleful tale With a merry peal from Borodale." The air is still! through mist and cloud Puts on her silken vestments white, I trust that you have rested well.” And Christabel awoke and spied The same who lay down by her side, O, rather say, the same whom she Raised up beneath the old oak-tree! Nay, fairer yet! and yet more fair! For she belike hath drunken deep Of all the blessedness of sleep! And while she spake, her look, her air, Such gentle thankfulness declare, That (so it seemed) her girded vests Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts. "Sure I have sinned!" said Christabel, "Now Heaven be praised if all be well!" And in low faltering tones, yet sweet, Did she the lofty lady greet, With such perplexity of mind As dreams too lively leave behind. So quickly she rose, and quickly arrayed Are pacing both into the hall, The Baron rose, and while he prest His gentle daughter to his breast, With cheerful wonder in his eyes, The Lady Geraldine espies, And gave such welcome to the same As might beseem so bright a dame! But when he heard the lady's tale, And when she told her father's name, Why waxed Sir Leoline so pale, Murmuring o'er the name again, Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine? Alas! they had been friends in youth; But whispering tongues can poison truth; And constancy lives in realms above, And life is thorny, and youth is vain, And to be wroth with one we love Doth work like madness in the brain. And thus it chanced, as I divine, With Roland and Sir Leoline. Each spake words of high disdain And insult to his heart's best brother: They parted, ne'er to meet again! SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. But never either found another But neither heat nor frost nor thunder 115 And on her lips and o'er her eyes "What ails then my beloved child?” The marks of that which once hath been. Aught else; so mighty was the spell. Sir Leoline a moment's space O, then the Baron forgot his age, Were base as spotted infamy! Yet he who saw this Geraldine Had deemed her sure a thing divine. Such sorrow with such grace she blended, As if she feared she had offended Sweet Christabel, that gentle maid! And with such lowly tones she prayed, She might be sent without delay Home to her father's mansion. “Nay! Nay, by my soul!" said Leoline. "Ho! Bracy, the bard, the charge be thine! Go thou, with music sweet and loud, And take two steeds with trappings proud, And take the youth whom thou lov'st best My tourney court, that there and then To bear thy harp, and learn thy song, I may dislodge their reptile souls In the beautiful lady the child of his friend! And now the tears were on his face, The vision of fear, the touch and pain! again (Ah, woe is me! Was it for thee, Thou gentle maid! such sights to see?) Again she saw that bosom old, Again she felt that bosom cold, And drew in her breath with a hissing sound: Whereat the Knight turned wildly round, And nothing saw but his own sweet maid, With eyes upraised, as one that prayed. The touch, the sight, had passed away, And in its stead that vision blest, Which comforted her after-rest While in the lady's arms she lay, Had put a rapture in her breast, And clothe you both in solemn vest, And reaches soon that castle good Which stands and threatens Scotland's wastes. "Bard Bracy! Bard Bracy! your horses are fleet, music so Ye must ride up the hall, your sweet, More loud than your horses' echoing feet! And loud and loud to Lord Roland call, Thy daughter is safe in Langdale hall! Thy beautiful daughter is safe and free, Sir Leoline greets thee thus through me. He bids thee come without delay With all thy numerous array, And take thy lovely daughter home; And he will meet thee on the way With all his numerous array White with their panting palfreys' foam: And by mine honor! I will say, That I repent me of the day When I spake words of fierce disdain To Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine!— For since that evil hour hath flown, The lady fell, and clasped his knees, Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan, "And in my dream methought I went To search out what might there be found; And what the sweet bird's trouble meant, That thus lay fluttering on the ground. I went and peered, and could descry No cause for her distressful cry; But yet for her dear lady's sake I stooped, methought, the dove to take, When lo! I saw a bright green snake Coiled around its wings and neck, Green as the herbs on which it couched. Close by the dove's its head it crouched; And with the dove it heaves and stirs, Swelling its neck as she swelled hers! I woke; it was the midnight hour, The clock was echoing in the tower; But though my slumber was gone by, This dream it would not pass away, It seems to live upon my eye! And thence I vowed this selfsame day, With music strong and saintly song To wander through the forest bare, Lest aught unholy loiter there.” Thus Bracy said: the Baron the while Half-listening heard him with a smile; Then turned to Lady Geraldine, His eyes made up of wonder and love, A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy, And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her head, Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye, At Christabel she looked askance!- The maid, alas! her thoughts are gone; SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. For what she knew she could not tell, O'ermastered by the mighty spell. Why is thy cheek so wan and wild, For her, and thee, and for no other, And wouldst thou wrong thy only child, Dishonored thus in his old age; To the wronged daughter of his friend, THE CONCLUSION TO PART II. A LITTLE child, a limber elf, 117 Perhaps 't is tender too and pretty ROBERT SOUTHEY. [1774-1843.] STANZAS. My days among the dead are passed; The mighty minds of old; With them I take delight in weal, My thoughts are with the dead; with them My hopes are with the dead; anon My place with them will be, And I with them shall travel on Through all futurity: Yet leaving here a name, I trust, THE INCHCAPE ROCK. No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, Without either sign or sound of their shock The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock; So little they rose, so little they fell, The good old Abbot of Aberbrothok On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, And over the waves its warning rung. When the Rock was hid by the surges swell, The mariners heard the warning bell; The sun in heaven was shining gay, And there was joyance in their sound. The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen He felt the cheering power of spring, His eye was on the Inchcape float; The boat is lowered, the boatmen row, Down sank the bell, with a gurgling sound, Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok." Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away, So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky On the deck the Rover takes his stand, "Caust hear," said one, "the breakers roar? For methinks we should be near the shore; Now where we are I cannot tell, But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell." They hear no sound, the swell is strong; Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along, Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock: Cried they, "It is the Inchcape Rock!" Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair, But even in his dying fear BROUGH BELLS. ONE day to Helbeck I had strolled, The while to their sweet undersong Louder or fainter, as it rose Or died away, was borne The harmony of merry bells From Brough, that pleasant morn. "Why are the merry bells of Brough, "One, two, three, four; one, two, three, four; 'Tis still one, two, three, four: Mellow and silvery are the tones; But I wish the bells were more!" |