With such perplexity of mind So quickly she rose, and quickly arrayed To meet her sire, Sir Leoline. The lovely maid and the lady tall The Baron rose, and while he prest And gave such welcome to the same, But when he heard the lady's tale, Alas! they had been friends in youth; But whispering tongues can poison truth; And constancy lives in realms above; To free the hollow heart from paining They stood aloof, the scars remaining, Sir Leoline, a moment's space, O then the Baron forgot his age, More loud than your horses' echoing feet! The lady fell, and clasped his knees, Her face upraised, her eyes o'erflowing; And Bracy replied, with faltering voice, His gracious hail on all bestowing; Thy words, thou sire of Christabel, Are sweeter than my harp can tell; Yet might I gain a boon of thee, This day my journey should not be, So strange a dream hath come to me: That I had vowed with music loud To clear yon wood from thing unblest, Warn'd by a vision in my rest! For in my sleep I saw that dove, name Sir Leoline! I saw the same, Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan, Among the green herbs in the forest alone. Which when I saw and when I heard, “And in my dream, methought, I went I stooped, methought, the dove to take, Thus Bracy said: the Baron, the while, His eyes made up of wonder and love; And said in courtly accents fine, "Sweet maid, Lord Roland's beauteous dove, With arms more strong than harp of 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 look'd askance !- The maid, alas! her thoughts are gone, That look, those shrunken serpent eyes, That look of dull and treacherous hate! And when the trance was o'er, the maid Why is thy cheek so wan and wild, That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled, And wouldst thou wrong thy only child, Her child and thine? Within the Baron's heart and brain Dishonor'd thus in his old age; To the insulted daughter of his friend And said in tones abrupt, austere 66 Why, Bracy! dost tnou loiter here? I bade thee hence!" The bard obeyed; And turning from his own sweet maid, The aged knight, Sir Leoline, Led forth the lady Geraldine! 1800. 1816. THE CONCLUSION TO PART THE SECOND A little child, a limber elf, Singing, dancing to itself, A fairy thing with red round cheeks, That always finds, and never seeks, Makes such a vision to the sight As fills a father's eyes with light; And pleasures flow in so thick and fast Upon his heart, that he at last Must needs express his love's excess With words of unmeant bitterness. Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together Thoughts so all unlike each other; To mutter and mock a broken charm, To dally with wrong that does no harm. Perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty At each wild word to feel within A sweet recoil of love and pity. And what, if in a world of sin (0 sorrow and shame should this be true!) Such giddiness of heart and brain Comes seldom save from rage and pain, So talks as it's most used to do. 1801. 1816. FRANCE: AN ODE I YE Clouds! that far above me float and pause, Whose pathless march no mortal may control! Ye Ocean Waves! that, wheresoe'er ye roll, Yield homage only to eternal laws! Ye Woods! that listen to the nightbird's singing, Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclined, Save when your own imperious branches swinging, Have made a solemn music of the wind! Where, like a man beloved of God, Through glooms, which never woodman trod, How oft, pursuing fancies holy, My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound, Inspired beyond the guess of folly, By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound! O ye loud Waves! and O ye Forests high! And O ye Clouds that far above me soared! Thou rising sun! thou blue rejoicing Sky! Yea, every thing that is and will be free! Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be, With what deep worship I have still adored The spirit of divinest Liberty. To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance, And shame too long delay'd and vain retreat! For ne'er, O Liberty! with partial aim I dimmed thy light or damped thy holy flame; But blessed the pæans of delivered France, And hung my head and wept at Britain's name. III "And what," I said, " though Blasphemy's loud scream With that sweet music of deliverance strove! Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's dream! Ye storms, that round the dawning east assembled, The Sun was rising, though ye hid his light! And when to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled, The dissonance ceased, and all seemed calm and bright; When France her front deep-scarr'd and gory Concealed with clustering wreaths of glory; When insupports bly advancing, Her arm made mockery of the warrior's ramp; While timid looks of fury glancing. Domestic treason, crushed beneath her fatal stamp, Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore; Then I reproached my fears that would not flee; "And soon," I said, "shall Wisdom teach her lore In the low huts of them that toil and groan; And, conquering by her happiness alone, Shall France compel the nations to be free, Till Love and Joy look round, and call the earth their own." IV Forgive me, Freedom! O forgive those dreams! I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament. From bleak Helvetia's icy caverns sent I hear thy groans upon her blood-stained streams! Heroes, that for your peaceful country perished, And ye, that fleeing, spot your mountain snows With bleeding wounds; forgive me, that I cherished One thought that ever blessed your cruel foes! To scatter rage and traitorous guilt Where Peace her jealous home had built; A patriot-race to disinherit Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear: And with inexpiable spirit To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer O France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind, And patriot only in pernicious toils! Are these thy boasts, Champion of human kind? To mix with Kings in the low lust of Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions, The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the waves! And then I felt thee !-on that sea-cliff's verge, Whose pines, scarce travelled by the breeze above, Had made one murmur with the distant surge! Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare, And shot my being through earth, sea and air, Possessing all things with intensest love, O Liberty! my spirit felt thee there. FROST AT MIDNIGHT THE Frost performs its secret ministry, Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry Came loud-and hark, again! loud as before. The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, Have left me to that solitude, which suits Abstruser musings: save that at my side My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 'Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs And vexes meditation with its strange And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood, This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood. With all the numberless goings-on of life, Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not; Only that film, which fluttered on the grate, Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature Gives it dim sympathies with me who live, Making it a companionable form, Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit By its own moods interprets, everywhere Echo or mirror seeking of itself, And makes a toy of Thought. |