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| The harbour bay was clear as glass, The mariner hath But why drives on that ship so fast, So smoothly it was strewn! bees cast into a trance; for the Without or wave or wind?
And on the bay the moonlight lay, angelic power
And the shadow of the moon. causeth the vessel
SECOND VOICE. to drive north. ward faster than The air is cut away before,
The rock shone bright, the kirk no bumaa life could
That stands above the rock :
The steady weathercock.
| And the bay was white with silent
The angelie spi
rits leave the The supernatural I woke, and we were sailing on Full many shapes that shadows were, head motion is retard ed; the mariner As in a gentle weather :
In crimson colours came. awakes, and his 'Twas night, calm night, the moon penapoe begins was high; A little distance from the prow And appear ia
their owa fora The dead men stood together.
Those crimson shadows were:
Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat;
A man all light, a seraph-man,
On every corse there stood.
This seraph band, each waved his
It was a heavenly sight!
They stood as signals to the land,
Each one a lovely light;
This seraph band, each waved his
No voice did they impart-
No voice; but 0! 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.
I heard them coming fast:
Dear Lord in heaven! it was a joy
The dead men could not blast.
and the peace
He kneels at morn, and noon, and “Ha! ha!" quoth he, “full plain I
The devil knows how to row.”
And now, all in my own countrée,
I stood on the firm land!
«() shrive me, shrive me, holy man!” The ancient as fair,
riderenethyes The hermit crossd his brow.
treateth the te That signal made but now ?”
“Say quick," quoth he, “I bid thee mit to shrine bin;
sayApproacheth the “Strange, by my faith!” the hermit
of life falls en ship with wonder.
What manner of man art thou ?” bin.
With a woful agony,
his fature life as My forest brook along; And till my ghastly tale is told, agony coastraie
eth him to tharel
This heart within me burns.
fron land to land. And the owlet whoops to the wolf
I pass, like pight, 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.
The wedding-guests are there
But in the garden-bower the bride
And bridemaids singing are:
ship, | And bark! the little vesper-bell,
Which biddeth me to prayer.
Alone on a wide, wide sea :
The ship went down like lead. Scarce seemed there to be.
+ land and dreadfull 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,
While each to his great Father bends,
old men and babes, and loving friends,
And youths and maidens gay!
bis own example, And all was still, save that the hill To thee, thou wedding-guest!
love and tererWas telling of the sound. He prayeth well, who loveth well ence to all things
that God made Both man, and biri, and beast.
He prayeth best, who loveth best
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.
The mariner, whose eye is bright,
Is gone: and now the wedding-guest
Turn'd from the bridegroom's door.
He went like one that hath been
'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,
Sir Leoline, the baron rich,
Is the night chilly and dark?
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 baving 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;
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 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 cheekThere 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
I have only to add, that the metre of the Christadel 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. Neverthe. less, 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.
Hush, beating heart of Christabel!
What sees she there?
There she sees a damsel bright, Drest in a silken robe of white,
To the edition of 1916.
That shadowy in the moonlight shone :
They cross'd the moat, and Christabel
Mary mother, save me now!
So free from danger, free from fear,
Outside her kennel, the mastiff old
My sire is of a noble line,
They pass'd the hall, that echoes still,
Then Christabel stretch'd forth her hand,
Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare ;
She rose ; and forth with steps they pass'd
The moon shines dim in the open air,
And on her elbow did recline
The silver lamp burns dead and dim ;
Beneath the lamp the Lady bow'd,
And will your mother pity me,
But soon, with alter'd voice said she-
Though thou her guardian spirit be,
Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs;
These words did say:
But vainly thou warrest,
For this is alone in
That in the dim forest
Thou heardest a low moaning, And foundest a bright lady, surpassingly fair : And didst bring her home with thee in love and in
charity, To shield her and shelter her from the damp air.
Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side,
THE CONCLUSION TO PART I.
Again the wild-flower wine she drank;
And thus the lofty lady spake-
It was a lovely sight to see
Amid the jugged shadows
To make her gentle vows;
Quoth Christabel, So let it be! And as the lady bade, did she, Her gentle limbs did she undress. And lay down in her loveliness.
With open eyes (ab wo is me!)
But through her brain of weal and wo