Fly, brother, fly! more high, more The moonlight steep'd in silentness, 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 PART VII. THIS hermit good lives in that wood And appear in their own forms of light. The hermit of the wood. The skiff-boat near'd: I heard them The hermit stepp'd forth from the The ship sudden. ly sinketh. said What manner of man art thou?” Forthwith this frame of mine was wrench'd With a woful agony, Which forced me to begin my tale; Since then, at an uncertain hour, And till my ghastly tale is told, "Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look—I (The pilot made reply,) I pass, like night, from land to land: I have strange power of speech; That moment that his face I see, know the man that must hear me : To him my tale I teach. I 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, Under the water it rumbled on, It reach'd the ship, it split the bay; Which sky and ocean smote, 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, Like one that hath been seven days With a goodly company!— 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, Who now doth crazy go, To walk together to the kirk, And all together pray, and the penaac8 of life falls c While each to his great Father bends, 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 au agony constraineth him to travel from land to land. And to teach, br his own example, love and rever ence to all thinn thet 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. l'ART I. '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; 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, Drest in a silken robe of white, That shadowy in the moonlight shone: Mary mother, save me now! 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, Me, even me, a maid forlorn: They choked my cries with force and fright, They spurr'd amain, their steeds were white; Nor do I know how long it is (For I have lain entranced I wis) 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 Sir Leoline is weak in health, And may not well awaken'd be, But we will move as if in stealth; And I beseech your courtesy, 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. Outside her kennel, the mastiff old They pass'd the hall, that echoes still, The brands were flat, the brands were dying, Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare; The moon shines dim in the open air, |