Poems of Coleridge

PART II

 
  The Sun now rose upon the right:
  Out of the sea came he,
  Still hid in mist, and on the left
  Went down into the sea.
 
 
  And the good south wind still blew behind,
  But no sweet bird did follow,
  Nor any day for food or play
  Came to the mariners' hollo!
 
 
  And I had done a hellish thing,
  And it would work 'em woe:
  For all averred, I had killed the bird
  That made the breeze to blow.
  Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay,
  That made the breeze to blow!
 
 
  Nor, dim nor red, like God's own head,
  The glorious Sun uprist:
  Then all averred, I had killed the bird
  That brought the fog and mist.
  'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay,
  That bring the fog and mist.
 
 
  The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,
  The furrow followed free;
  We were the first that ever burst
  Into that silent sea.
 
 
  Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,
  'Twas sad as sad could be;
  And we did speak only to break
  The silence of the sea!
 
 
  All in a hot and copper sky,
  The bloody Sun, at noon,
  Right up above the mast did stand,
  No bigger than the Moon.
 
 
  Day after day, day after day,
  We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
  As idle as a painted ship
  Upon a painted ocean.
 
 
  Water, water, every where,
  And all the boards did shrink;
  Water, water, every where
  Nor any drop to drink.
 
 
  The very deep did rot: O Christ!
  That ever this should be!
  Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs
  Upon the slimy sea.
 
 
  About, about, in reel and rout
  The death-fires danced at night;
  The water, like a witch's oils,
  Burnt green, and blue and white.
 
 
  And some in dreams assured were ,
  Of the Spirit that plagued us so;
  Nine fathom deep he had followed us
  From the land of mist and snow.
 
 
  And every tongue, through utter drought,
  Was withered at the root;
  We could not speak, no more than if
  We had been choked with soot.
 
 
  Ah! well a-day! what evil looks
  Had I from old and young!
  Instead of the cross, the Albatross
  About my neck was hung.
 

PART III

 
  There passed a weary time. Each throat
  Was parched, and glazed each eye.
  A weary time! a weary time!
  How glazed each weary eye,
  When looking westward, I beheld
  A something in the sky.
 
 
  At first it seemed a little speck,
  And then it seemed a mist;
  It moved and moved, and took at last
  A certain shape, I wist.
 
 
  A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!
  And still it neared and neared:
  As if it dodged a water-sprite,
  It plunged and tacked and veered.
 
 
  With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
  We could nor laugh nor wail;
  Through utter drought all dumb we stood!
  I bit my arm, I sucked the blood,
  And cried, A sail! a sail!
 
 
  With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
  Agape they heard me call:
  Gramercy! they for joy did grin,
  And all at once their breath drew in,
  As they were drinking all.
 
 
  See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more!
  Hither to work us weal;
  Without a breeze, without a tide,
  She steadies with upright keel!
 
 
  The western wave was all a-flame,
  The day was well nigh done!
  Almost upon the western wave
  Rested the broad bright Sun;
  When that strange shape drove suddenly
  Betwixt us and the Sun.
 
 
  And straight the Sun was flecked with bars,
  (Heaven's Mother send us grace!)
  As if through a dungeon-grate he peered
  With broad and burning face.
 
 
  Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)
  How fast she nears and nears!
  Are those her sails that glance in the Sun,
  Like restless gossameres?
 
 
  Are those her ribs through which the Sun
  Did peer, as through a grate?
  And is that Woman all her crew?
  Is that a Death? and are there two?
  Is Death that Woman's mate?
 
 
  Her lips were red, her looks were free,
  Her locks were yellow as gold:
  Her skin was as white as leprosy,
  The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she,
  Who thicks man's blood with cold.
 
 
  The naked hulk alongside came,
  And the twain were casting dice;
  "The game is done! I've won! I've won!"
  Quoth she, and whistles thrice.
 
 
  The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out:
  At one stride comes the dark;
  With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea,
  Off shot the spectre-bark.
 
 
  We listened and looked sideways up!
  Fear at my heart, as at a cup,
  My life-blood seemed to sip!
  The stars were dim, and thick the night,
  The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white;
  From the sails the dew did drip—
  Till clomb above the eastern bar
  The horned Moon, with one bright star
  Within the nether tip.
 
 
  One after one, by the star-dogged Moon,
  Too quick for groan or sigh,
  Each turned his face with a ghastly pang,
  And cursed me with his eye.
 
 
  Four times fifty living men,
  (And I heard nor sigh nor groan)
  With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,
  They dropped down one by one.
 
 
  The souls did from their bodies fly,—
  They fled to bliss or woe!
  And every soul, it passed me by,
  Like the whizz of my cross-bow!
 

PART IV

 
  "I fear thee, ancient Mariner!
  I fear thy skinny hand!
  And thou art long, and lank, and brown,
  As is the ribbed sea-sand.¹
 
 
  I fear thee and thy glittering eye,
  And thy skinny hand, so brown."—
  Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest!
  This body dropt not down.
 
 
  Alone, alone, all, all alone,
  Alone on a wide wide sea!
  And never a saint took pity on
  My soul in agony.
 
 
  The many men, so beautiful!
  And they all dead did lie:
  And a thousand thousand slimy things
  Lived on; and so did I.
 
 
  I looked upon the rotting sea,
  And drew my eyes away;
  I looked upon the rotting deck,
  And there the dead men lay.
 
 
  I looked to heaven, and tried to pray;
  But or ever a prayer had gusht,
  A wicked whisper came, and made
  My heart as dry as dust.
 
 
  I closed my lids, and kept them close,
  And the balls like pulses beat;
  For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky,
  Lay like a load on my weary eye,
  And the dead were at my feet.
 
 
  The cold sweat melted from their limbs,
  Nor rot nor reek did they:
  The look with which they looked on me
  Had never passed away.
 
 
  An orphan's curse would drag to hell
  A spirit from on high;
  But oh! more horrible than that
  Is a curse in a dead man's eye!
  Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse,
  And yet I could not die.
 
 
  The moving Moon went up the sky,
  And no where did abide:
  Softly she was going up,
  And a star or two beside—
 
 
  Her beams bemocked the sultry main,
  Like April hoar-frost spread;
  But where the ship's huge shadow lay,
  The charmed water burnt alway
  A still and awful red.
 
 
  Beyond the shadow of the ship,
  I watched the water-snakes:
  They moved in tracks of shining white,
  And when they reared, the elfish light
  Fell off in hoary flakes.
 
 
  Within the shadow of the ship
  I watched their rich attire:
  Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,
  They coiled and swam; and every track
  Was a flash of golden fire.
 
 
  O happy living things! no tongue
  Their beauty might declare:
  A spring of love gushed from my heart,
  And I blessed them unaware:
  Sure my kind saint took pity on me,
  And I blessed them unaware.
 
 
  The selfsame moment I could pray;
  And from my neck so free
  The Albatross fell off, and sank
  Like lead into the sea.
 

PART V

 
  Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing,
  Beloved from pole to pole!
  To Mary Queen the praise be given!
  She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven,
  That slid into my soul.
 
 
  The silly buckets on the deck,
  That had so long remained,
  I dreamt that they were filled with dew;
  And when I awoke, it rained.
 
 
  My lips were wet, my throat was cold,
  My garments all were dank;
  Sure I had drunken in my dreams,
  And still my body drank.
 
 
  I moved, and could not feel my limbs:
  I was so light—almost
  I thought that I had died in sleep;
  And was a blessed ghost.
 
 
  And soon I heard a roaring wind:
  It did not come anear;
  But with its sound it shook the sails,
  That were so thin and sere.
 
 
  The upper air burst into life!
  And a hundred fire-flags sheen,
  To and fro they were hurried about!
  And to and fro, and in and out,
  The wan stars danced between.
 
 
  And the coming wind did roar more loud,
  And the sails did sigh like sedge;
  And the rain poured down from one black cloud;
  The Moon was at its edge.
 
 
  The thick black cloud was cleft, and still
  The Moon was at its side:
  Like waters shot from some high crag,
  The lightning fell with never a jag,
  A river steep and wide.
 
 
  The loud wind never reached the ship,
  Yet now the ship moved on!
  Beneath the lightning and the Moon
  The dead men gave a groan.
 
 
  They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose,
  Nor spake, nor moved their eyes;
  It had been strange, even in a dream,!
  To have seen those dead men rise.
 
 
  The helmsman steered, the ship moved on;
  Yet never a breeze up blew;
  The mariners all 'gan work the ropes,
  Where they were wont to do;
  They raised their limbs like lifeless tools—
  We were a ghastly crew.
 
 
  The body of my brother's son
  Stood by me, knee to knee:
  The body and I pulled at one rope
  But he said nought to me.
 
 
  "I fear thee, ancient Mariner!"
  Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest!
  'Twas not those souls that fled in pain,
  Which to their corses came again,
  But a troop of spirits blest:
 
 
  For when it dawned—they dropped their arms,
  And clustered round the mast;
  Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths,
  And from their bodies passed.
 
 
  Around, around, flew each sweet sound,
  Then darted to the Sun;
  Slowly the sounds came back again,
  Now mixed, now one by one.
 
 
  Sometimes a-dropping from the sky
  I heard the sky-lark sing;
  Sometimes all little birds that are,
  How they seemed to fill the sea and air
  With their sweet jargoning!
 
 
  And now 'twas like all instruments,
  Now like a lonely flute;
  And now it is an angel's song,
  That makes the heavens be mute.
 
 
  It ceased; yet still the sails made on
  A pleasant noise till noon,
  A noise like of a hidden brook
  In the leafy month of June,
  That to the sleeping woods all night
  Singeth a quiet tune.
 
 
  Till noon we quietly sailed on,
  Yet never a breeze did breathe:
  Slowly and smoothly went the ship,
  Moved onward from beneath.
 
 
  Under the keel nine fathom deep,
  From the land of mist and snow,
  The spirit slid: and it was he
  That made the ship to go.
  The sails at noon left off their tune,
  And the ship stood still also.
 
 
  The Sun, right up above the mast,
  Had fixed her to the ocean:
  But in a minute she 'gan stir,
  With a short uneasy motion—
  Backwards and forwards half her length
  With a short uneasy motion.
 
 
  Then like a pawing horse let go,
  She made a sudden bound:
  It flung the blood into my head,
  And I fell down in a swound.
 
 
  How long in that same fit I lay,
  I have not to declare;
  But ere my living life returned,
  I heard and in my soul discerned
  Two voices in the air.
 
 
  "Is it he?" quoth one, "Is this the man?
  By him who died on cross,
  With his cruel bow he laid full low
  The harmless Albatross.
 
 
  The spirit who bideth by himself
  In the land of mist and snow,
  He loved the bird that loved the man
  Who shot him with his bow."
 
 
  The other was a softer voice,
  As soft as honey-dew:
  Quoth he, "The man hath penance done,
  And penance more will do."
 

PART VI

FIRST VOICE

 
  "But tell me, tell me! speak again,
  Thy soft response renewing—
  What makes that ship drive on so fast?
  What is the ocean doing?"
 

SECOND VOICE

 
  "Still as a slave before his lord,
  The ocean hath no blast;
  His great bright eye most silently
  Up to the Moon is cast—
 
 
  If he may know which way to go;
  For she guides him smooth or grim.
  See, brother, see! how graciously
  She looketh down on him."
 

FIRST VOICE

 
  "But why drives on that ship so fast,
  Without or wave or wind?"
 

SECOND VOICE

 
  "The air is cut away before,
  And closes from behind.
 
 
  Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high!
  Or we shall be belated:
  For slow and slow that ship will go,
  When the Mariner's trance is abated."
 
 
  I woke, and we were sailing on
  As in a gentle weather:
  'Twas night, calm night, the moon was high,
  The dead men stood together.
 
 
  All stood together on the deck,
  For a charnel-dungeon fitter:
  All fixed on me their stony eyes,
  That in the Moon did glitter.
 
 
  The pang, the curse, with which they died,
  Had never passed away:
  I could not draw my eyes from theirs,
  Nor turn them up to pray.
 
 
  And now this spell was snapt: once more
  I viewed the ocean green,
  And looked far forth, yet little saw
  Of what had else been seen—
 
 
  Like one, that on a lonesome road
  Doth walk in fear and dread,
  And having once turned round walks on,
  And turns no more his head;
  Because he knows, a frightful fiend
  Doth close behind him tread.
 
 
  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 fanned 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 sailed softly too:
  Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze—
  On me alone it blew.
 
 
  Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed
  The light-house top I see?
  Is this the hill? is this the kirk?
  Is this mine own countree?
 
 
  We drifted o'er the harbour-bar,
  And I with sobs did pray—
  O let me be awake, my God!
  Or let me sleep alway.
 
 
  The harbour-bay was clear as glass,
  So smoothly it was strewn!
  And on the bay the moonlight lay,
  And the shadow of the Moon.
 
 
  The rock shone bright, the kirk no less,
  That stands above the rock:
  The moonlight steeped in silentness
  The steady weathercock.
 
 
  And the bay was white with silent light
  Till rising from the same,
  Full many shapes, that shadows were,
  In crimson colours came.
 
 
  A little distance from the prow
  Those crimson shadows were:
  I turned my eyes upon the deck—
  Oh, Christ! what saw I there!
 
 
  Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat,
  And, by the holy rood!
  A man all light, a seraph-man,
  On every corse there stood.
 
 
  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 oh! 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 turned 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 shrieve my soul, he'll wash away
  The Albatross's blood.
 

PART VII

 
  This Hermit good lives in that wood
  Which slopes down to the sea.
  How loudly his sweet voice he rears!
  He loves to talk with marineres
  That come from a far countree.
 
 
  He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve—
  He hath a cushion plump:
  It is the moss that wholly hides
  The rotted old oak-stump.
 
 
  The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk,'
  "Why, this is strange, I trow!
  Where are those lights so many and fair,
  That signal made but now?"
 
 
  "Strange, by my faith!" the Hermit said—
  "And they answered not our cheer!
  The planks looked warped! and see those sails,
  How thin they are and sere!
  I never saw aught like to them,
  Unless perchance it were
 
 
  Brown skeletons of leaves that lag
  My forest-brook along;
  When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow,
  And the owlet whoops to the wolf below,
  That eats the she-wolf's young."
 
 
  "Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look-
  (The Pilot made reply)
  I am a-feared"—"Push on, push on!"
  Said the Hermit cheerily.
 
 
  The boat came closer to the ship,
  But I nor spake nor stirred;
  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 reached the ship, it split the bay;
  The ship went down like lead.
 
 
  Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound,
  Which sky and ocean smote,
  Like one that hath been seven days drowned
  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 shrieked
  And fell down in a fit;
  The holy Hermit raised his eyes,
  And prayed where he did sit.
 
 
  I took the oars: the Pilot's boy,
  Who now doth crazy go,
  Laughed loud and long, and all the while
  His eyes went to and fro.
  "Ha! ha!" quoth he, "full plain I see,
  The Devil knows how to row."
 
 
  And now, all in my own countree,
  I stood on the firm land!
  The Hermit stepped forth from the boat,
  And scarcely he could stand.
 
 
  "O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!"
  The Hermit crossed his brow.
  "Say quick," quoth he, "I bid thee say
  What manner of man art thou?"
 
 
  Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched
  With a woful agony,
  Which forced me to begin my tale;
  And then it left me free.
 
 
  Since then, at an uncertain hour,
  That agony returns:
  And till my ghastly tale is told,
  This heart within me burns.
 
 
  I pass, like night, 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.
 
 
  What loud uproar bursts from that door!
  The wedding-guests are there:
  But in the garden-bower the bride
  And bride-maids 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,
  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,
  Whose beard with age is hoar,
  Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest
  Turned from the bridegroom's door.
 
 
  He went like one that hath been stunned,
  And is of sense forlorn:
  A sadder and a wiser man,
  He rose the morrow morn.
 

1797-1798.

CHRISTABEL

PART THE FIRST

 
  'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,
  And the owls have awakened 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 moaned as near, as near can 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-veined feet unsandal'd were,
  And wildly glittered here and there
  The gems entangled in her hair.
  I guess, 'twas frightful there to see
  A lady so richly clad as 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 spurred amain, their steeds were white:
  And once we crossed 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 muttered 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 stretched 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 passed
  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;
  Sir Leoline is weak in health,
  And may not well awakened be,
  But we will move as if in stealth,
  And I beseech your courtesy,
  This night, to share your couch with me.
 
 
  They crossed the moat, and Christabel
  Took the key that fitted well;
  A little door she opened straight,
  All in the middle of the gate;
  The gate that was ironed within and without
  Where an army in battle array had marched out.
  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 crossed 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 crossed 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 uttered yell
  Beneath the eye of Christabel.
  Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch:
  For what can ail the mastiff bitch?
 
 
  They passed 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 passed, 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 reached 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 fastened to an angel's feet.
 
 
  The silver lamp burns dead and dim;
  But Christabel the lamp will trim.
  She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright,
  And left it swinging to and fro,
  While Geraldine, in wretched plight,
  Sank down upon the floor below.
 
 
  O weary lady, Geraldine,
  I pray you, drink this cordial wine!
  It is a wine of virtuous powers;
  My mother made it of wild flowers.
  And will your mother pity me,
  Who am a maiden most forlorn?
  Christabel answered—Woe is me!
  She died the hour that I was born.
  I have heard the grey-haired friar tell
  How on her death-bed she did say,
  That she should hear the castle-bell
  Strike twelve upon my wedding-day.
  O mother dear! that thou wert here!
  I would, said Geraldine, she were!
 
 
  But soon with altered voice, said she—
  "Off, wandering mother! Peak and pine!
  I have power to bid thee flee."
  Alas! what ails poor Geraldine?
  Why stares she with unsettled eye?
  Can she the bodiless dead espy?
  And why with hollow voice cries she,
  "Off, woman, off! this hour is mine—
  Though thou her guardian spirit be,
  Off, woman, off! 'tis given to me."
 
 
  Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side,
  And raised to heaven her eyes so blue—,
  Alas! said she, this ghastly ride—
  Dear lady! it hath wildered you!
  The lady wiped her moist cold brow,
  And faintly said, "'tis over now!"
  Again the wild-flower wine she drank:
  Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright,
  And from the floor whereon she sank,
  The lofty lady stood upright:
  She was most beautiful to see,
  Like a lady of a far countrée.
  And thus the lofty lady spake—
  "All they who live in the upper sky,
  Do love you, holy Christabel!
  And you love them, and for their sake
  And for the good which me befel,
  Even I in my degree will try,
  Fair maiden, to requite you well.
  But now unrobe yourself; for I
  Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie."
 
 
  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.
 
 
  But through her brain of weal and woe
  So many thoughts moved to and fro,
  That vain it were her lids to close;
  So half-way from the bed she rose,
  And on her elbow did recline
  To look at the lady Geraldine.
 
 
  Beneath the lamp the lady bowed,
  And slowly rolled her eyes around
  Then drawing in her breath aloud,
  Like one that shuddered, she unbound
  The cincture from beneath her breast:
  Her silken robe, and inner vest,
  Dropt to her feet, and full in view,
  Behold! her bosom and half her side–
  A sight to dream of, not to tell!
  O shield her! shield sweet Christabel!
 
 
  Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs;
  Ah! what a stricken look was hers!
  Deep from within she seems half-way
  To lift some weight with sick assay,
  And eyes the maid and seeks delay;
  Then suddenly, as one defied,
  Collects herself in scorn and pride,
  And lay down by the Maiden's side!—
  And in her arms the maid she took,
          Ah wel-a-day!
  And with low voice and doleful look
  These words did say:
    In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell,
  Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel!
  Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow,
  This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow;
        But vainly thou warrest,
          For his is alone in
        Thy power to declare,
          That in the dim forest
        Thou heard'st a low moaning,
  And found'st 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."