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 well-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 this 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.

The Conclusion to Part I

With open eyes (ah woe is me !) Asleep, and dreaming fearfully, Fearfully dreaming, yet I wis, Dreaming that alone, which is

O sorrow and shame! Can this be she,

The lady, who knelt at the old oak tree?
And lo! the worker of these harms,
That holds the maiden in her arms,
Seems to slumber still and mild,
As a mother with her child.

A star hath set, a star hath risen,
O Geraldine! since arms of thine
Have been the lovely lady's prison.
O Geraldine! one hour was thine-
Thou'st had thy will!

:0:

S. T. COLEridge.

Dr. Maginn's Introduction to Part III.

LISTEN! ye know that I am mad,

And ye will listen !-wizard dreams Were with me !-all is true that seems !From dreams alone can truth be had-

In dreams divinest lore is taught,

For the eye, no more distraught,
Rests most calmly, and the ear,

Of sound unconscious, may apply

Its attributes unknown, to hear

The music of philosophy!

Thus am I wisest in my sleep,

For thoughts and things, which day-light brings,
Come to the spirit sad and single,
But verse and prose, and, joys and woes
Inextricably mingle,

When the hushed frame is silent in repose !
Twilight and moonlight, mist and storm,
Black night, and fire-eyed hurricane,
And crested lightning, and the snows
That mock the sunbeams, and the rain

Which bounds on earth with big drops warm,
All are round me while I spell
The legend of sweet Christabel !

Christabel. Part III.

NINE moons have waxed, and the tenth, in its wane,

Sees Christabel struggle in unknown pain!

-For many moons was her eye less bright,

For many moons was her vest more tight,

And her cheek was pale, save when, with a start,

The life blood came from the panting heart,

And fluttering, o'er that thin fair face

Past with a rapid nameless pace,

And at moments a big tear filled the eye,
And at moments a short and smothered sigh
Swelled her breast with sudden strain,
Breathed half in grief, and half in pain,
For her's are pangs, on the rack that wind
The outward frame and the inward mind.
-And when at night she did visit the oak,
She wore the Baron's scarlet cloak,
(That cloak which happy to hear and to tell
Was lined with the fur of the leopard well,)
And as she wandered down the dell
None said 'twas the Lady Christabel.-—
Some thought 'twas a weird and ugsome elf,
Some deemed 'twas the old sick Baron himself,
Who wandered beneath the snowy lift
To count his beads in solemn shrift-
(For his shape below was wide to see
All bloated with the hydropsie.)

Oh! had her old father the secret known,
He had stood as stark as the statue of stone
That stands so silent, and white, and tall,
At the upper end of his banquet hall !

Am I asleep or am I awake?

In very truth I oft mistake,

As the stories of old come over my brain,
And I build in spirit the mystic strain ;—
Ah! would to the virgin that I were asleep!
But I must wake, and I must weep!

Sweet Christabel, it is not well

That a lady, pure as the sunless snow
That lies so soft on the mountain's brow,

That a maiden of sinless chastity

In childbirth pangs should be doomed to die,

Or live with a name of sorrow and shame,
And hear the words of blemish and blame!
-For the world that smiles at the guilt of man,
Places woman beneath its ban;
Alas, that scandal thus should wreak
Its vengeance on the warm and weak,
That the arrows of the cold and dull
Should wound the breast of the beautiful!

Of the things that be did we know but half,
Many, and many would weep, who laugh!
Tears would darken many an eye,

Or that deeper grief, (when its orb is dry,
When it cannot dare the eye of day),
O'er the clouded heart would sway,
'Till it crumbled like desert dust away!
But here we meet with grief and grudge,
And they who cannot know us, judge!
Thus, souls on whom good angels smile,
Are scoffed at in our world of guile-
Let this, Ladiè, thy comfort be;
Man knows not us, good angels know
The things that pass in the world below;
And scarce, methinks, it seems unjust,
That the world should view thee with mistrust,
For who that saw that child of thine

Pale Christabel, who could divine That its sire was the Ladie Geraldine.

But in I rush, with too swift a gale,

Into the ocean of my tale!

Not yet young Christabel, 1 ween,

Of her babe hath lighter been.

'Tis the month of the snow and the blast,

And the days of Christmas mirth are past,

When the oak-roots heaped on the hearth blazed bright,
Casting a broad and dusky light

On the shadowy forms of the warriors old,
Who stared from the wall, most grim to behold-
On shields where the spider his tapestry weaves,

On the holly boughs and the ivy leaves,
The few green glories that still remain
To mock the storm and welcome the rain,
Brighter and livelier mid tempest and shower,
Like a hero in the battle hour!-
Brave emblems o'er the winter hearth,

They cheered our fathers' hours of mirth !

Twelve solar months complete and clear.
The magic circle of the year!
Each (the ancient riddle saith)
Children, two times thirty, hath!
Three times ten are fair and white,
Three times ten are black as night,
Three times ten hath Hecatè,
Three times ten the God of day;
Thus spoke the old hierophant

(I saw her big breast swelling pant)

What time, I dreamed, in ghostly wise

Of Eleusinian mysteries,

For I am the hierarch

Of the mystical and dark

And now, if rightly I do spell

Of the Lady Christabel,

She hates the three times ten so white,
And sickens in their searching light,

And woe is hers-alas! alack!

She hates the three times ten so black-
As a mastiff bitch doth bark,

I hear her moaning in the dark !—

'Tis the month of January.
Why lovely maiden, light and airy,
While the moon can scarcely glow,
Thro the plumes of falling snow,
While the moss upon the bark

Is withered all, and damp, and dark,

While cold above the stars in doubt

Look dull, and scarcely will stay out,
While the snow is heavy on beechen bower

And hides its name-sake, the snow-drop flower,
Why walk forth thus mysteriously!

Dear girl, I ask thee seriously.

Thy cheek is pale, thy locks are wild-
Ah, think, how big thou art with child!-

Tho' the baron's red cloak thro' the land hath no fellow,
Thou should'st not thus venture without an umbrella!

Dost thou wander to the field of graves
Where the elder its spectral branches waves ?
And will thy hurried footsteps halt
Where thy mother sleeps in the silent vault?
Where the stranger pauses long to explore
The emblems quaint of heraldic lore,
Where tho' the lines are tarnished and dim,
Thy mother's features stare gaunt and grim,

And grinning skull, and transverse bone, And the names of warriors dead and gone Mark Sir Leoline's burial stone;

Thither go not, or I deem almost

That thou wilt frighten thy mother's ghost!
Or wilt thou wend to the huge oak-tree,
And, kneeling down upon thy knee,
Number the beads of thy rosary?
Nine beads of gold and a tenth of pearl,
And a prayer with each, my lovely girl,
Nine and one, shalt thou record,
Nine to the virgin and one to the Lord!
The pearls are ten times one to behold,
And ten times nine are the beads of gold,
Methinks 'tis hard of the friar to ask
On a night like this so weary a task!

'Tis pleasant-'tis pleasant, in summer time,
In the green wood to spell the storied rhyme,
When the light winds above 'mong the light leaves are
singing,

And the song of the birds thro' your heart is ringing,
'Tis pleasant--'tis pleasant, when happily humming
To the flowers below the blythe bee is coming!-
When the rivulet coy, and ashamed to be seen,
Is heard where it hides 'mong the grass-blades green,
When the light of the moon and each sweet starry islet
Gives a charm more divine to the long summer twilight,
When the breeze o'er the blossomy hawthorn comes cheerful,
'Tis pleasant with heart-ah, how happy !-tho' fearful,
With heaven-beaming eyes, where tears come, while smiles

glisten

'Tis a thing of wonder, and fright, and fear,
The mastiff-bitch's moans to hear-
And the aged cow in her stall that stands
And is milked each morning by female hands
(That the baron's breakfast of milk and bread
May be brought betimes to the old man's bed
Who often gives, while he is dressing,
His Christabel a father's blessing)

That aged cow, as each stroke sounds slow,
Answers it with a plaintive low!
And the baron old, who is ill at rest,
Curses the favourite cat for a pest-
For let him pray, or let him weep,

She mews thro' all the hours of sleep

Till morning comes with its pleasant beams, And the cat is at rest, and the baron dreams!

Let it rain, however fast,

Rest from rain will come at last,
And the blaze that strongest flashes
Sinks at last, and ends in ashes!
But sorrow from the human heart
And mists of care will they depart?
I know not, and cannot tell,
Saith the Lady Christabel-
But I feel my bosom swell

In my spirit I behold

A lady-call her firm, not bold-
Standing lonely by the burn

-Strange feelings thro' her breast and brain
Shoot with a sense of madness and pain.
Ah, Christabel return, return,

Let me not call on thee in vain!
Think, lady dear, if thou art drowned

That thy body will be found,

What anguish will thy spirit feel,

When it must to all reveal

What the spell binds thee to conceal !

How the baron's heart will knock 'gainst his chest When the stake is driven into thy breast,

When thy body to dust shall be carelessly flung, And over the dead no dirge be sung,

No friend in mourning vesture dight,

No lykewake sad-no tapered rite !—

THE DREAM,

A Psychological Curiosity.

BY S. T. C.

ADVERTISEMENT TO THE READER.

THE following "wild and singularly original and beautiful poem " was written at the instigation of Mr. Robert Warren, who was desirous of enrolling me among the number of his panegyrists. The circumstances that lead to its original composition are as follows: I had been considering in what way I might best introduce the subject, when suddenly falling asleep over a provincial newspaper which detailed the battle between Cribb and Molineux, the thoughts of my waking hours assumed the aspect of the present poetical reverie. This to an unidead "reading public" may appear incredible, but minds of imaginative temperament are ever most active during the intervals of repose, as my late poem, entitled "The Pains of Sleep," will sufficiently attest.

Dreams in fact are to be estimated solely in proportion to their wildness; and hence a friend of mine, who is a most magnificent dreamer, imagined but the other night that he invited a flock of sheep to a musical party. Such a flocci, nauci, nihili absurdity will, I am afraid, puzzle even our transcendental philosophers to explain, although Kant, in his treatise on the Phænomena of Dreams, is of opinion that the lens or focus of intestinal light ascending the esophagus at right angles, a juxtaposition of properties takes place, so that the nucleus of the diaphragm reflecting on the cerebellum the prismatic visions of the pilorus, is made to produce that marvellous operation of mind upon matter better known by the name of dreaming.-To such simple and satisfactory reasoning what answer can be made?

TEN minutes to ten by Saint Dunstan's clock,
And the owl has awakened the crowing cock:
Cock-a-doodle-doo,

Cock-a-doodle-doo.

If he crows at this rate in so thrilling a note, Jesu Maria! he'll catch a sore throat.

Warren the manufacturer rich
Hath a spectral mastiff bitch;

To Saint Dunstan's clock, tho' silent enow,
She barketh her chorus of bow wow, wow:
Bow for the quarters, and wow for the hour;
Nought cares she for the sun or the shower;
But when, like a ghost all-arrayed in its shroud,
The wheels of the thunder are muffled in cloud,
When the moon, sole chandelier of night,
Bathes the blessed earth in light,

As wizard to wizard, or witch to witch,
Howleth to heaven this mastiff bitch.

Buried in thought O'Warren lay, Like a village queen on the birth of May; He listed the tones of Saint Dunstan's clock, Of the mastiff bitch and the crowing cock; But louder, far louder, he listed a roar, Loud as the billow that booms on the shore; Bang, bang, with a pause between, Rung the weird sound at his door, I ween. Up from his couch he leaped in affright, Oped his grey lattice and looked on the night, Then put on his coat, and with harlequin hop Stood like a phantom in midst of the shop; In midst of his shop he stood like a sprite, Till peering to left and peering to right, Beside his counter, with tail in hand, He saw a spirit of darkness stand;

Oh! read thee not, read thee not, lord of the Strand,
The spell that subjects thee to elfin command;

Vain hope! the bogle hath marked her hour,
And Warren hath read the words of power;
Letter by letter he traced the spell,

Till the sullen toll of Saint Dunstan's bell,
And the midnight howl of the mastiff bitch,
Announced his doom to the Hallowmass witch.
Still in her grandeur she stood by,

Like an oak that uplooketh to sun and sky;
Then shouted to Warren with fitful breath;
"I'm old mother Nightmare-life-in-death ;
Halloo halloo! we may not stay,

Satan is waiting; away, away;
Halloo halloo ! we've far to go,
Then hey for the devil; jee-up! jee-hoe-
O'Warren requested a little delay,

But the evil one muttered "too late, by my fay;
So he put on his breeches and scampered away.

And here mote I tell how they rode on the wind, The witch before and the Warren behind; How they passed in a twinkling the haunts of man, And the proud pagodas of Kubla Khan ; How they peeped at the planets like Allan-a-roon, And supped on green cheese with the man in the moon ; Or listed the dulcimer's tremulous notes,

Or the voice of the wind through the azure that floats, Till pillar and palace and arching sky

Rung to the mingled melody.

Away, away, through the thunder-cloud,
Where tempest and ruin sit laughing aloud;
Away, away, through the fields of air,

Where the night-wind howls to the falling star ;
This amiable couple have past, and now

They gain the swart regions of darkness and woe.
O'Warren beheld them, and shrunk with awe,
Like a client held fast in the grasp of law,

Then hymned to the Virgin for aid and for pity,
A highly correct and devotional ditty:

"Miserere Maria," he cried in despair,

While the bullet-nosed bogle drew back at the prayer,
For Mary, sweet Mary, hath power to fright,
And palsy the souls of the dæmons of night;
"Miserere Maria," he bellowed again,

And the worricow dropt her eye-tooth at the strain,

But spite of her teeth, she eschewed complaint,
Till troubled in spirit, and cowed and faint,
She collared the tradesman with horrible yell,
Then plunged with him head over heels into hell.
Oh, how its wild waves bellowed and boomed !!
Oh, how its vapors the air perfumed ! !
As Warren with timid and stifled breath,
And followed by old Mrs. Life-in-death,
Moved to where Satan reclined alone,

In the silence of thought on his ebon throne.

Proudly he strode to his palace gate,

Which the witch and the Warren approached in state, But paused at the threshold as onward they came, And thus, with words of fever and flame,

The tradesman addressed, "Your name, Sir, is known
As a vendor of sables wide over the town;

But in hell with proviso this praise we must mix,
For though brilliant your blacking, the water of Styx
Is blacker by far, and can throw, as it suits,

A handsomer gloss o'er our shoes and our boots.".

Answered the Warren, with choleric eye,
"Oh, king of the cock-tailed incubi !
The sneer of a fiend to your puffs you may fix,
But if, what is worse, you assert that your Styx
Surpasses my blacking, ('twas clear he was vexed),
By Jove! you will ne'er stick at any thing next.

I have dandies who laud me at Paine's and Almack's,
Despite Day and Martin, those emulous quacks,
And they all in one spirit of concord agree,
That my blacking is better than any black sea
Which flows thro' your paltry Avernus, I wis, "—
"Pshaw," Satan replied, "I'll be damned if it is."

The tradesman he laughed at this pitiful sneer, And drew from his pocket, unmoved by the jeer Of the gathering dæmons, blue, yellow, and pink, A bottle of blacking more sable than ink ;With the waves of the Styx in a jiffey they tried it, But the waves of the Styz looked foolish beside it; "You mote as well liken the summer sky," Quoth Warren the bold, "with an Irish stye; The nightingale's note with the cockatoo's whine, As your lily-white river with me or mine."

Round the brow of Abaddon fierce anger played At the Strand manufacturer's gasconade; And lifting a fist that mote slaughter an ox, He wrathfully challenged his foeman to box; Then summoned each dæmon to form a ring, And witness his truculent triumphing.The ring was formed and the twain set to, Like little Puss with Belasco the Jew.

Satan was seconded in a crack,

By Molineux, the American black,
(Who sported an oath as a civil Salam).

While Warren was backed by the ghost of Dutch Sam.-

Gentles, who fondly peruse these lays,

Wild as a colt o'er the moorland that strays,

Who thrill at each wondrous rede I tell,

As fancy roams o'er the floor of hell,

Now list ye with kindness, the whiles I rehearse

In shapely pugilistic verse,

(Albeit my fancy preferreth still

The quiet of nature,) this desperate Mill.

Then trumpet, and timbrel, and deafening shout,
Like wind through a ruin rang lustily out,
High o'er the rocks that jut over the deep,
Where the souls of the damned to eternity weep;
Echo threw forward her answer of fear,
Dull as the dust that clanks over a bier,

Or death-watch that beats in a sick man's ear.

From the gulph where they howl to the lead colored night,

The shadowless spectres leaped up with delight,
And "Buy Warren's Blacking" they shouted aloud,
As the night-wind sighs through a coffinless shroud.
The evil one frowned while they bellowed amain,
But "Buy Warren's Blacking" he chorussed again ;
For tho' worsted in fight, yet, by order of fate,
The vanquished must temper the pulse of his hate,
And yield to the victor (his will's despite)
Unbridled sway o'er the fiends of night.
'Tis done, and sore with his recent thwacking,
Abaddon hath purchased O'Warren's Blacking;
Fate stood by while the bargain was made,
Signed a receipt when the money was paid,
Then summoned her sprites, an exemplary band,
To kneel in respect to the Lord of the Strand.

But hark, 'tis the voice of the crowing cock!

It is currently reported that Robert Warren, Esq., is a native of Birmingham.

And hark, 'tis the toll of Saint Dunstan's clock!
The morn rides high in the Eastern sky,
And the little birds carol it merrily:
Already have waned at the gladsome sight,
Each scene of darkness, each goblin sprite;
Abaddon to whit, and the whole of his crew,
Pink, yellow, or rosy, green, purple, or blue,
For cheered by the rays thro' his lattice that peep,
The bard hath awoke from the "Pains of Sleep.'

This is probably the most amusing parody of Christabel that has ever been written. It appeared originally in "Warreniana," a small anonymous volume of imitations published by Longmans & Co., in 1824. It is now known that the author was Mr. W. F. Deacon, who died about 1845.

Between 60 and 70 years ago Robert Warren's Blacking was the best advertised article of the day, and even Lord Byron was accused of writing puffs for it. Hence this collection of squibs, in which all the leading poets of the day were represented as singing its praises.

Some few redundant passages have been cut out, but nothing which is necessary to the plot of the poem has been omitted. Warreniana may still be met with occasionally as a second-hand book, and is well worth the few shillings it will cost.

A PARODY OF CHRISTAbelle.
The Baron Rich.

'Tis a quarter to ten by the castle clock,

And the mastiff bitch' has awakened the cock,
And the cock has awakened the 'Baron Rich,'
And he in return will thump the bitch;

Say what can ail her, in her sleep,
That thus she begins to moan and leap,'
I know not, I know not the reason I swear,
And e'en if I did, I'll be hang'd if I care.

#

The Baron awoke at the usual hour,

And the bell toll'd loud in his moss-covered tow'r,
Slowly it swung to the gales of the west,

Like a voice from the dead when the winds are at rest,
And a grinning nightmare withheld his rest,
And sat like a pound of cheese on his breast,
And devils and imps danced over his head,
And Satan grinn'd at the foot of his bed;

And the crowing cock his shrill clarion blew,
To whit! to whoo!

And hark again the crowing cock,
How drowsily it crew;

As if it was loth from its pillow to creep,

But determined at least to snore in its sleep.

Again the cock crew, while the glance of his eye,

Frightened the clouds as they sail'd thro' the sky,

And the consequence was, that they shook with wonder,
And jostling each other created the thunder;
The Baron awoke, and he holloed aloud,
As one who had seen 'my ladie's shroud':
"Bard Bracey, Bard Bracey,
Come here, or I'll lace ye,

And tell me directly, or deeply you'll rue,
The cause of this terrible hulloboloo!"
The bard came forth in his night-cap he,
And he was as skinny as bard mote be,
And his locks hung down o'er his shoulders flat,
As my grandmother says like the tail of a rat ;