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.
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:
550 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,
560 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 570 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,
Since then, at an uncertain hour,
Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,
Hath a toothless mastiff, which
From her kennel beneath the rock
Maketh answer to the clock,
There she sees a damsel bright, Drest in a silken robe of white, That shadowy in the moonlight shone; The neck that made the white robe wan,
Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour; | Her stately neck, and arms were bare;
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 woods 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 mistletoe:
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.- One 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
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?
11 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?
20 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:
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.
So free from danger, free from fear,
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.
They crossed the court: right glad they were. And will your mother pity me,
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 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,
Thresholds were often blessed to keep out evil spirits. The malign character of the supernatural Geraldine is clearly hinted at here and in the lines that follow.
Who am a maiden most forlorn? Christabel answered-Woe is me! She died the hour that I was born. I have heard the gray-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!
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 countree.
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,
And with low voice and doleful look These words did say:
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! By tairn and rill, The night-birds all that hour were still, But now they are jubilant anew, From cliff and tower, tu-whoo! tu-whoo! Tu-whoo! tu-whoo! from wood and fell!
And see! the lady Christabel
Gathers herself from out her trance; Her limbs relax, her countenance Grows sad and soft; Close o'er her eyes!
the smooth thin lids and tears she sheds-
Large tears that leave the lashes bright! And oft the while she seems to smile As infants at a sudden light!
Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep, Like a youthful hermitess,
Beauteous in a wilderness,
Who, praying always, prays in sleep. And, if she move unquietly, Perchance, 'tis but the blood so free Comes back and tingles in her feet. No doubt, she hath a vision sweet. What if her guardian spirit 'twere, What if she knew her mother near? But this she knows, in joys and woes, That saints will aid if men will call: For the blue sky bends over all!
Ye Clouds! that far above me float and pause, Whose pathless march no mortal may control! Ye Ocean Waves! that, whereso 'er ye roll, Yield homage only to eternal laws!
Ye Woods! that listen to the night-bird's
Midway the smooth and perilous slope re- A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's clined,
Save when your own imperious branches swing- ing,
Have made a solemn music of the wind! Where, like a man beloved of God, Through glooms, which never woodman trod, 10
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
Ye storms, that round the dawning east as
The Sun2 was rising, though ye hid his light!' And when to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled,
dissonance ceased, and all seemed calm and bright;
When France her front deep-scarred and
Concealed with clustering wreaths of glory; When, insupportably advancing,
Her arm made mockery of the warrior's
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, lore
"I said, "shall Wisdom teach her
When France in wrath her giant-limbs up- In the low huts of them that toil and groan;
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