This poem is supposed to have been written in 1813, when on a visit to some friends at Bexhill, Sussex.
return
Footnote 25:
Reminiscences of a Literary Life
, Vol. i. p. 253.
return to footnote mark
Footnote 26:
If "indisposition were generally preying upon him," as at this time was indeed the fact, could this occasional failure in the delivery of a lecture (though naturally very disappointing to his audience,) be fairly attributed to indolence?
return
Footnote 27:
About this time, when party spirit was running high, Coleridge was known to be the author of the following Jeu d'Esprit,
"Dregs half way up and froth half way down, form Whitbread's Entire."
return
Footnote 28:
It was Mr. Rae who took it for his benefit, some time after Mr. Coleridge's residence at Highgate.
return
Footnote 29:
"My heart, orsome partabout it, seems breaking, as if a weight were suspended from it that stretches it, such is thebodily feeling, as far as I can express it by words."
Letter addressed to Mr. Morgan.
return
Contents
I now approach one of the most eventful epochs in the
Life
of Coleridge, and, I may well add, of my own.
In
the year 1816, the following letter was addressed to me by a physician
1
:
Hatton Garden, 9th April, 1816.Dear Sir, A very learned, but in one respect an unfortunate gentleman, has applied to me on a singular occasion. He has for several years been in the habit of taking large quantities of opium. For some time past, he has been in vain endeavouring to break himself off it. It is apprehended his friends are not firm enough, from a dread, lest he should suffer by suddenly leaving it off, though he is conscious of the contrary; and has proposed to me to submit himself to any regimen, however severe. With this view, he wishes to fix himself in the house of some medical gentleman, who will have courage to refuse him any laudanum, and under whose assistance, should he be the worse for it, he may be relieved. As he is desirous of retirement, and a garden, I could think of no one so readily as yourself. Be so good as to inform me, whether such a proposal is absolutely inconsistent with your family arrangements. I should not have proposed it, but on account of the great importance of the character, as a literary man. His communicative temper will make his society very interesting, as well as useful. Have the goodness to favour me with an immediate answer; and believe me, dear sir, your faithful humble servant,Joseph Adams.
I had seen the writer of this letter but twice in my life, and had no intention of receiving an inmate into my house. I however determined on seeing Dr. Adams, for whether the person referred to had taken opium from choice or necessity, to me he was equally an object of commiseration and interest. Dr. Adams informed me that the patient had been warned of the danger of discontinuing opium by several eminent medical men, who, at the same time, represented the frightful consequences that would most probably ensue. I had heard of the failure of Mr. Wilberforce's case, under an eminent physician at Bath, in addition to which, the doctor gave me an account of several others within his own knowledge. After some further conversation it was agreed that Dr. Adams should drive Coleridge to Highgate the following evening. On the following evening came Coleridge
himself
and alone. An old gentleman, of more than ordinary acquirements, was sitting by the fireside when he entered. — We met, indeed, for the first time, but as friends long since parted, and who had now the happiness to see each other again. Coleridge took his seat — his manner, his appearance, and above all, his conversation were captivating. We listened with delight, and upon the first pause, when courtesy permitted, my visitor withdrew, saying in a low voice, "I see by your manners, an old friend has arrived, and I shall therefore retire." Coleridge proposed to come the following evening, but he
first
informed me of the painful opinion which he had received concerning his case, especially from one medical man of celebrity. The tale was sad, and the opinion given unprofessional and cruel — sufficient to have deterred most men so afflicted from making the attempt Coleridge was contemplating, and in which his whole soul was so deeply and so earnestly engaged. In the course of our conversation, he repeated some exquisite but desponding lines of his own. It was an evening of painful and pleasurable feeling, which I can never forget. We parted with each other, understanding in a few minutes what perhaps under different circumstances, would have cost many hours to arrange; and I looked with impatience for the morrow, still wondering at the apparent chance that had brought him under my roof. I felt indeed almost spell-bound, without the desire of release. My situation was new, and there was something affecting in the thought, that one of such amiable manners, and at the same time so highly gifted, should seek comfort and medical aid in our quiet home. Deeply interested, I began to reflect seriously on the duties imposed upon me, and with anxiety to expect the approaching day. It brought me the following letter:
42, Norfolk Street, Strand, Saturday Noon.[April 13, 1816.]"My Dear Sir,The first half hour I was with you convinced me that I should owe my reception into your family exclusively to motives not less flattering to me than honourable to yourself. I trust we shall ever in matters of intellect be reciprocally serviceable to each other. Men of sense generally come to the same conclusions; but they are likely to contribute to each other's enlargement of view, in proportion to the distance or even opposition of the points from which they set out. Travel and the strange variety of situations and employments on which chance has thrown me, in the course of my life, might have made me a mere man ofobservation, if pain and sorrow and self-miscomplacence had not forced my mind in on itself, and so formed habits ofmeditation. It is now as much my nature to evolve the fact from the law, as that of a practical man to deduce the law from the fact.With respect to pecuniary remuneration, allow me to say, I must not at least be suffered to make any addition to your family expences — though I cannot offer any thing that would be in any way adequate to my sense of the service; for that indeed there could not be a compensation, as it must be returned in kind, by esteem and grateful affection.And now of myself. My ever wakeful reason, and the keenness of my moral feelings, will secure you from all unpleasant circumstances connected with me save only one, viz. the evasion of a specific madness. You will neverhearany thing but truth from me: — prior habits render it out of my power to tell an untruth, but unless carefully observed, I dare not promise that I should not, with regard to this detested poison, be capable of acting one. No sixty hours have yet passed without my having taken laudanum, though for the last week comparatively trifling doses. I have full belief that your anxiety need not be extended beyond the first week, and for the first week, I shall not, I must not be permitted to leave your house, unless with you. Delicately or indelicately, this must be done, and both the servants and the assistant must receive absolute commands from you. The stimulus of conversation suspends the terror that haunts my mind; but when I am alone, the horrors I have suffered from laudanum, the degradation, the blighted utility, almost overwhelm me.If(as I feel for thefirst timea soothing confidence it will prove) I should leave you restored to my moral and bodily health, it is not myself only that will love and honour you; every friend I have, (and thank God! in spite of this wretched vice2I have many and warm ones, who were friends of my youth, and have never deserted me,) will thank you with reverence. I have taken no notice of your kind apologies. If I could not be comfortable in your house, and with your family, I should deserve to be miserable. If you could make it convenient, I should wish to be with you by Monday evening, as it would prevent the necessity of taking fresh lodgings in town.With respectful compliments to Mrs. Gillman and her sister, I remain, dear sir,Your much obliged,S. T. Coleridge."
On the evening appointed, Coleridge came, bringing in his hand the proof sheets of
Christabel
, which was now for the first time printed. The fragment in manuscript was already known to many, for to many had Coleridge read it, who had listened to it with delight — a delight so marked that its success seemed certain. But the approbation of those whom, in the worldly acceptation of the term, we call
friends
, is not always to be relied upon. Among the most plausible connexions, there is often a rivalship, both political and literary, which constrains the sacrifice of sincerity, and substitutes secret for open censure. Of this melancholy fact Coleridge had seen proof. The Fragment had not long been published before he was informed, that an individual had been selected (who was in truth a great admirer of his writings; and whose very life had been saved through the exertions of Coleridge and Mr. Southey,) to "
cut up
" Christabel in the
Edinburgh Review
. The subject being afterwards mentioned in conversation, the reviewer confessed that he was the writer of the article, but observed, that as he wrote for the
Edinburgh Review
, he was compelled to write in accordance with the character and tone of that periodical. This confession took place after he had been extolling the Christabel as the finest poem of its kind in the language, and ridiculing the public for their want of taste and discrimination in not admiring it. — Truly has it been said,
"Critics upon all writers there are many,Planters of truth or knowledge scarcely any."
Sir Walter Scott always spoke in high praise of the
Christabel
, and more than once of his obligations to Coleridge; of this we have proof in his
Ivanhoe
, in which the lines by Coleridge, entitled
The Knight's Tomb,
were quoted by Scott before they were published, from which circumstance, Coleridge was convinced that Sir Walter was the author of the
Waverly
Novels. The lines were composed as an experiment for a metre, and repeated by him to a mutual friend — this gentleman the following day dined in company with Sir Walter Scott, and spoke of his visit to Highgate, repeating Coleridge's lines to Scott, and observing at the same time, that they might be acceptable to the author of
Waverley
.
Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?Where may the grave of that good man be? —By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn,Under the twigs of a young birch tree!The Oak that in summer was sweet to hear,And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year;And whistled and roar'd in the winter alone,Is gone, — and the birch in its stead is grown. —The Knight's bones are dust,And his good sword rust; —His soul is with the saints, I trust.Poetical Works, Vol. ii. p. 64.
The late Mr. Sotheby informed me, that, at his house in a large party, Sir Walter made the following remark:
"I am indebted to Coleridge for the mode of telling a tale by question and answer. This was a new light to me, and I was greatly struck by it."
Yet when Sir Walter said this, he must surely have forgotten many of our ancient and most beautiful ballads, in which the questions are so significant, and are made to develope the progress of the fable more clearly than could be affected by the ordinary course of narration. In fact every lover of our old poetry will recollect a hundred pieces in which the same form of evolution is observed. Thus in
Johnie of Breadis Lee
:
"What news, what news, ye grey-headed carle,What news bring ye to me?"
And in
Halbert the Grim
:
"There is pity in many, —Is there any in him?No! ruth is a strange guestTo Halbert the Grim."
Scott particularly admired Coleridge's management of the supernatural. The "flesh and blood reality," given to Geraldine, the life, the power of appearing and disappearing equally by day as by night, constitutes the peculiar merit of the
Christabel
: and those poets who admire, and have reflected much on the supernatural, have ever considered it one of the greatest efforts of genius. But the effect has ever been degraded by unnatural combinations. Thus on the stage, where such creations are the most frequent, it has been the custom for stage-managers to choose
male
actors for the female parts. In
Macbeth
, men are called on to stir the caldron and other witcheries requiring muscular power. Again, when Macbeth listens to those extraordinary beings, who, with muttering spells, with charms, foreknowledge and incantations imperfectly announced to him his fate; he, with an air of command, says, "Speak!" &c. They shew their power, and give their best answer by disappearing. The manner of representing this is unnatural, as exhibited by our managers.
Coleridge
observed, that it would be better to withdraw the light from the stage, than to exhibit these miserable attempts at vanishing
3
, though could the thought have been well executed, he considered it a master-stroke of Shakspeare's.
Yet
it should be noticed, that Coleridge's opinion was, that some of the plays of our "myriad-minded" bard ought never to be acted, but looked on as poems to be read, and contemplated; and so fully was he impressed with this feeling, that in his gayer moments he would often say, "There should be an Act of Parliament to prohibit their representation."
4
Here
he
excelled: he has no incongruities, no gross illusions. In the management of the supernatural, the only successful poets among our own countrymen have been Shakspeare and Coleridge. Scott has treated it well in the
Bride of Lammermoor
, and in one or two other works.
Of the
Christabel
, as now published, Coleridge says, "The first part was composed in 1797." This was the
Annus Mirabilis
of this great man; in it he was in his best and strongest health. He returned from Germany in 1799, and in the year following wrote the
second
part, in the preface to which he observes, "Till very lately my poetic powers have been in a state of suspended animation." The subject indeed remained present to his mind, though from bad health and other causes, it was left as a mere fragment of his poetic power. When in health he sometimes said, "This poem comes upon me with all the loveliness of a vision;" and he declared, that though contrary to the advice of his friends, he should finish it: At other times when his bodily powers failed him, he would then say, "I am reserved for other works than making verse."
In the preface to the
Christabel
, he makes the following observation:
"It is probable," he says, "that if the poem had been finished at either of the former periods,i.e. 1797 and 1800, or if even the first and second part of this fragment 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 among 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 dogged version of two monkish Latin hexameters:'Tis mine and it is likewise your's,But an if this will not do;Let it be mine, good friend! for IAm the poorer of the two."I have only to add, that the metre of theChristabelis 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 the 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."
'Tis mine and it is likewise your's,But an if this will not do;Let it be mine, good friend! for IAm the poorer of the two."
In conversation many of his brother poets would, like the reviewer, echo his praises, while in secret, they were trying to deprive him of his fair fame. It has been said, that "Coleridge never explained the story of Christabel."
To
his friends he did explain it; and in the
Biographia Literaria
, he has given an account of its origin
5
.
The story of the
Christabel
is partly founded on the notion, that the virtuous of this world save the wicked. The pious and good Christabel suffers and prays for
"The weal of her lover that is far away,"
exposed to various temptations in a foreign land; and she thus defeats the power of evil represented in the person of Geraldine. This is one main object of the tale.
At the opening of the poem all nature is laid under a spell:—
'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,And the owls have awak'ned 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-bitch,From her kennel beneath the rockMaketh 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 spell is laid by an evil being, not of this world, with whom Christabel, the heroine, is about to become connected; and who in the darkness of the forest is meditating the wreck of all her hopes
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 yesternightOf her own betrothed knight;And she in the midnight wood will prayFor 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.
There are persons who have considered the description of Christabel in the act of praying, so far from the baron's castle, too great a poetical license. He was fully aware that all baronial castles had their chapels and oratories attached to them, — and that in these lawless times, for such were the middle ages, the young lady who ventured unattended beyond the precincts of the castle, would have endangered her reputation. But to such an imaginative mind, it would have been scarcely possible to pass by the interesting image of Christabel, presenting itself before him, praying by moonlight at the old oak tree. But to proceed:
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 airTo move away the ringlet curlFrom the lovely lady's cheek —There is not wind enough to twirlThe 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 thereThe gems entangled in her hair.I guess, 'twas frightful there to seeA lady so richly clad as she —Beautiful exceedingly!
This description is exquisite. Now for the mystic demon's tale of art:
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 chok'd 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 spokeHe 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 handAnd comforted fair Geraldine:O well, bright dame! may you commandThe service of Sir Leoline;And gladly our stout chivalryWill he send forth and friends withal,To guide and guard you safe and freeHome to your noble father's hall.She rose: and forth with steps they passedThat strove to be, and were not, fast.Her gracious stars the lady blestAnd 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 ChristabelTook 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 mainLifted 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.
Following the popular superstition that dogs are supposed to see ghosts, and therefore see the supernatural, the mastiff yells, when Geraldine appears:—
Outside her kennell, the mastiff oldLay 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.
Geraldine had already worked upon the kindness of Christabel, so that she had lifted her over the threshold of the gate, which Geraldine's fallen power had prevented her passing of herself, the place being holy and under the influence of the Virgin.
"Praise we the Virgin all divine,Who hath rescued thee from thy distress,Alas! Alas! said Geraldine,I cannot speak for weariness.They pass 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 cameA tongue of light, a fit of flame;And Christabel saw the lady's eye,And nothing else saw she therebySave the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall,Which hung in a murky old nitch in the wall.O! softly tread, said Christabel,My father seldom sleepeth well."
Geraldine, who affects to be weary, arrives at the chamber of Christabel — this room is beautifully ornamented,
"Carved with figures strange and sweet,All made out of the carver's brain,For a lady's chamber meetThe lamp with twofold silver chainIs fasten'd to an angel's feet."
Such is the mysterious movement of this supernatural lady, that all this is visible, and when she passed the dying brands, there came a fit of flame, and Christabel saw the lady's eye.
The silver lamp burns dead and dim;But Christabel the lamp will trim.She trimm'd 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 answer'd — Woe is me!She died the hour that I was born,I have heard the grey-hair'd friar tell,How on her death-bed she did say,That she should hear the castle bellStrike twelve upon my wedding-day.O mother dear! that thou wert here!I would, said Geraldine, she were!
The poet now introduces the real object of the supernatural transformation: the spirit of evil struggles with the deceased and sainted mother of Christabel for the possession of the lady. To render the scene more impressive, the mother instantly appears, though she is invisible to her daughter. Geraldine exclaims in a commanding voice
"Off, wandering mother! Peak and pine!I have power to bid thee flee?"Alas! what ails poor Geraldine?Why stares she with unsettled eyeCan 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."
Here, Geraldine seems to be struggling with the spirit of Christabel's mother, over which for a time she obtains the mastery.
Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side,And rais'd to heaven her eyes so blue —Alas! said she, this ghastly ride —Dear lady! it hath wilder'd 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 uprightShe 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 sakeAnd for the good which me befell,Even I in my degree will try,Fair maiden to requite you well.But now unrobe yourself: for IMust 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 all this had given rise to so many different thoughts and feelings, that she could not compose herself for sleep, so she sits up in her bed to look at Geraldine who drew in her breath aloud, and unbound her cincture. Her silken robe and inner vest then drop to her feet, and she discovers her hideous form:
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!
She then lies down by the side of Christabel, and takes her to her arms, saying in a low voice these words:—
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 inThy power to declare,That in the dim forestThou heardst a low moaning,And found'st a bright lady, surpassingly fairAnd 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 the first is a beautiful and well drawn picture, slightly recapitulating some of the circumstances of the opening of the poem.
It was a lovely sight to see,The lady Christabel, when sheWas praying at the old oak tree.Amid the jagged shadowsOf mossy leafless boughs,Kneeling in the moonlight,To make her gentle vows;Her slender palms together prest,Heaving sometimes on her breast;Her face resigned to bliss or bale —Her face, oh call it fair, not pale,And both blue eyes more bright than clear,Each about to have a tear.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 mildAs a mother with her child.A star hath set, a star hath risen,O Geraldine! since arms of thineHave 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.
At the ceasing of the spell, the joyousness of the birds is described, and also the awakening of Christabel as from a trance. — During this rest (her mother) the guardian angel is supposed to have been watching over her. But these passages could not escape coarse minded critics, who put a construction on them which never entered the mind of the author of Christabel, whose poems are marked by delicacy.
The effects of the apparition of her mother, supposed to be seen by Christabel in a vision, are thus described:
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!
Here terminates the first canto.
The passage from this sleep and the reappearance by day-light of Geraldine, has always been considered a master-piece.
The second part begins with a moral reflection, and introduces Sir Leoline, the father of Christabel, with the following observation, on his rising in the morning:
Each matin bell, the Baron saith!Knells us back to a world of death.These words Sir Leoline first saidWhen he rose and found his lady dead.These words Sir Leoline will sayMany a morn to his dying day.
After a popular custom of the country, the old bard Bracy is introduced. Geraldine rises, puts on her silken vestments — tricks her hair, and not doubting her spell, she awakens Christabel,
"Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel?I trust that you have rested well."And Christabel awoke and spiedThe same who lay down by her side —O rather say, the same whom sheRais'd up beneath the old oak tree!Nay fairer yet, and yet more fair!For she belike hath drunken deepOf all the blessedness of sleep!And while she spake, her looks, her airSuch gentle thankfulness declare;That (so it seem'd) her girded vestsGrew tight beneath her heaving breasts."Sure I have sinn'd!" said Christabel,"Now heaven be prais'd if all be well!"And in low faultering tones, yet sweet,Did she the lofty lady greet;With such perplexity of mindAs dreams too lively leave behind.
Christabel then leaves her couch, and having offered up her prayers, she leads fair Geraldine to meet the Baron. — They enter his presence room, when her father rises, and while pressing his daughter to his breast, he espies the lady Geraldine, to whom he gives such welcome as
"Might beseem so bright a dame!"
But when the Baron hears her tale, and her father's name, the poet enquires feelingly:—
Why wax'd Sir Leoline so pale,Murmuring o'er the name again,Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine?Alas! they had been friends in youth;But whispering tongues can poison truth;And constancy lives in realms above;And life is thorny; and youth is vain;And to be wroth with one we love,Doth work like madness in the brain.And thus it chanc'd, as I divine,With Roland and Sir Leoline.Each spake words of high disdainAnd insult to his heart's best brother:They parted — never to meet again!But never either found anotherTo free the hollow heart from paining —They stood aloof, the scars remaining,Like cliffs which had been rent asunder;A dreary sea now flows between; —But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,Shall wholly do away, I ween,The marks of that which once hath been.