Hush, beating heart of Christabel ! She folded her arms beneath her cloak, There she sees a damsel bright, "Mary mother, save me now!" Said Christabel, "and who art thou?" The lady strange made answer meet, Did thus pursue her answer meet:- Five warriors seized me yestermorn, They choked my cries with force and fright, They spurr'd amain, their steeds were white: Some mutter'd words his comrades spoke: Stretch forth thy hand," thus ended she, Then Christabel stretch'd 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, She rose and forth with steps they pass'd This night, to share your couch with me." They cross'd the moat, and Christabel A little door she open'd straight, The gate that was iron'd within and without, Where an army in battle array had march'd out. The lady sank, belike through pain, And moved, as she were not in pain. So, free from danger, free from fear, They cross'd 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 cross'd the court: right glad they were. Outside her kennel the mastiff old They pass'd 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; 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, The moon shines dim in the open air, She trimm'd the lamp, and made it bright, "O weary lady, Geraldine, I pray you, drink this cordial wine! "And will your mother pity me, I have power to bid thee flee." Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side, Again the wild-flower wine she drank: And thus the lofty lady spake- Quoth Christabel, "So let it be!" But through her brain, of weal and woe, Beneath the lamp the lady bow'd, Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs: Ah! what a stricken look was hers! Deep from within she seems half-way And with low voice and doleful look "In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell, Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel! Thou knowest tonight, and wilt know tomorrow, This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow; But faintly thou warrest, For this is alone in Thy rower 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." DEJECTION: AN ODE SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE [1802] 1 Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spens, This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade Than those which mold yon cloud in lazy flakes, Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes Upon the strings of this Æolian lute, For lo! the new-moon winter bright! But rimmed and circled by a silver thread) I see the old moon in her lap, foretelling The coming-on of rain and squally blast. And oh! that even now the gust were swelling, And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast! Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed, And sent my soul abroad, Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, Might startle this dull pain, and make it live! 2 A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief, Which finds no natural outlet, no relief, In word, or sigh, or tear O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood, To other thoughts by yonder throstle wooed, All this long eve, so balmy and serene, Have I been gazing on the western sky, And its peculiar tint of yellow green, And still I gaze-and with how blank an eye! And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars, That give away their motion to the stars; Those stars, that glide behind them or between, Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen: Yon crescent moon, as fixed as if it grew In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue; I see them all so excellently fair, I see, not feel, how beautiful they are! 3 My genial spirits fail; And what can these avail To lift the smothering weight from off my breast? It were a vain endeavor, Though I should gaze for ever On that green light that lingers in the west: I may not hope from outward forms to win The passion and the life, whose fountains are within. 4 O Lady, we receive but what we give, And would we aught behold, of higher worth, Than that inanimate cold world allowed To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd, Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud Enveloping the earth And from the soul itself must there be sent A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth, Of all sweet sounds the life and element! 5 O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me What this strong music in the soul may be! What, and wherein it doth exist, This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist, This beautiful and beauty-making power. Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given, Save to the pure, and in their purest hour, Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and shower, Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power, We in ourselves rejoice! And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, All melodies the echoes of that voice, All colors a suffusion from that light. 6 There was a time when, though my path was rough, This joy within me dallied with distress, And all misfortunes were but as the stuff Whence Fancy made me dreams of happi ness: For hope grew round me, like the twining vine, And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine. But now afflictions bow me down to earth: Suspends what Nature gave me at my birth, From my own nature all the natural man This was my sole resource, my only plan: ers, Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers, Makest Devils' Yule, with worse than wintry song, The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among. Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds! Thou mighty Poet, even to frenzy bold! What tell'st thou now about? 'Tis of the rushing of an host in rout, With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold! But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence! And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, With groans and tremulous shudderings— all is over It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud! A tale of less affright, And tempered with delight, As Otway's self had framed the tender lay; 'Tis of a little child Upon a lonesome wild, Not far from home, but she hath lost her way: And now moans low in bitter grief and fear, And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear. TITAN! to whose immortal eyes Were not as things that gods despise; Which speaks but in its loneliness, And then is jealous lest the sky Should have a listener, nor will sigh Until its voice is echoless. II TITAN! to thee the strife was given Was thine-and thou hast borne it well. That in his hand the lightnings trembled. III. Thy Godlike crime was to be kind, In the endurance, and repulse Of thine impenetrable Spirit, Which Earth and Heaven could not con vulse, A mighty lesson we inherit: Thou art a symbol and a sign To mortals of their fate and force; Like thee, Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source; His wretchedness, and his resistance, And a firm will, and a deep sense, Its own concenter'd recompense, Triumphant where it dares defy, And making Death a Victory. SONNET ON CHILLON LORD BYRON Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind! Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art, For there thy habitation is the heartThe heart which love of thee alone can bind; And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd To fetters, and the damp vault's daless gloom, |