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,
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!"
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,
Which hung in a murky old niche in the "Off, woman, off! this hour is mine
"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.
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 befell, 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, 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
This mark of my shame, this seal of my
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
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
It was a lovely sight to see The lady Christabel, when she Was praying at the old oak tree. Amid the jagged shadows Of 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 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! 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; the smooth thin
Close o'er her eyes; 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.
Each matin bell, the Baron saith, Knells us back to a world of death. These words Sir Leoline first said, When he rose and found his lady dead: These words Sir Leoline will say Many a morn to his dying day!
And hence the custom and law began That still at dawn the sacristan, Who duly pulls the heavy bell, Five and forty beads must tell Between each stroke a warning knell, Which not a soul can choose but hear From Bratha Head to Wyndermere.
Saith Bracy the bard, "So let it knell! And let the drowsy sacristan Still count as slowly as he can!" There is no lack of such, I ween, As well fill up the space between. In Langdale Pike and Witch's Lair, And Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent, With ropes of rock and bells of air Three sinful sextons' ghosts are pent, Who all give back, one after t'other, The death-note to their living brother; And oft too, by the knell offended, Just as their one! two! three! is ended, The devil mocks the doleful tale With a merry peal from Borrowdale.
The air is still! through mist and cloud That merry peal comes ringing loud; And Geraldine shakes off her dread, And rises lightly from the bed; Puts on her silken vestments white, And tricks her hair in lovely plight, And nothing doubting of her spell Awakens the lady Christabel. "Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel? I trust that you have rested well."
And Christabel awoke and spied The same who lay down by her side O rather say, the same whom she Raised up beneath the old oak tree! Nay, fairer yet! and yet more fair! For she belike hath drunken deep Of all the blessedness of sleep! And while she spake, her looks, her air, Such gentle thankfulness declare,
That (so it seemed) her girded vests Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts. "Sure I have sinned!" said Christabel, "Now heaven be praised if all be well!" And in low faltering tones, yet sweet, Did she the lofty lady greet With such perplexity of mind As dreams too lively leave behind.
So quickly she rose, and quickly arrayed Her maiden limbs, and having prayed That He, who on the cross did groan, Might wash away her sins unknown, She forthwith led fair Geraldine To meet her sire, Sir Leoline. The lovely maid and the lady tall Are pacing both into the hall,
And pacing on through page and groom, Enter the Baron's presence-room.
The Baron rose, and while he prest His gentle daughter to his breast, With cheerful wonder in his eyes The lady Geraldine espies, And gave such welcome to the same, As might beseem so bright a dame!
But when he heard the lady's tale, And when she told her father's name, Why waxed 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 chanced, as I divine, With Roland and Sir Leoline. Each spake words of high disdain And insult to his heart's best brother: They parted ne'er to meet again! But never either found another To 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.
Sir Leoline, a moment's space, Stood gazing on the damsel's face: And the youthful Lord of Tryermaine Came back upon his heart again.
O then the Baron forgot his age,
His noble heart swelled high with rage; He swore by the wounds in Jesu's side He would proclaim it far and wide, With trump and solemn heraldry, That they, who thus had wronged the dame Were base as spotted infamy! "And if they dare deny the same, My herald shall appoint a week, And let the recreant traitors seek My tourney court
that there and then I may dislodge their reptile souls From the bodies and forms of men!" He spake his eye in lightning rolls! For the lady was ruthlessly seized; and he kenned
In the beautiful lady the child of his friend!
And now the tears were on his face, And fondly in his arms he took Fair Geraldine, who met the embrace, Prolonging it with joyous look. Which when she viewed, a vision fell Upon the soul of Christabel,
The vision of fear, the touch and pain! She shrunk and shuddered, and saw again
(Ah, woe is me! Was it for thee, Thou gentle maid! such sights to see?) Again she saw that bosom old,
Again she felt that bosom cold,
Made answer, "All will yet be well!" I ween, she had no power to tell Aught else: so mighty was the spell.
IN Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round: And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing
And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced; Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
And drew in her breath with a hissing Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail :
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, Have left me to that solitude, which suits Abstruser musings: save that at my side My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 'Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs And vexes meditation with its strange And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,
This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood,
With all the numberless goings on of life Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not; Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature Gives it dim sympathies with me who live, Making it a companionable form, Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit
By its own moods interprets, every where
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