The harbor-bay was clear as glass, And on the bay the moonlight lay, He singeth loud his godly hymns The Albatross's blood. PART VII. THIS Hermit good lives in that wood The Hermit of He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve He hath a cushion plump: The skiff-boat near'd: I heard them talk, Why this is strange, I trow! The rock shone bright, the kirk no That signal made but now?" less That stands above the rock: The moonlight steep'd in silentness And the bay was white with silent The angelic spir Till, rising from the same, its leave the dead bodies, And appear in their own forms of light. And they answer not our cheer! The planks look warp'd! and see those sails, How thin they are and sere! I never saw aught like to them, Full many shapes that shadows were, Unless perchance it were A little distance from the prow Brown skeletons of leaves that lag When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat; That eats the she-wolf's young." No voice did they impart- But soon I heard the dash of oars, I heard the Pilot's cheer; The ship suddenly sinketh Stunn'd by that loud and dreadful The ancient Ma sound, My head was turn'd perforce away, Like one that hath been seven days And I saw a boat appear. The Pilot and the Pilot's boy, I saw a third-I heard his voice : drown'd My body lay afloat; But swift as dreams, myself I found Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, riner is saved in the Pilot's boat I moved my lips-the Pilot shriek'd, But in the garden-bower the bride The holy Hermit raised his eyes, I took the oars: the Pilot's boy, And bride-maids singing are: O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been Laugh'd loud and long, and all the So lonely 'twas, that God himself while His eyes went to and fro. Scarce seemed there to be. "Ha! ha!" quoth he, "full plain I see, O sweeter than the marriage-feast, The Devil knows how to row." The ancient Ma- "O shrive me, shrive me, holy man!" And ever and anon throughout his future life an agony constrain eth him to travel from land to land, say -What manner of man art thou?" Farewell, farewell! but this I tell Forthwith this frame of mine was He prayeth well, who loveth well wrench'd With a woful agony, Both man and bird and beast. Which forced me to begin my tale; He prayeth best, who loveth best And then it left me free. Since then, at an uncertain hour, And till my ghastly tale is told, I pass, like night, from land to land; I know the man that must hear me : All things both great and small; The Mariner, whose eye is bright, He went like one that hath been What loud uproar bursts from that And is of sense forlorn, And to teach, by his own example love and reverence to all things that God made and loveth. Christabel. PREFACE.* at either of the former periods, or if even the first and second part had been published in the year 1800, the impression of its originality would have been much greater than I dare at present expect. But THE first part of the following poem was written in for this, I have only my own indolence to blame. the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety- The dates are mentioned for the exclusive purpose seven, at Stowey in the county of Somerset. The of precluding charges of plagiarism or servile imiecond part, after my return from Germany, in the tation from myself. For there is amongst us a set of year one thousand eight hundred, at Keswick, Cum- critics, who seem to hold, that every possible thought berland. Since the latter date, my poetic powers and image is traditional; who have no notion that there have been, till very lately, in a state of suspended are such things as fountains in the world, small as animation. But as, in my very first conception of the well as great; and who would therefore charitably tale, I had the whole present to my mind, with the derive every rill they behold flowing, from a perforawholeness, no less than with the loveliness of a tion made in some other man's tank. I am confident, vision, I trust that I shall yet be able to embody in verse the three parts yet to come. It is probable. that if the poem had been finished To the edition of 1816 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 th charge, and who, on any striking coincidence, would permit me to address them in this doggrel version of two monkish Latin hexameters. 'Tis mine and it is likewise yours; Let it be mine, good friend! for I I have only to add that the metre of the Christabel is 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 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. The lady sprang up suddenly, It moan'd as near, as near can be, The night is chill; the forest bare; My sire is of a noble line, They choked 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 spurr'd amain, their steeds were white; As sure as Heaven shall rescue me, Some mutter'd words his comrades spoke And foundest a bright lady, surpassingly fair: charity, To shield her and shelter her from the damp air THE CONCLUSION TO PART 1. IT was a lovely sight to see And both blue eyes more bright than clear, With open eyes (ah woe is me !) O sorrow and shame! Can this be she, A star hath set, a star hath risen, And see the lady Christabel Gathers herself from out her trance; Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep, |