University of Virginia Library

Geraldine:

A SEQUEL TO COLERIDGE'S CHRISTABEL.

I. PART I.

BEING THE THIRD OF CHRISTABEL.

It is the wolf, on stealthy prowl,
Hath startled the night with a dismal howl;
It is the raven, whose hoarse croak
Comes like a groan from the sear old oak;
It is the owl, whose curdling screech
Hath peopled with terrors the spectral beech!
For again the clock hath toll'd out twelve,
And sent to their gambols the gnome and the elve,
And awoken the friar his beads to tell,
And taught the magician the time for his spell,
And to her caldron hath hurried the witch,
And aroused the deep bay of the mastiff-bitch.
The gibbous moon, all chilling and wan,
Like a sleepless eyeball looketh on,
Like an eyeball of sorrow behind a shroud
Forth looketh she from a torn grey cloud,
Pouring sad radiance on the black air,—
Sun of the night,—what sees she there?
O lonely one, O lovely one,
What dost thou here in the forest dun,
Fair truant,—like an angel of light
Hiding from heaven in deep midnight?
Alas! there is guilt in thy glittering eye
As fearfully dark it looks up to the sky;
Alas! a dull unearthly light
Like a dead star, bluely white,
A seal of sin, I note it now,
Flickers upon thy ghastly brow;
And about the huge old oak
Thickly curls a poisonous smoke,
And terrible shapes with evil names
Are leaping around a circle of flames,
And the tost air whirls, storm-driven,
And the rent earth quakes, charm-riven,—
And—art thou not afraid?
All dauntless stands the maid
In mystical robe array'd,
And still with flashing eyes
She dares the sorrowful skies,
And to the moon, like one possest,
Hath shown,—O dread! that face so fair
Should smile above so shrunk a breast,
Haggard and brown, as hangeth there,—
O evil sight!—wrinkled and old,
The dug of a witch, and clammy cold,—
Where in warm beauty's rarest mould
Is fashion'd all the rest;
O evil sight! for, by the light
From those large eyes streaming bright,
By thy beauty's wondrous sheen,
Lofty gait and graceful mien,
By that bosom half reveal'd,
Wither'd, and as in death congeal'd,
By the guilt upon thy brow,
Ah! Geraldine, 'tis thou!
Muttering wildly through her set teeth,
She seeketh and stirreth the demons beneath,
And—hist!—the magical mandate is spoken,
The bonds of the spirits of evil are broken,
There is a rush of invisible wings
Amid shrieks, and distant thunderings,
And now one nearer than others is heard
Flapping this way, as a huge sea-bird,
Or liker the deep-dwelling ravenous shark
Cleaving thorough the waters dark,—
It is the hour, the spell hath power!
Now haste thee, e'er the tempest lour,—
Her mouth grows wide, and her face falls in,
And her beautiful brow becomes flat and thin,
And sulphurous flashes blear and singe
That sweetest of eyes with its delicate fringe,
Till, all its loveliness blasted and dead,
The eye of a snake blinks deep in her head;
For raven locks flowing loose and long
Bristles a red mane, stiff and strong,
And sea-green scales are beginning to speck
Her shrunken breasts, and lengthening neck;
The white round arms are sunk in her sides,—
As when in chrysalis canoe
A may-fly down the river glides,
Struggling for life and liberty too,—
Her body convulsively twists and twirls,
This way and that it bows and curls,
And now her soft limbs melt into one
Strangely and horribly tapering down,
Till on the burnt grass dimly is seen
A serpent-monster, scaly and green,
Horror!—can this be Geraldine?
Haste, O haste,—'tis almost past,
The sand is dripping thick and fast,
And distant roars the coming blast,—
Swiftly the dragon-maid unroll'd
The burnish'd strength of each sinewy fold,
And round the old oak trunk with toil
Hath wound and trail'd each tortuous coil,
Then with one crush hath splitten and broke
To the hollow black heart of the sear old oak!
The hour is fled, the spell hath sped;
And heavily dropping down as dead,
All in her own beauty drest,
Brightest, softest, loveliest,
Fair faint Geraldine lies on the ground,
Moaning sadly;
And forth from the oak
In a whirl of thick smoke
Grinning gladly,
Leaps with a hideous howl at a bound
A squat black dwarf of visage grim,
With crutches beside each twisted limb
Half hidden in many a flame-colour'd rag,—
It is Ryxa the Hag!
Ho, ho! what wouldst thou, daughter mine,
Wishes three, or curses nine?
Wishes three to work thy will,
Or curses nine thy hate to fulfil?
Ryxa, spite of thy last strong charm,
Some pure spirit saves from harm
Her, who before me was loved too well,
Our holy hated Christabel;
Her, who stole my heart from him
One of the guardian cherubim
Hovers around, and cheers in dreams,
Thwarting from heaven my hell-bought schemes;
Now,—for another five hundred years,
O mother mine, will I be thine,
To writhe in pains, and shriek in fears,
And toil in chains, and waste in tears,
So thy might will scorch and smite
The beautiful face of Christabel,
And will drain by jealous pain
Love from the heart of Christabel,
And her own betrothed knight,
O glad sight! shall scorn and slight
The pale one he hath loved so well,
While in my arms, by stolen charms
And borrow'd mien, for Geraldine
He shall forget his Christabel!
It is done, it is done, thy cause is won!
Quoth Ryxa the Hag to Geraldine;
Thus have I prest my seal on thy breast,
Twelve circling scales from a dragon's crest,
And still thy bosom and half thy side
Must shrivel and shrink at eventide,
And still, as every Sabbath breaks,
Thy large dark eyes must blink as a snake's.
Now, for mine aid:—De Vaux will come
To lead his seeming daughter home,
Therefore I fit thee a shape and a face
Differing, yet of twin-born grace,
That all who see thee may fall down
Heart-worshippers before thy throne,
Forgetting in that vision sweet
Thy former tale of dull deceit,
And, tranced in deep oblivious joy,
Bask in bliss without alloy:
He too, thou lovest, in thine arms
Shall grace the triumph of thy charms,
While the thirst of rage thou satest
In the woes of her thou hatest.
Yet, daughter, hark! my warning mark!
Hallow'd deed, or word, or thought,
Is with deadliest peril fraught;
And if, where true lovers meet
Thou hearest hymning wild and sweet,
O stop thine ears, lest all be marr'd,—
Beware, beware of holy bard!
For that the power of hymn and harp
Thine innermost being shall wither and warp,
And the same hour they touch thine ears,
A serpent thou art for a thousand years.
Hush! how heavily droops the night
In sultry silence, calm as death!
Gloomy and hot and yet no light,
Save where the glowworm wandereth;
For the moon hath stolen by,
Mantled in the stormy sky,
And there is a stillness strange,
An awful stillness, boding change,
As if live nature held her breath,
And all in agony listeneth
Some terror undefined to hear,
Coming, coming, coming near;
Hush'd is the beetle's drowsy hum,
And the death-watch's roll on his warning drum,
Hush'd the raven, and screech owl,
And the famishing wolf on his midnight prowl,—
Silent as death.
—Hark, hark! he is here, he has come from afar,
The black-robed storm in his terrible car;
Vivid the forkèd lightning flashes,
Quick behind the thunder crashes,
Clattering hail, a shingly flood,
Rattles like grapeshot in the wood;
And the whole forest is bent one way,
Bowing as slaves to a tyrant's sway,
While the foot of the tempest hath trampled and broke
Many a stout old elm and oak!
And Geraldine?—O who could tell
That thou who by sweet Christabel
Softly liest in innocent sleep,
Like an infant's calm and deep,
Smiling faintly, as it seems
From thy bright and rosy dreams,
Who could augur thou art she
That, around the hollow tree,
With bad charm and hellish rite
Shook the heavens, and scared the night?
Alas! for gentle Christabel,
Alas! for wasting Christabel:
From evil eye, and powers of hell,
And the strong magic of the spell,
Holy Mary, shield her well!

Conclusion to Part I.

II. Part II.

BEING THE FOURTH OF CHRISTABEL.

How fresh and fair is morn!
The dewbeads dropping bright
Each humble flower adorn,
With coronets of light,
And jewel the rough thorn
With sparks of chrysolite,—
How beautiful is morn!
Her scatter'd gems how bright!
There is a quiet gladness
In the waking earth,
Like the face of sadness
Lit with chasten'd mirth;
There is a mine of treasure
In those hours of health,
Filling up the measure
Of creation's wealth.
The eye of day hath open'd grey,
And the gallant sun
Hath trick'd his beams by Rydal's streams,
And waveless Coniston;
From Langdale Pikes his glory strikes,
From heath and giant hill,
From many a tairn, and stone-built-cairn,
And many a mountain rill:
Helvellyn bares his forehead black,
And Eagle-crag, and Saddleback,
And Skiddaw hails the dawning day
And rolls his robe of clouds away.
Ho, warder, ho! in chivalrous state,
A stranger-knight to the castle gate,
With trumpet, and banner, and mailèd men,
Comes this way winding up the glen:
His vizor is down, and he will not proclaim
To the challenge within his lineage or name,
Yet by his herald, and esquires eight,
And five-score spearmen, tall and straight,
And blazon rich with bearings rare,
And highbred ease, and noble air,
And golden spurs, and sword, can he be
Nought but a knight of high degree!
Alas! they had loved too soon, too well,
Young Amador and Christabel;
Life's dawn beheld them, blythe and bland,
Little playmates, hand in hand,
Over fell and field and heather
Wandering innocent together,
Alone in childhood's rosy hours
Straying far to find wild flowers;
Life's sun above its eastern hill
Saw them inseparable still
In the bower, or by the brook,
Or spelling out the monkish book,
Or as with songs they wont to wake
The echoes on the hill-bound lake,
Or as with tales to while away
The winter's night, or summer's day;
Life's noon was blazing bright and fair,
To smile upon the same fond pair,
The handsome youth, the beauteous maid,
Together still in sun or shade;
Warmer, good sooth, than wont with friends,
While he supports, and she depends,
As to some dangerous craggy height
They climb with terror and delight,
Nor guess that the strange joy they feel,
The rapture making their hearts reel,
Springs from aught else, than—sweet Grasmere,
Or hill and valley far and near,
Or Derwent's banks and glassy tide,
Lowdore, or hawthorn'd Ambleside:
Nor reck they what dear danger lies
In gazing on each other's eyes;
On her bright cheek, fresh and fair,
Blooming in the mountain air,
On his strong and agile limbs,
As from rock to rock he climbs,
Her unstudied natural grace,
Loosen'd vest and tresses flowing,
Or his fine and manly face
With delighted ardour glowing.
Thus they grew up in each other,
Till to ripen'd youth
They had grown up for each other;
Yet, to say but sooth,
She had not loved him, as other
Than a sister doth,
And he to her was but a brother,
With a brother's troth:
But selfish craft, that slept so long,
And, if wrong were, had done the wrong,
Now, just awake, with dull surprise
Read the strange truth,
And from their own accusing eyes
Condemn'd them both,—
That they, who only for each other
Gladly drew their daily breath,
Now must curb, and check, and smother,
Through all life, love strong as death;
While the dear hope they just have learnt to prize,
And fondly cherish,
The hope that in their hearts deep-rooted lies,
Must pine and perish!
For the slow prudence of the worldly wise
In cruel coldness still denies
The foundling youth to woo and win
The heiress daughter of Leoline.
And yet how little had he err'd,
That on his ear the bitter word
Of harsh reproach should fall,—
“Is it then thus, ungrateful boy,
Thou wouldst his dearest hope destroy
Who lent thee life and all?
Why did I save thee, years agone,
Beneath the tottering Bowther-stone,
Misfortune's outcast son?
Why did I warm thee on my hearth,
Nor crush the viper in its birth,
O thou presumptuous one?”
They met once more in sweet sad fear
At the old oak-tree in the forest drear,
And, as enamour'd of bitterness, they
Wept the sad hour of parting away:
The bursting tear, the stifled sob,
The tortured bosom's first-felt throb,
The fervent vow, the broken gold,
Their hapless hopes too truly told;
For, alas! till now they never had known
How deep and how strong their loves had grown,
But just as they sip the full cup of the heart,
It is dash'd from the lip,—and they must part!
Alas! they had loved, yet never before
The wealth of love had counted o'er,
And just as they find the treasure so great,
It is lost, it is sunk in the billows of fate.
Yea, it must be with a fearful shock
That the pine can be torn from its root-clasp'd rock,
Or the broad oak-stump as it stands on the farm
Be rent asunder by strength of arm;
So, when the cords of love are twined
Among the fibres of the mind,
And kindred souls by secret ties
Mingle thoughts and sympathies,
O what a wrench to tear in twain
Those that are loved and love again,—
To drag the magnet from its pole,
To chain the freedom of the soul,
To freeze in ice desires that boil,
To root the mandrake from the soil,
With groans, and blood, and tears, and toil!
He is gone to the land of the holy war,
The sad, the brave young Amador,
Not to return,—by Leoline's oath,
When all in wrath he bound them both,
Not to return,—by that last kiss,
Till name, and fame, and fortune are his.
Aye, he is gone:—and with him went,
As into chosen banishment,
The bloom of her cheek, and the light of her eye,
And the hope of her heart, so near to die:
He is gone, o'er Paynim lands to roam,
But leaves his heart, his all, at home;
And years have glided, day by day,
To watch him warring far away,
Where, upon Gideon's hallowed banks
His prowess hath scatter'd the Saracen ranks,
And the Lion-king with his own right hand
Hath dubb'd him knight of Holy-Land:
The crescent waned wherever he came,
And Christendom rung with his deeds of fame,
And Saladin trembled at the name
Of Amador de-Ramothaim.
He hath won him in battle a goodly shield,
Three wild boars Or on an azure field,
While scallop-shells three on an argent fess
Proclaim him a pilgrim and knight no less;
Enchased in gold on his helmet of steel
A deer-hound stands on the high-plumed keel,
Hafiz his hound, who hath rescued his life
From the wily Assassin's secret knife,
Hafiz his friend, whom he loveth so well
As the last gift of Christabel:
And over his vizor, and round his arm,
And graved on his sword as a favourite charm,
And on his banner emblazon'd at length,
Love's motto, “Hope is all my strength.”
Oh then, with how much pride and joy,
And hope, which fear could scarce alloy,
With heart how leaping, eye how bright,
And fair cheek flush'd with deep delight,
Heard Christabel the wafted story
Of her far-off lover's glory;
For her inmost soul knew well
That he hoped and spake and thought
Only of his Christabel,
That he lived and loved and fought
Only for his Christabel:
So, she felt his honour hers,
His welfare hers, his being hers,
And did reward with rich largesse
The stray astonish'd messengers
Who brought her so much happiness!
—Behold! it is past,—that many a year;
The harvest of her hope is near;
Behold! it is come,—behold him here!
Yes, in pomp and power and pride,
And joy and love how true, how tried,
He comes to claim his long-loved bride;
Her own true knight, O bliss to tell,
Her Amador she loves so well
Returns for his sweet Christabel!
He leapt the moat, the portal past,
He flung him from his horse in haste,
And in the hall
He met her! but how pale and wan!—
He started back, as she upon
His neck would fall;
He started back,—for by her side
(O blessed vision!) he espied
A thing divine,—
Poor Christabel was lean and white,
But oh, how soft, and fair, and bright,
Was Geraldine!
Fairer and brighter, as he gazes
All celestial beauty blazes
From those glorious eyes,
And Amador no more can brook
The jealous air and peevish look
That in the other lies!
Alas, for wasting Christabel,
Alas, for stricken Christabel,—
How had she long'd to see this day,
And now her all is dash'd away!
How many slow sad years, poor maid,
Had she for this day wept and pray'd,
And now the bitterest tears destroy
That honied hope of cherish'd joy,
For he hath ceased,—O withering thought,
With burning anguish fully fraught,—
To love his Christabel!
Her full heart bursts, and she doth fall
Unheeded in her father's hall,
And, oh, the heaviest stroke of all,
By him she loves so well.
O save her, Mary Mother, save!
Let not the damnèd sorceress have
Her evil will;
O save thine own sweet Christabel,
Thy saint, thine innocent Christabel,
And guard her still!

Conclusion to Part II.

III. Part III.

BEING THE FIFTH AND LAST OF CHRISTAPEL.

Hast thou not seen, world-weary man,
Life's poor pilgrim white and wan,—
A gentle beauty for the cheek
Which nothing gives but sorrow,
A sweet expression, soft and weak,
Joy can never borrow?
Where lingering on the pale wet face
The rival tears run their slow race
Each in its wonted furrow;
And patience, eloquently meek,
From the threaten'd stroke unshrinking,
In mild boldness can but speak
The burden of its sadden'd thinking,—
“Dreary as to-day has been,
And sad and cheerless yestereen,
'Twill dawn as dark to-morrow!”
Desolate-hearted Christabel,
Hapless, hopeless Christabel,—
Nightly tears have dimm'd the lustre
Of thy blue eyes, once so bright,
And, as when dank willows cluster
Weeping over marble rocks,
O'er thy forehead white
Droop thy flaxen locks:
Yet art thou beautiful, poor girl,
As angels in distress,
Yea, comforting the soul, fair pearl,
With thy loveliness;
For thy beauty's light subdued
Hath a soothing charm
In sympathy with all things good
That weep for hate and harm;
And none can ever see unmoved
Thy poor wet face, with sorrow white,
O none have seen, who have not loved,
The sadly sweet religious light
That doth with pearly radiance shine
From those sainted eyes of thine.
A trampling of hoofs at the cullice-port,—
A hundred horse in the castle-court!
From border-wastes, a weary way,
Through Halegarth wood and Knorren moor,
A mingled numerous array
On panting palfreys black and grey
With foam and mud bespatter'd o'er
Hastily cross the flooded Irt,
And rich Waswater's beauty skirt,
And Sparkling-Tairn, and rough Scathwaite,
And now that day is dropping late,
Have pass'd the drawbridge and the gate.
By thy white flowing beard, and reverend mien,
And gilded harp, and chaplet of green,
And milk-white mare in the castle-yard,
Welcome, glad welcome to Bracy the bard!
And,—by thy struggle still to hide
This generous conquest of thy pride,
More than by yon princely train,
And blazon'd banner standing near,
And snorting steed with slacken'd rein,—
Hail, O too long a stranger here,
Hail, to Langdale's friendly hall,
Thou noble spirit, most of all,
Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine!
Like aspens tall beside the brook
The stalwarth warriors stood and shook,
And each advancing fear'd to look
Into the other's eye;
'Tis fifty years ago to-day
Since in disdain and passion they
Had flung each other's love away
With words of insult high:
How had they long'd and pray'd to meet!
But memories cling; and pride is sweet;
And—which could be the first to greet
The haply scornful other?
What if De Vaux were haughty still,—
Or Leoline's unbridled will
Consented not his rankling ill
In charity to smother?
Their knees give way, their faces are pale,
And loudly beneath the corslets of mail
Their aged hearts in generous heat
Almost to bursting boil and beat;
The white lips quiver, the pulses throb,
They stifle and swallow the rising sob,—
And there they stand, faint and unmann'd,
As each holds forth his bare right hand!
Yes, the mail-clad warriors tremble,
All unable to dissemble
Penitence and love confest,
As within each aching breast
The flood of affection grows deeper and stronger
Till they can refrain no longer,
But with,—“Oh, my long-lost brother,”—
To their hearts they clasp each other,
Vowing in the face of heaven
All forgotten and forgiven!
Then, the full luxury of grief
That brings the smother'd soul relief,
Within them both so fiercely rush'd
That from their vanquish'd eyes out-gush'd
A tide of tears, as pure and deep
As children, yea as cherubs weep!
Quoth Roland de Vaux to Sir Leoline;
“No lady lost can be daughter of mine,
For yestereen at this same hour
My Geraldine sat in her latticed bower,
And merrily marvell'd much to hear
She had been found in the forest drear:
Nathless, of thee, old friend, to crave
Once more the love I long to have
E'er yet I drop into the grave,
Behold me here!
I hail'd the rich offer, and hither I sped,
Glad to reclaim our friendship fled,
And see that face,—e'er yet it be dead,—
I feel so dear;
And my old heart danced with the joy of a child
When out of school he leaps half-wild
To think we could be reconciled.”
“Thy tale is strange,” quoth Leoline,
“As thy return is sweet;
Yet might it please thee, brother mine,
In knightly sort to greet
This wondrous new-found Geraldine;
Certes, she is a thing divine,—
So bright in her doth beauty shine
From head to feet,
A wondrous creature, most divine,
For angels meet.”
O glorious in thy loveliness!
Victorious in thy loveliness!
From what strong magnetic zone
Circling some strange world unknown,
Hast thou stol'n sweet influence
To lull in bliss each ravish'd sense?
That thine eyes rain light and love
Kindlier than the heavens above,—
That the sunshine of thy face
Shows richly ripe each winning grace,—
That thine innocent laughing dimple,
And thy tresses curling simple,
Thy soft cheek, and rounded arm,
And foot unsandall'd, white and warm,
And every sweet luxurious charm
Fair, and full, and flush'd, and bright,
Fascinate the dazzled sight
As with a halo of delight?
Her beauty hath conquer'd: a sunny smile
Laughs into goodness her seeming guile.
Aye, was she not in mercy sent
To heal the friendships pride had rent?
Is she not here a blessed saint
To work all good by subtle feint?
Yea, art thou not, mysterious dame,
Our Lady of Furness?—the same, the same
O holy one, we know thee now,
O gracious one, before thee bow,
Help us, Mary, hallow'd one,
Bless us, for thy wondrous Son—
The name was half-spoken,—the spell was half-broken,—
And suddenly, from his bent knee
Upleapt each knight in fear!
All warily they look'd around,
Sure, they had heard a hissing sound
And one quick moment on the ground
Had seen a dragon here!
But now before their wilder'd eyes
Bright Geraldine, all sweet surprise,
With her fair hands, in courteous guise
Hath touch'd them both, and bade them rise;
“Alas, kind sirs,” she calmly said,
“I am but a poor hunted maid,
Hunted, ah me! and sore afraid,
That all too far from home have stray'd,
For love of one who flies and hates me,
For hate of one who loves and waits me.”
Wonder-stricken were they then,
And full of love, those ancient men,
Full-fired with guilty love, as when
In times of old
To young Susannah's fairness knelt
Those elders twain, and fiercely felt
The lava-streams of passion melt
Their bosoms cold:
They loved,—they started from the floor,—
But, hist! within the chamber-door
Softly stole Sir Amador;—
Nor look'd, nor wonder'd as they past,
(Speeding by in shame and haste,
Meekly thinking of each other
As a weak and guilty brother,)
For all to him in that dark room,
All the light to pierce its gloom,
All he thought of, cared for, there,
Was that loved one, smiling fair,
Wondrous in her charms divine,
Glad and glorious Geraldine.
The eye of a hawk is fierce and bright
As a facet-cut diamond scattering light,
Soft and ray'd with invincible love
As a pure pearl is the eye of a dove;
And so in flashes quick and keen
Look'd Amador on Geraldine,
And so, in sweet subduing rays,
On Amador did fondly gaze
In gentle power of beauty's blaze
Imperial Geraldine.
His head is cushion'd on her breast,
Her dark eyes shed love on his,
And his changing cheek is prest
By her hot and thrilling kiss,
While again from her moist lips
The honeydew of joy he sips,
And views, with rising transport warm,
Her half-unveil'd bewitching form—
A step on the threshold!—the chamber is dim,
And gliding ghost-like up to him,
While entranced in conscious fear
He feels an injured angel near,
Sad Christabel with wringing hands
Beside her faithless lover stands,
Sad Christabel with streaming eyes
In silent anguish stands and sighs.
Ave, Maria! send her aid,
Bless, oh bless the wretched maid!
It is done,—he is won!—stung with remorse
He hath dropt at her feet as a clay-cold corse,
And Christabel with trembling dread
Hath raised on her knee his pale dear head,
And bathed his brow with many a tear,
And listen'd for his breath in fear,
And when she thought that none was near
But guardian saints, and God above,
Set on his lips the seal of her love!
But Geraldine had watch'd that kiss,
And with involuntary hiss
And malice in her snake-like stare
She gnash'd her teeth on the loving pair
And glared on them both with a deadly glare.
Softly through the sounding hall
In rich melodious notes,
With many a gentle swell and fall,
Holy music floats,
Like gossamer in a sultry sky
Dropping low, or sailing high:
Bard Bracy, bard Bracy, that touch was thine
On Cambria's harp with triple strings,
Wild and sweet is the hymn divine,
Fanning the air like unseen wings,—
What aileth thee, O Geraldine?
What horror is hunting thee, Geraldine?—
Thy body convulsed groweth lank and lean,
Thy smooth white neck is shrivell'd and green,
Thine eyes are blear'd and sunk and keen,—
Away!—for the love, and the wild sweet harp,
Thine innermost being do wither and warp,
Away! to the pains, and the chains, and the fears,
Away! to the torments, the toils, and the tears,
Away! for a thousand years.

Conclusion to Part III.