University of Virginia Library

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.