University of Virginia Library

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.