Ballads for the Times (Now first collected,) Geraldine, A Modern Pyramid, Bartenus, A Thousand Lines, and other poems. By Martin F. Tupper. A new Edition, enlarged and revised |
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 | Ballads for the Times |  |
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.
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.
333
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.
| Ballads for the Times | |