 | Miscellanies (1885) |  |
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Christabel.
The Introduction to Part the Third.
Listen! Ye know that I am mad,
And ye will listen!—wizard dreams
Were with me—all is true that seems!
From dreams alone can truth be had—
In dreams divinest lore is taught,
For the eye, no more distraught,
Rests most calmly; and the ear,
Of sound unconscious, may apply
Its attributes unknown, to hear
The Music of Philosophy!
And ye will listen!—wizard dreams
Were with me—all is true that seems!
From dreams alone can truth be had—
In dreams divinest lore is taught,
For the eye, no more distraught,
Rests most calmly; and the ear,
Of sound unconscious, may apply
Its attributes unknown, to hear
The Music of Philosophy!
Thus am I wisest in my sleep,
For thoughts and things which daylight brings
Come to the spirit sad and single;
But verse and prose, and joys and woes,
Inextricably mingle
When the hushed frame is silent in repose!
Twilight and moonlight, mist and storm,
Black night, and fire-eyed hurricane,
And crested lightning, and the snows
That mock the sunbeams, and the rain
Which bounds on earth with big drops warm,
All are round me while I spell
The legend of sweet Christabel!
For thoughts and things which daylight brings
Come to the spirit sad and single;
But verse and prose, and joys and woes,
Inextricably mingle
When the hushed frame is silent in repose!
Twilight and moonlight, mist and storm,
Black night, and fire-eyed hurricane,
And crested lightning, and the snows
That mock the sunbeams, and the rain
Which bounds on earth with big drops warm,
All are round me while I spell
The legend of sweet Christabel!
—Part Third.
Nine moons have waxed, and the tenth in its wane
Sees Christabel struggle in unknown pain!
For many moons was her eye less bright,
For many moons was her vest more tight.
And her cheek was pale, save when, with a start,
The life-blood came from the panting heart
And, fluttering o'er that thin fair face,
Past with a rapid, nameless pace;
And at moments a big tear filled the eye,
And at moments a short and smothered sigh
Swelled her breast with sudden strain,
Breathed half in grief and half in pain,
For hers are pangs on the rack that wind
The outward frame and the inward mind.
And when at night she did visit the oak,
She wore the Baron's scarlet cloak
(That cloak which, happy to hear and to tell,
Was lined with the fur of the leopard well).
And as she wandered down the dell,
None said 'twas the Lady Christabel.
Some thought 'twas a weird and ugsome elf;
Some deemed 'twas the sick old Baron himself,
Who wandered beneath the snowy lift
To count his beads in solemn shrift
(For his shape below was wide to see,
All bloated with the hydropsie).
Oh, had her old father the secret known,
He had stood as stark as the statue of stone
That stands so silent and white and tall
At the upper end of his banquet-hall!
Sees Christabel struggle in unknown pain!
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For many moons was her vest more tight.
And her cheek was pale, save when, with a start,
The life-blood came from the panting heart
And, fluttering o'er that thin fair face,
Past with a rapid, nameless pace;
And at moments a big tear filled the eye,
And at moments a short and smothered sigh
Swelled her breast with sudden strain,
Breathed half in grief and half in pain,
For hers are pangs on the rack that wind
The outward frame and the inward mind.
And when at night she did visit the oak,
She wore the Baron's scarlet cloak
(That cloak which, happy to hear and to tell,
Was lined with the fur of the leopard well).
And as she wandered down the dell,
None said 'twas the Lady Christabel.
Some thought 'twas a weird and ugsome elf;
Some deemed 'twas the sick old Baron himself,
Who wandered beneath the snowy lift
To count his beads in solemn shrift
(For his shape below was wide to see,
All bloated with the hydropsie).
Oh, had her old father the secret known,
He had stood as stark as the statue of stone
That stands so silent and white and tall
At the upper end of his banquet-hall!
Am I asleep, or am I awake?
In very truth I oft mistake,
As the stories of old come over my brain,
And I build in spirit the mystic strain.
Ah! would to the Virgin that I were asleep!
But I must wake, and I must weep!
In very truth I oft mistake,
As the stories of old come over my brain,
And I build in spirit the mystic strain.
Ah! would to the Virgin that I were asleep!
But I must wake, and I must weep!
Sweet Christabel, it is not well
That a lady, pure as the sunless snow
That lies so oft on the mountain's brow,
That a maiden of sinless chastity
In child-birth pangs should be doomed to die,
Or live with a name of sorrow and shame,
And hear the words of blemish and blame!
For the world that smiles at the guilt of man
Places woman beneath its ban.
Alas! that scandal thus should wreak
Its vengeance on the warm and weak;
That the arrows of the cold and dull
Should wound the heart of the beautiful!
82
That lies so oft on the mountain's brow,
That a maiden of sinless chastity
In child-birth pangs should be doomed to die,
Or live with a name of sorrow and shame,
And hear the words of blemish and blame!
For the world that smiles at the guilt of man
Places woman beneath its ban.
Alas! that scandal thus should wreak
Its vengeance on the warm and weak;
That the arrows of the cold and dull
Should wound the heart of the beautiful!
Of the things that be, did we know but half,
Many and many would weep who laugh!
Tears would darken many an eye,
Or that deeper grief (when its orb is dry,
When it cannot dare the eye of day)
O'er the clouded heart would stray
Till it crumbled like desert dust away!
But here we meet with grief and grudge,
And they who cannot know us judge!
Thus souls on whom good angels smile
Are scoffed at in our world of guile.
Let this, Ladie, thy comfort be:
Man knows not us; good angels know
The things that pass in the world below.
And scarce, methinks, it seems unjust
That the world should view thee with mistrust;
For who that saw that child of thine,
Pale Christabel, who could divine
That its sire was the Ladie Geraldine?
Many and many would weep who laugh!
Tears would darken many an eye,
Or that deeper grief (when its orb is dry,
When it cannot dare the eye of day)
O'er the clouded heart would stray
Till it crumbled like desert dust away!
But here we meet with grief and grudge,
And they who cannot know us judge!
Thus souls on whom good angels smile
Are scoffed at in our world of guile.
Let this, Ladie, thy comfort be:
Man knows not us; good angels know
The things that pass in the world below.
And scarce, methinks, it seems unjust
That the world should view thee with mistrust;
For who that saw that child of thine,
Pale Christabel, who could divine
That its sire was the Ladie Geraldine?
But in I rush, with too swift a gale,
Into the ocean of my tale!
Not yet, young Christabel, I ween
Of her babe hath lighter been.
—'Tis the month of the snow and the blast,
And the days of Christmas mirth are past,
When the oak-roots heaped on the hearth blazed bright,
Casting a broad and dusky light
On the shadowy forms of the warriors old,
Who stared from the wall, most grim to behold;
On shields where the spider his tapestry weaves,
On the holly boughs and the ivy leaves,
The few green glories that still remain
To mock the storm and welcome the rain,
Brighter and livelier 'mid tempest and shower,
Like a hero in the battle hour!
Brave emblems o'er the winter hearth,
They cheered our fathers' hours of mirth!
Into the ocean of my tale!
Not yet, young Christabel, I ween
Of her babe hath lighter been.
83
And the days of Christmas mirth are past,
When the oak-roots heaped on the hearth blazed bright,
Casting a broad and dusky light
On the shadowy forms of the warriors old,
Who stared from the wall, most grim to behold;
On shields where the spider his tapestry weaves,
On the holly boughs and the ivy leaves,
The few green glories that still remain
To mock the storm and welcome the rain,
Brighter and livelier 'mid tempest and shower,
Like a hero in the battle hour!
Brave emblems o'er the winter hearth,
They cheered our fathers' hours of mirth!
Twelve solar months complete and clear
The magic circle of the year!
Each (the ancient riddle saith)
Children two times thirty hath!
Three times ten are fair and white,
Three times ten are black as Night;
Three times ten hath Hecatè,
Three times ten the God of Day:
Thus spoke the old hierophant
(I saw her big breast, swelling, pant)
What time I dreamed, in ghostly wise,
Of Eleusinian mysteries;
For I am the hierarch
Of the mystical and dark,
And now, if rightly I do spell
Of the Lady Christabel,
She hates the three times ten so white,
And sickens in their searching light;
And woe is hers—alas! alack!
She hates the three times ten so black;
As a mastiff bitch doth bark,
I hear her moaning in the dark!
The magic circle of the year!
Each (the ancient riddle saith)
Children two times thirty hath!
Three times ten are fair and white,
Three times ten are black as Night;
Three times ten hath Hecatè,
Three times ten the God of Day:
Thus spoke the old hierophant
(I saw her big breast, swelling, pant)
What time I dreamed, in ghostly wise,
Of Eleusinian mysteries;
For I am the hierarch
Of the mystical and dark,
And now, if rightly I do spell
Of the Lady Christabel,
She hates the three times ten so white,
And sickens in their searching light;
And woe is hers—alas! alack!
She hates the three times ten so black;
84
I hear her moaning in the dark!
'Tis the month of January:
Why, lovely maiden, light and airy,
While the moon can scarcely glow
Through the plumes of falling snow,
While the moss upon the bark
Is withered all, and damp and dark,
While cold above the stars in doubt
Look dull, and scarcely will stay out,
While the snow is heavy on beechen bower,
And hides its namesake, the snowdrop flower,
Why walk forth thus mysteriously?
Dear girl, I ask thee seriously.
Thy cheek is pale, thy locks are wild—
Ah, think how big thou art with child!
Though the baron's red cloak through the land hath no fellow,
Thou shouldst not thus venture without an umbrella!
Why, lovely maiden, light and airy,
While the moon can scarcely glow
Through the plumes of falling snow,
While the moss upon the bark
Is withered all, and damp and dark,
While cold above the stars in doubt
Look dull, and scarcely will stay out,
While the snow is heavy on beechen bower,
And hides its namesake, the snowdrop flower,
Why walk forth thus mysteriously?
Dear girl, I ask thee seriously.
Thy cheek is pale, thy locks are wild—
Ah, think how big thou art with child!
Though the baron's red cloak through the land hath no fellow,
Thou shouldst not thus venture without an umbrella!
Dost thou wander to the field of graves
Where the elder its spectral branches waves;
And will thy hurried footsteps halt
Where thy mother sleeps in the silent vault?
Where the stranger pauses long to explore
The emblems quaint of heraldic lore,
Where, though the lines are tarnished and dim,
Thy mother's features stare gaunt and grim,
And grinning skull and transverse bone,
And the names of warriors dead and gone,
Mark Sir Leoline's burial-stone:
Thither go not, or I deem almost
That thou wilt frighten thy mother's ghost!
Or wilt thou wend to the huge oak-tree,
And, kneeling down upon thy knee,
Number the beads of my rosary?
Nine beads of gold and a tenth of pearl,
And a prayer with each, my lovely girl,
Nine and one shalt thou record;
Nine to the Virgin and one to the Lord!
The pearls are ten times one to behold,
And ten times nine are the beads of gold:
Methinks 'tis hard of the friar to ask
On a night like this so weary a task!
Where the elder its spectral branches waves;
And will thy hurried footsteps halt
Where thy mother sleeps in the silent vault?
Where the stranger pauses long to explore
The emblems quaint of heraldic lore,
Where, though the lines are tarnished and dim,
Thy mother's features stare gaunt and grim,
And grinning skull and transverse bone,
And the names of warriors dead and gone,
Mark Sir Leoline's burial-stone:
Thither go not, or I deem almost
That thou wilt frighten thy mother's ghost!
Or wilt thou wend to the huge oak-tree,
And, kneeling down upon thy knee,
Number the beads of my rosary?
85
And a prayer with each, my lovely girl,
Nine and one shalt thou record;
Nine to the Virgin and one to the Lord!
The pearls are ten times one to behold,
And ten times nine are the beads of gold:
Methinks 'tis hard of the friar to ask
On a night like this so weary a task!
'Tis pleasant, 'tis pleasant, in summer time,
In the green wood to spell the storied rhyme,
When the light winds above 'mong the light leaves are singing,
And the song of the birds through your heart is ringing;
'Tis pleasant, 'tis pleasant when happily humming
To the flowers below the blythe bee is coming!—
When the rivulet, coy and ashamed to be seen,
Is heard where it hides 'mong the grass-blades green,
When the light of the moon and each starry islet
Gives a charm more divine to the long summer twilight,
When the breeze o'er the blossomy hawthorn comes cheerful,
'Tis pleasant—with heart, ah! how happy though fearful—
With heaven-beaming eyes where tears come while smiles glisten
To the lover's low vows in the silence to listen!
In the green wood to spell the storied rhyme,
When the light winds above 'mong the light leaves are singing,
And the song of the birds through your heart is ringing;
'Tis pleasant, 'tis pleasant when happily humming
To the flowers below the blythe bee is coming!—
When the rivulet, coy and ashamed to be seen,
Is heard where it hides 'mong the grass-blades green,
When the light of the moon and each starry islet
Gives a charm more divine to the long summer twilight,
When the breeze o'er the blossomy hawthorn comes cheerful,
'Tis pleasant—with heart, ah! how happy though fearful—
With heaven-beaming eyes where tears come while smiles glisten
To the lover's low vows in the silence to listen!
'Tis pleasant too on a fine spring day
(A month before the month of May)
To pray for a lover that's far away!
But, Christabel, I cannot see
The powerful cause that sways with thee
Thus, with a face all waxen white,
To wander forth on a winter night.
(A month before the month of May)
To pray for a lover that's far away!
But, Christabel, I cannot see
The powerful cause that sways with thee
Thus, with a face all waxen white,
To wander forth on a winter night.
The snow hath ceased, dear lady meek,
But the night is chill and bleak;
And clouds are passing swift away
Below the moon so old and grey—
The crescent moon, like a bark of pearl,
That lies so calm on the billowy whirl;
Rapidly, rapidly
With the blast
Clouds of ebony
Wander fast.
And one the maiden hath fixed her eye on
Hath passed o'er the moon and is near the horizon!
Ah, Christabel, I dread it, I dread it,
That the clouds of shame
Will darken and gather
O'er the maiden's name,
Who chances unwedded
To give birth to a child, and knows not its father!
But the night is chill and bleak;
86
Below the moon so old and grey—
The crescent moon, like a bark of pearl,
That lies so calm on the billowy whirl;
Rapidly, rapidly
With the blast
Clouds of ebony
Wander fast.
And one the maiden hath fixed her eye on
Hath passed o'er the moon and is near the horizon!
Ah, Christabel, I dread it, I dread it,
That the clouds of shame
Will darken and gather
O'er the maiden's name,
Who chances unwedded
To give birth to a child, and knows not its father!
One—two—three—four—five—six—seven—eight—nine—ten—eleven!—
Tempest or calm, in moonshine or shower,
The castle clock still tolls the hour,
And the cock awakens, and echoes the sound,
And is answered by the owls around;
And at every measured tone
You may hear the old baron grunt and groan.
'Tis a thing of wonder, of fright, and fear,
The mastiff bitches' moans to hear;
And the aged cow in her stall that stands,
And is milked each morning by female hands
(That the baron's breakfast of milk and bread
May be brought betimes to the old man's bed,
Who often gives, while he is dressing,
His Christabel a father's blessing)—
That aged cow, as each stroke sounds slow,
Answers it with a plaintive low!
And the baron old, who is ill at rest,
Curses the favourite cat for a pest;
For let him pray, or let him weep,
She mews through all the hours of sleep,
Till the morning comes with its pleasant beams,
And the cat is at rest, and the baron dreams.
Let it rain however fast,
Rest from rain will come at last,
And the blaze that strongest flashes
Sinks at last, and ends in ashes!
But sorrow from the human heart,
And mists of care—will they depart?
I know not, and I cannot tell,
Saith the Lady Christabel;
But I feel my bosom swell!
In my spirit I behold
A lady—call her firm, not bold—
Standing lonely by the burn:
Strange feelings through her breast and brain
Shoot with a sense of madness and pain.
Ah, Christabel, return, return;
Let me not call on thee in vain!
Think, lady dear, if thou art drowned,
That thy body will be found.
What anguish will thy spirit feel
When it must to all reveal
What the spell binds thee to conceal!
How the baron's heart will knock 'gainst his chest
When the stake is driven into thy breast,
When thy body to dust shall be carelessly flung,
And over the dead no dirge be sung,
No friend in mourning vesture dight,
No lykewake sad—no tapered rite!
Tempest or calm, in moonshine or shower,
The castle clock still tolls the hour,
And the cock awakens, and echoes the sound,
And is answered by the owls around;
And at every measured tone
You may hear the old baron grunt and groan.
'Tis a thing of wonder, of fright, and fear,
The mastiff bitches' moans to hear;
And the aged cow in her stall that stands,
And is milked each morning by female hands
(That the baron's breakfast of milk and bread
May be brought betimes to the old man's bed,
Who often gives, while he is dressing,
His Christabel a father's blessing)—
That aged cow, as each stroke sounds slow,
Answers it with a plaintive low!
And the baron old, who is ill at rest,
Curses the favourite cat for a pest;
87
She mews through all the hours of sleep,
Till the morning comes with its pleasant beams,
And the cat is at rest, and the baron dreams.
Let it rain however fast,
Rest from rain will come at last,
And the blaze that strongest flashes
Sinks at last, and ends in ashes!
But sorrow from the human heart,
And mists of care—will they depart?
I know not, and I cannot tell,
Saith the Lady Christabel;
But I feel my bosom swell!
In my spirit I behold
A lady—call her firm, not bold—
Standing lonely by the burn:
Strange feelings through her breast and brain
Shoot with a sense of madness and pain.
Ah, Christabel, return, return;
Let me not call on thee in vain!
Think, lady dear, if thou art drowned,
That thy body will be found.
What anguish will thy spirit feel
When it must to all reveal
What the spell binds thee to conceal!
How the baron's heart will knock 'gainst his chest
When the stake is driven into thy breast,
When thy body to dust shall be carelessly flung,
And over the dead no dirge be sung,
No friend in mourning vesture dight,
No lykewake sad—no tapered rite!
Return, return, thy home to bless,
Daughter of good Sir Leoline;
In that chamber a recess,
Known to no other eye than thine,
Contains the powerful wild flower wine
That often cheered thy mother's heart;
Lady, lovely as thou art,
Return and, ere thou dost undress
And lie down in thy nakedness,
Repair to thy secret and favourite haunt
And drink the wine as thou art wont,
Hard to uncork and bright to decant!
Daughter of good Sir Leoline;
In that chamber a recess,
Known to no other eye than thine,
Contains the powerful wild flower wine
88
Lady, lovely as thou art,
Return and, ere thou dost undress
And lie down in thy nakedness,
Repair to thy secret and favourite haunt
And drink the wine as thou art wont,
Hard to uncork and bright to decant!
My merry girl—she drinks—she drinks;
Faster she drinks and faster;
My brain reels round as I see her whirl:
She hath turned on her heel with a sudden twirl,
Wine, wine is a cure for every disaster;
For when sorrow wets the eye,
Yet the heart within is dry.
Sweet maid, upon the bed she sinks:
May her dreams be light, and her rest be deep;
Good angels guard her in her sleep!
Faster she drinks and faster;
My brain reels round as I see her whirl:
She hath turned on her heel with a sudden twirl,
Wine, wine is a cure for every disaster;
For when sorrow wets the eye,
Yet the heart within is dry.
Sweet maid, upon the bed she sinks:
May her dreams be light, and her rest be deep;
Good angels guard her in her sleep!
| Miscellanies (1885) | |