Poems of Coleridge

THE CONCLUSION TO PART THE FIRST

  It was a lovely sight to see  The lady Christabel, when she  Was praying at the old oak tree.     Amid the jagged shadows     Of mossy leafless boughs,     Kneeling in the moonlight,     To make her gentle vows;  Her slender palms together prest,  Heaving sometimes on her breast;  Her face resigned to bliss or bale—  Her face, oh call it fair not pale,  And both blue eyes more, bright than clear,  Each about to have a tear.  With open eyes (ah woe is me!)  Asleep, and dreaming fearfully,  Fearfully dreaming, yet, I wis,.  Dreaming that alone, which is—  O sorrow and shame! Can this be she,  The lady, who knelt at the old oak tree?  And lo! the worker of these harms,  That holds the maiden in her arms,  Seems to slumber still and mild,  As a mother with her child.  A star hath set, a star hath risen,  O Geraldine! since arms of thine  Have been the lovely lady's prison.  O Geraldine! one hour was thine  Thou'st had thy will! By tairn and rill,  The night-birds all that hour were still.  But now they are jubilant anew,  From cliff and tower, tu-whoo! tu-whoo!  Tu-whoo! tu-whoo! from wood and fell!  And see! the lady Christabel  Gathers herself from out her trance;  Her limbs relax, her countenance  Grows sad and soft; the smooth thin lids  Close o'er her eyes; and tears she sheds  Large tears that leave the lashes bright!  And oft the while she seems to smile  As infants at a sudden light!  Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep,  Like a youthful hermitess,  Beauteous in a wilderness,  Who, praying always, prays in sleep.  And, if she move unquietly,  Perchance,'tis but the blood so free  Comes back and tingles in her feet.  No doubt, she hath a vision sweet.  What if her guardian spirit 'twere,  What if she knew her mother near?  But this she knows, in joys and woes,  That saints will aid if men will call:  For the blue sky bends over all!

1797.

PART THE SECOND

  Each matin bell, the Baron saith,  Knells us back to a world of death.  These words Sir Leoline first said,  When he rose and found his lady dead:  These words Sir Leoline will say  Many a morn to his dying day!  And hence the custom and law began  That still at dawn the sacristan,  Who duly pulls the heavy bell,  Five and forty beads must tell  Between each stroke—a warning knell,  Which not a soul can choose but hear  From Bratha Head to Wyndermere.  Saith Bracy the bard, So let it knell!  And let the drowsy sacristan  Still count as slowly as he can!  There is no lack of such, I ween,  As well fill up the space between.  In Langdale Pike and Witch's Lair,  And Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent,  With ropes of rock and bells of air  Three sinful sextons' ghosts are pent,  Who all give back, one after t'other,  The death-note to their living brother;  And oft too, by the knell offended,  Just as their one! two! three! is ended,  The devil mocks the doleful tale  With a merry peal from Borrowdale.  The air is still! through mist and cloud  That merry peal comes ringing loud;  And Geraldine shakes off her dread,  And rises lightly from the bed;  Puts on her silken vestments white,  And tricks her hair in lovely plight,  And nothing doubting of her spell  Awakens the lady Christabel  "Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel?  I trust that you have rested well."  And Christabel awoke and spied  The same who lay down by her side—  O rather say, the same whom she  Raised up beneath the old oak tree!  Nay, fairer yet! and yet more fair!  For she belike hath drunken deep  Of all the blessedness of sleep!  And while she spake, her looks, her air,  Such gentle thankfulness declare,  That (so it seemed) her girded vests  Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts.  "Sure I have sinn'd!" said Christabel,  "Now heaven be praised if all be well!"  And in low faltering tones, yet sweet,  Did she the lofty lady greet  With such perplexity of mind  As dreams too lively leave behind.  So quickly she rose, and quickly arrayed  Her maiden limbs, and having prayed  That He, who on the cross did groan,  Might wash away her sins unknown,  She forthwith led fair Geraldine  To meet her sire, Sir Leoline.  The lovely maid and the lady tall  Are pacing both into the hall,  And pacing on through page and groom,  Enter the Baron's presence-room.  The Baron rose, and while he prest  His gentle daughter to his breast,  With cheerful wonder in his eyes  The lady Geraldine espies,  And gave such welcome to the same,  As might beseem so bright a dame!  But when he heard the lady's tale,  And when she told her father's name,  Why waxed Sir Leoline so pale,  Murmuring o'er the name again,  Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine?  Alas! they had been friends in youth;  But whispering tongues can poison truth;  And constancy lives in realms above;  And life is thorny; and youth is vain;  And to be wroth with one we love  Doth work like madness in the brain.  And thus it chanced, as I divine,  With Roland and Sir Leoline.  Each spake words of high disdain  And insult to his heart's best brother:  They parted—ne'er to meet again!  But never either found another  To free the hollow heart from paining—  They stood aloof, the scars remaining,  Like cliffs which had been rent asunder;  A dreary sea now flows between.  But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,  Shall wholly do away, I ween,  The marks of that which once hath been.  Sir Leoline, a moment's space,  Stood gazing on the damsel's face:  And the youthful Lord of Tryermaine  Came back upon his heart again.  O then the Baron forgot his age,  His noble heart swelled high with rage;  He swore by the wounds in Jesu's side  He would proclaim it far and wide,  With trump and solemn heraldry,  That they, who thus had wronged the dame  Were base as spotted infamy!  "And if they dare deny the same,  My herald shall appoint a week,  And let the recreant traitors seek  My tourney court—that there and then  I may dislodge their reptile souls  From the bodies and forms of men!"  He spake: his eye in lightning rolls!  For the lady was ruthlessly seized; and he kenned  In the beautiful lady the child of his friend!  And now the tears were on his face,  And fondly in his arms he took  Fair Geraldine, who met the embrace,  Prolonging it with joyous look.  Which when she viewed, a vision fell  Upon the soul of Christabel,  The vision of fear, the touch and pain!  She shrunk and shuddered, and saw again—  (Ah, woe is me! Was it for thee,  Thou gentle maid! such sights to see?)  Again she saw that bosom old,  Again she felt that bosom cold,  And drew in her breath with a hissing sound:  Whereat the Knight turned wildly round,  And nothing saw, but his own sweet maid  With eyes upraised, as one that prayed.  The touch, the sight, had passed away,  And in its stead that vision blest,  Which comforted her after-rest,  While in the lady's arms she lay,  Had put a rapture in her breast,  And on her lips and o'er her eyes  Spread smiles like light!                             With new surprise,  "What ails then my beloved child?"  The Baron said—His daughter mild  Made answer, "All will yet be well!"  I ween, she had no power to tell  Aught else: so mighty was the spell.  Yet he, who saw this Geraldine,  Had deemed her sure a thing divine.  Such sorrow with such grace she blended,  As if she feared she had offended  Sweet Christabel, that gentle maid!  And with such lowly tones she prayed  She might be sent without delay  Home to her father's mansion.                               "Nay!  Nay, by my soul!" said Leoline.  "Ho! Bracy the bard, the charge be thine!  Go thou, with music sweet and loud,  And take two steeds with trappings proud,  And take the youth whom thou lov'st best  To bear thy harp, and learn thy song,  And clothe you both in solemn vest,  And over the mountains haste along,  Lest wandering folk, that are abroad,  Detain you on the valley road.  "And when he has crossed the Irthing flood,  My merry bard! he hastes, he hastes  Up Knorren Moor, through Halegarth Wood,  And reaches soon that castle good  Which stands and threatens Scotland's wastes.  "Bard Bracy! bard Bracy! your horses are fleet,  Ye must ride up the hall, your music so sweet,  More loud than your horses' echoing feet!  And loud and loud to Lord Roland call,  Thy daughter is safe in Langdale hall!  Thy beautiful daughter is safe and free—  Sir Leoline greets thee thus through me.  He bids thee come without delay  With all thy numerous array;  And take thy lovely daughter home:  And he will meet thee on the way  With all his numerous array  White with their panting palfreys' foam:  And, by mine honour! I will say,  That I repent me of the day  When I spake words of fierce disdain  To Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine!—  —For since that evil hour hath flown,  Many a summer's sun hath shone;  Yet ne'er found I a friend again  Like Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine."  The lady fell, and clasped his knees,  Her face upraised, her eyes o'erflowing;  And Bracy replied, with faltering voice,  His gracious hail on all bestowing;  "Thy words, thou sire of Christabel,  Are sweeter than my harp can tell;  Yet might I gain a boon of thee,  This day my journey should not be,  So strange a dream hath come to me;  That I had vowed with music loud  To clear yon wood from thing unblest,  Warn'd by a vision in my rest!  For in my sleep I saw that dove,  That gentle bird, whom thou dost love,  And call'st by thy own daughter's name—  Sir Leoline! I saw the same,  Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan,  Among the green herbs in the forest alone.  Which when I saw and when I heard,  I wonder'd what might ail the bird;  For nothing near it could I see,  Save the grass and green herbs underneath the old tree.  "And in my dream, methought, I went  To search out what might there be found;  And what the sweet bird's trouble meant,  That thus lay fluttering on the ground.  I went and peered, and could descry  No cause for her distressful cry;  But yet for her dear lady's sake  I stooped, methought, the dove to take,  When lo! I saw a bright green snake  Coiled around its wings and neck.  Green as the herbs on which it couched,  Close by the dove's its head it crouched;  And with the dove it heaves and stirs,  Swelling its neck as she swelled hers!  I woke; it was the midnight hour,  The clock was echoing in the tower;  But though my slumber was gone by,  This dream it would not pass away—  It seems to live upon my eye!  And thence I vowed this self-same day  With music strong and saintly song  To wander through the forest bare,  Lest aught unholy loiter there."  Thus Bracy said: the Baron, the while,  Half-listening heard him with a smile;  Then turned to Lady Geraldine,  His eyes made up of wonder and love;  And said in courtly accents fine,  "Sweet maid, Lord Roland's beauteous dove,  With arms more strong than harp or song,  Thy sire and I will crush the snake!"  He kissed her forehead as he spake,  And Geraldine in maiden wise  Casting down her large bright eyes,  With blushing cheek and courtesy fine  She turned her from Sir Leoline;  Softly gathering up her train,  That o'er her right arm fell again;  And folded her arms across her chest,  And couched her head upon her breast,  And looked askance at Christabel—  Jesu, Maria, shield her well!  A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy,  And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her head,  Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye,  And with somewhat of malice, and more of dread,  At Christabel she look'd askance!—  One moment—and the sight was fled!  But Christabel in dizzy trance  Stumbling on the unsteady ground  Shuddered aloud, with a hissing sound;  And Geraldine again turned round,  And like a thing, that sought relief,  Full of wonder and full of grief,  She rolled her large bright eyes divine  Wildly on Sir Leoline.  The maid, alas! her thoughts are gone,  She nothing sees—no sight but one!  The maid, devoid of guile and sin,  I know not how, in fearful wise,  So deeply had she drunken in  That look, those shrunken serpent eyes,  That all her features were resigned  To this sole image in her mind:  And passively did imitate  That look of dull and treacherous hate!  And thus she stood, in dizzy trance,  Still picturing that look askance  With forced unconscious sympathy  Full before her father's view—  As far as such a look could be  In eyes so innocent and blue!  And when the trance was o'er, the maid  Paused awhile, and inly prayed:  Then falling at the Baron's feet,  "By my mother's soul do I entreat  That thou this woman send away!"  She said: and more she could not say:  For what she knew she could not tell,  O'er-mastered by the mighty spell.  Why is thy cheek so wan and wild,  Sir Leoline? Thy only child  Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride,  So fair, so innocent, so mild;  The same, for whom thy lady died!  O, by the pangs of her dear mother  Think thou no evil of thy child!  For her, and thee, and for no other,  She prayed the moment ere she died:  Prayed that the babe for whom she died,  Might prove her dear lord's joy and pride!    That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled,          Sir Leoline!    And wouldst thou wrong thy only child,          Her child and thine?  Within the Baron's heart and brain  If thoughts, like these, had any share,  They only swelled his rage and pain,  And did but work confusion there.  His heart was cleft with pain and rage,  His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were wild,  Dishonour'd thus in his old age;  Dishonour'd by his only child,  And all his hospitality  To the insulted daughter of his friend  By more than woman's jealousy  Brought thus to a disgraceful end—  He rolled his eye with stern regard  Upon the gentle minstrel bard,  And said in tones abrupt, austere—  "Why, Bracy! dost thou loiter here?  I bade thee hence!" The bard obeyed;  And turning from his own sweet maid,  The aged knight, Sir Leoline,  Led forth the lady Geraldine!

1801.

THE CONCLUSION TO PART THE SECOND

  A little child, a limber elf,  Singing, dancing to itself,  A fairy thing with red round cheeks,  That always finds, and never seeks,  Makes such a vision to the sight  As fills a father's eyes with light;  And pleasures flow in so thick and fast  Upon his heart, that he at last  Must needs express his love's excess  With words of unmeant bitterness.  Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together  Thoughts so all unlike each other;  To mutter and mock a broken charm,  To dally with wrong that does no harm.  Perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty  At each wild word to feel within  A sweet recoil of love and pity.  And what, if in a world of sin  (O sorrow and shame should this be true!)  Such giddiness of heart and brain  Comes seldom save from rage and pain,  So talks as it's most used to do.

?1801.

KUBLA KHAN

  In Xanadu did Kubla Khan  A stately pleasure-dome decree:  Where Alph, the sacred river, ran  Through caverns measureless to man    Down to a sunless sea.  So twice five miles of fertile ground  With walls and towers were girdled round:  And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills,  Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;  And here were forests ancient as the hills,  Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.  But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted  Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!    A savage place! as holy and enchanted    As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted    By woman wailing for her demon-lover!    And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,    As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,    A mighty fountain momently was forced:    Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst    Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,    Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:    And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever    It flung up momently the sacred river.    Five miles meandering with a mazy motion    Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,    Then reached the caverns measureless to man,    And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:    And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far    Ancestral voices prophesying war!    The shadow of the dome of pleasure    Floated midway on the waves;    Where was heard the mingled measure    From the fountain and the caves.  It was a miracle of rare device,  A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!    A damsel with a dulcimer    In a vision once I saw:    It was an Abyssinian maid;    And on her dulcimer she played,    Singing of Mount Abora.    Could I revive within me    Her symphony and song,    To such a deep delight 'twould win me,  That with music loud and long,  I would build that dome in air,  That sunny dome! those caves of ice!  And all who heard should see them there,  And all should cry, Beware! Beware!  His flashing eyes, his floating hair!  Weave a circle round him thrice,  And close your eyes with holy dread,  For he on honey-dew hath fed,  And drunk the milk of Paradise.

1798.

LEWTI OR THE CIRCASSIAN LOVE-CHAUNT

  At midnight by the stream I roved,  To forget the form I loved.  Image of Lewti! from my mind  Depart; for Lewti is not kind.  The Moon was high, the moonlight gleam    And the shadow of a star  Heaved upon Tamaha's stream;    But the rock shone brighter far,  The rock half sheltered from my view  By pendent boughs of tressy yew.—  So shines my Lewti's forehead fair,  Gleaming through her sable hair,  Image of Lewti! from my mind  Depart; for Lewti is not kind.  I saw a cloud of palest hue,  Onward to the moon it passed;  Still brighter and more bright it grew,  With floating colours not a few,  Till it reach'd the moon at last:  Then the cloud was wholly bright,  With a rich and amber light!  And so with many a hope I seek  And with such joy I find my Lewti;  And even so my pale wan cheek  Drinks in as deep a flush of beauty!  Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind,  If Lewti never will be kind.  The little cloud-it floats away,  Away it goes; away so soon?  Alas! it has no power to stay:  Its hues are dim, its hues are grey—  Away it passes from the moon!  How mournfully it seems to fly,  Ever fading more and more,  To joyless regions of the sky—  And now 'tis whiter than before!  As white as my poor cheek will be,  When, Lewti! on my couch I lie,  A dying man for love of thee.  Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind—  And yet, thou didst not look unkind.  I saw a vapour in the sky,  Thin, and white, and very high;  I ne'er beheld so thin a cloud:  Perhaps the breezes that can fly  Now below and now above,  Have snatched aloft the lawny shroud  Of Lady fair—that died for love.  For maids, as well as youths, have perished  From fruitless love too fondly cherished.  Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind—  For Lewti never will be kind.  Hush! my heedless feet from under  Slip the crumbling banks for ever:  Like echoes to a distant thunder,  They plunge into the gentle river.  The river-swans have heard my tread,  And startle from their reedy bed.  O beauteous birds! methinks ye measure  Your movements to some heavenly tune!  O beauteous birds! 'tis such a pleasure  To see you move beneath the moon,  I would it were your true delight  To sleep by day and wake all night.  I know the place where Lewti lies  When silent night has closed her eyes:    It is a breezy jasmine-bower,  The nightingale sings o'er her head:    Voice of the Night! had I the power  That leafy labyrinth to thread,  And creep, like thee, with soundless tread,  I then might view her bosom white  Heaving lovely to my sight,  As these two swans together heave  On the gently-swelling wave.  Oh! that she saw me in a dream,    And dreamt that I had died for care;  All pale and wasted I would seem    Yet fair withal, as spirits are!  I'd die indeed, if I might see  Her bosom heave, and heave for me!  Soothe, gentle image! soothe my mind!  To-morrow Lewti may be kind.

1794.

THE BALLAD OF THE DARK LADIE A FRAGMENT

  Beneath yon birch with silver bark,  And boughs so pendulous and fair,  The brook falls scatter'd down the rock:  And all is mossy there!  And there upon the moss she sits,  The Dark Ladié in silent pain;  The heavy tear is in her eye,    And drops and swells again.  Three times she sends her little page  Up the castled mountain's breast,  If he might find the Knight that wears       The Griffin for his crest.  The sun was sloping down the sky,  And she had linger'd there all day,  Counting moments, dreaming fears—      Oh wherefore can he stay?  She hears a rustling o'er the brook,  She sees far off a swinging bough!  "'Tis He! 'Tis my betrothed Knight!      Lord Falkland, it is Thou!"  She springs, she clasps him round the neck,  She sobs a thousand hopes and fears,  Her kisses glowing on his cheeks      She quenches with her tears.* * * * *  "My friends with rude ungentle words  They scoff and bid me fly to thee!  O give me shelter in thy breast!      O shield and shelter me!  "My Henry, I have given thee much,  I gave what I can ne'er recall,  I gave my heart, I gave my peace,      O Heaven! I gave thee all."  The Knight made answer to the Maid,  While to his heart he held her hand,  "Nine castles hath my noble sire,      None statelier in the land.  "The fairest one shall be my love's,  The fairest castle of the nine!  Wait only till the stars peep out,      The fairest shall be thine:  "Wait only till the hand of eve  Hath wholly closed yon western bars,  And through the dark we two will steal      Beneath the twinkling stars!"—  "The dark? the dark? No! not the dark?  The twinkling stars? How, Henry? How?  O God! 'twas in the eye of noon      He pledged his sacred vow!  "And in the eye of noon my love  Shall lead me from my mother's door,  Sweet boys and girls all clothed in white      Strewing flowers before:  "But first the nodding minstrels go  With music meet for lordly bowers,  The children next in snow-white vests,      Strewing buds and flowers!  "And then my love and I shall pace,  My jet black hair in pearly braids,  Between our comely bachelors      And blushing bridal maids."

* * * * * 1798.

LOVE

  All thoughts, all passions, all delights,  Whatever stirs this mortal frame,  All are but ministers of Love,      And feed his sacred flame.  Oft in my waking dreams do I  Live o'er again that happy hour,  When midway on the mount I lay,      Beside the ruined tower.  The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene  Had blended with the lights of eve;  And she was there, my hope, my joy,      My own dear Genevieve!  She leant against the armed man,  The statue of the armed knight;  She stood and listened to my lay,      Amid the lingering light.  Few sorrows hath she of her own.  My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!  She loves me best, whene'er I sing      The songs that make her grieve.  I played a soft and doleful air,  I sang an old and moving story—  An old rude song, that suited well      That ruin wild and hoary.  She listened with a flitting blush,  With downcast eyes and modest grace;  For well she knew, I could not choose      But gaze upon her face.  I told her of the Knight that wore  Upon his shield a burning brand;  And that for ten long years he wooed    The Lady of the Land.  I told her how he pined: and ah!  The deep, the low, the pleading tone  With which I sang another's love,    Interpreted my own.  She listened with a flitting blush,  With downcast eyes, and modest grace;  And she forgave me, that I gazed      Too fondly on her face!  But when I told the cruel scorn  That crazed that bold and lovely Knight,  And that he crossed the mountain-woods,      Nor rested day nor night;  That sometimes from the savage den,  And sometimes from the darksome shade,  And sometimes starting up at once      In green and sunny glade,—  There came and looked him in the face  An angel beautiful and bright;  And that he knew it was a Fiend,      This miserable Knight!  And that unknowing what he did,  He leaped amid a murderous band,  And saved from outrage worse than death      The Lady of the Land!  And how she wept, and clasped his knees;  And how she tended him in vain—  And ever strove to expiate      The scorn that crazed his brain;—  And that she nursed him in a cave;  And how his madness went away,  When on the yellow forest-leaves      A dying man he lay;—  His dying words-but when I reached  That tenderest strain of all the ditty,  My faltering voice and pausing harp      Disturbed her soul with pity!  All impulses of soul and sense  Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve;  The music and the doleful tale,      The rich and balmy eve;  And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,  An undistinguishable throng,  And gentle wishes long subdued,      Subdued and cherished long!  She wept with pity and delight,  She blushed with love, and virgin-shame;  And like the murmur of a dream,      I heard her breathe my name.  Her bosom heaved—she stepped aside,  As conscious of my look she stepped—  Then suddenly, with timorous eye      She fled to me and wept.  She half enclosed me with her arms,  She pressed me with a meek embrace;  And bending back her head, looked up,      And gazed upon my face.  'Twas partly love, and partly fear,  And partly 'twas a bashful art,  That I might rather feel, than see,      The swelling of her heart.  I calmed her fears, and she was calm,  And told her love with virgin pride;  And so I won my Genevieve,      My bright and beauteous Bride.

1798-1799.