Six Centuries of English Poetry Part 8

They cross'd the moat, and Christabel Took the key that fitted well; A little door she open'd straight, All in the middle of the gate; The gate that was iron'd within and without, Where an army in battle array had march'd out.

The lady sank, belike through pain, And Christabel with might and main Lifted her up, a weary weight, Over the threshold of the gate: Then the lady rose again, And moved, as she were not in pain.

So free from danger, free from fear, They cross'd the court: right glad they were.

And Christabel devoutly cried To the lady by her side; "Praise we the Virgin all divine Who hath rescued thee from thy distress!"

"Alas, alas!" said Geraldine, "I cannot speak for weariness."

So free from danger, free from fear, They cross'd the court: right glad they were.

Outside her kennel the mastiff old Lay fast asleep, in moons.h.i.+ne cold.

The mastiff old did not awake, Yet she an angry moan did make!

And what can ail the mastiff b.i.t.c.h?

Never till now she utter'd yell Beneath the eye of Christabel.

Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch: For what can ail the mastiff b.i.t.c.h?

They pa.s.s'd the hall, that echoes still, Pa.s.s as lightly as you will!

The brands were flat, the brands were dying, Amid their own white ashes lying; But when the lady pa.s.s'd, there came A tongue of light, a fit of flame; And Christabel saw the lady's eye, And nothing else saw she thereby, Save the boss of the s.h.i.+eld of Sir Leoline tall, Which hung in a murky old niche in the wall.

"O softly tread," said Christabel, "My father seldom sleepeth well."

Sweet Christabel her feet both bare, And, jealous of the listening air, They steal their way from stair to stair, Now in glimmer, and now in gloom, And now they pa.s.s the Baron's room, And still as death, with stifled breath!

And now have reach'd her chamber door; And now doth Geraldine press down The rushes of the chamber floor.

The moon s.h.i.+nes dim in the open air, And not a moonbeam enters here.

But they without its light can see The chamber carved so curiously, Carved with figures strange and sweet, All made out of the carver's brain, For a lady's chamber meet: The lamp with twofold silver chain Is fasten'd to an angel's feet.

The silver lamp burns dead and dim; But Christabel the lamp will trim.

She trimm'd the lamp, and made it bright, And left it swinging to and fro, While Geraldine, in wretched plight, Sank down upon the floor below.

"O weary lady, Geraldine, I pray you, drink this cordial wine!

It is a wine of virtuous powers; My mother made it of wild flowers."

"And will your mother pity me, Who am a maiden most forlorn?"

Christabel answered--"Woe is me!

She died the hour that I was born.

I have heard the gray-hair'd friar tell, How on her death-bed she did say, That she should hear the castle-bell Strike twelve upon my wedding-day.

O mother dear! that thou wert here!"

"I would," said Geraldine, "she were!"

But soon with altered voice, said she-- "Off, wandering mother! Peak and pine!

I have power to bid thee flee."

Alas! what ails poor Geraldine?

Why stares she with unsettled eye?

Can she the bodiless dead espy?

And why with hollow voice cries she, "Off, woman, off! this hour is mine-- Though thou her guardian spirit be, Off, woman, off! 'tis given to me."

Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side, And raised to heaven her eyes so blue-- "Alas!" said she, "this ghastly ride-- Dear lady! it hath wilder'd you!"

The lady wiped her moist cold brow, And faintly said, "'Tis over now!"

Again the wild-flower wine she drank: Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright, And from the floor whereon she sank, The lofty lady stood upright: She was most beautiful to see, Like a lady of a far countree.

And thus the lofty lady spake-- "All they who live in the upper sky, Do love you, holy Christabel!

And you love them, and for their sake And for the good which me befell, Even I in my degree will try, Fair maiden, to requite you well.

But now unrobe yourself; for I Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie."

Quoth Christabel, "So let it be!"

And as the lady bade, did she.

Her gentle limbs did she undress, And lay down in her loveliness.

But through her brain of weal and woe So many thoughts move to and fro, That vain it were her lids to close; So half-way from the bed she rose, And on her elbow did recline To look at the lady Geraldine.

Beneath the lamp the lady bow'd, And slowly roll'd her eyes around; Then drawing in her breath aloud Like one that shudder'd, she unbound The cincture from beneath her breast; Her silken robe and inner vest, Dropt to her feet, and full in view, Behold! her bosom and half her side-- A sight to dream of, not to tell!

O s.h.i.+eld her! s.h.i.+eld sweet Christabel.

Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs; Ah! what a stricken look was hers!

Deep from within seems half-way To lift some weight with sick a.s.say, And eyes the maid and seeks delay; Then suddenly as one defied Collects herself in scorn and pride, And lay down by the maiden's side!-- And in her arms the maid she took, Ah, well-a-day!

And with low voice and doleful look These words did say: "In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel!

Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow; But vainly thou warrest, For this is alone in Thy power to declare, That in the dim forest Thou heardest a low moaning, And foundest a bright lady, surpa.s.singly fair: And didst bring her home with thee in love and in charity, To s.h.i.+eld her and shelter her from the damp air."

NOTES

The first part of the unfinished poem, "Christabel," was written in 1797, the second part which, however, left the story apparently as incomplete as before, in 1808. The two parts were first published in 1816. The poem is a picture of white innocence, purity, and truth, pursued and persecuted by the powers of evil. Its incompleteness seems to enhance its interest. "Completion could scarcely have failed to lessen its reality, for the reader could not have endured, neither could the poet's own theory have endured, the sacrifice of Christabel, the triumph of evil over good; and had she triumphed, there is a vulgar well-being in victory which has nothing to do with such a strain."

"Such is the unfinished and unfinishable tale of Christabel--a poem which, despite its broken notes and over-brevity, has raised its author to the highest rank of poets, and which in itself is at once one of the sweetest, loftiest, most spiritual utterances that has ever been framed in English words. We know of no existing poem in any language to which we can compare it. It stands by itself exquisite, celestial, ethereal,--a song of the spheres,--yet full of such pathos and tenderness and sorrowful beauty as only humanity can give."--_Blackwood's Magazine_, 1871.

It is worthy of note that "Christabel" was the immediate inspiration of Scott's "Lay of the Last Minstrel." "It is to Mr. Coleridge," says Sir Walter, "that I am bound to make the acknowledgment due from the pupil to his master." "But certainly," says Hales, "Scott himself never succeeded in surrounding any one of his works with so fine an atmosphere of glamour and romance."

The language and metrical arrangement of this poem are not only peculiar but are in full accord with the weird and fantastic conception of the piece as a whole. The versification is based upon a principle not commonly practised--that of counting the number of accentuated words in a line instead of the number of syllables. Though the latter varies from seven to twelve, yet in each line the accents never exceed four. The result is an irregular, but strangely beautiful harmony of a kind that can hardly be attained through the ordinary methods of versification.

This poem is to be studied for its exquisite beauty, for the true poetic qualities which it possesses and which distinguish it from mere verse.

Hence, no explanatory notes are given with reference to any particular pa.s.sage, nor is it desirable that it should be a.n.a.lyzed with a view to grammatical or philological study. It should be read and reread until the student is thoroughly in accord with the poetic spirit which breathes in and vivifies the entire production. "It was indolence, no doubt, that left the tale half told--indolence and misery--and a poetic instinct higher than all the better impulses of industry and virtuous gain. The subject by its very nature was incomplete; it had to be left a lovely, weird suggestion--a vision for every eye that could see."

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE was born at Ottery Saint Mary, October 21, 1772.

He was educated at Christ's Hospital and at Jesus College, Cambridge. At the age of twenty-two he left the University without having taken a degree. He was an intimate friend of Charles Lamb and Southey, and with the latter formed a wild scheme for the founding of a "Pantisocratic State" in America, which, however, was soon abandoned. His first book of poetry was published in 1794. In 1796 he and Charles Lamb published a volume of poems together. He soon afterwards became acquainted with Wordsworth, and in 1798 the two brought out their famous volume of _Lyrical Ballads_, containing some of Wordsworth's best pieces and Coleridge's "Ancient Mariner." "Christabel," after lying in ma.n.u.script for several years, was published in 1816, three editions being issued within twelve months. Coleridge's chief poems were published in 1817 in a collection ent.i.tled _Sibylline Leaves_, so called, he says, "in allusion to the fragmentary and wildly scattered state in which they had long been suffered to remain." At about the same time he was received into the house of Mr. Gillman, a surgeon residing at Highgate, in order to be cured if possible of his excessive use of opium. Here he produced his more important prose works, _Aids to Reflection_, and _On the Const.i.tution of Church and State_; and here he died, July 25, 1834.

Coleridge was forever planning and designing,--beginning a work and leaving its completion until to-morrow--which never came. He devoted his attention only sparingly to poetry--and that chiefly during his youth.

Later in life he was occupied with political, social, and religious questions. "He was a living Hamlet, full of the most splendid thoughts and the n.o.blest purposes, but a most incompetent doer." "His mind,"

wrote Southey, "is a perpetual St. Vitus's dance--eternal activity without action."

"Of Coleridge's best verses," says Swinburne, "I venture to affirm that the world has nothing like them, and can never have; that they are of the highest kind, and of their own. They are jewels of the diamond's price, flowers of the rose's rank, but unlike any rose or diamond known."

"His best work is but little," says Stopford Brooke, "but of its kind it is perfect and unique. . . . All that he did excellently might be bound up in twenty pages, but it should be bound in pure gold."

=Other Poems to be Read:= The Rime of the Ancient Mariner; Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Chamouni; Ode to France; Genevieve.