The huge hall-table's oaken face, Crested with bays and rosemary. "T was Christmas told the merriest tale; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve! She leaned against the arméd man, The statue of the arméd 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, She listened with a flitting blush, I told her of the Knight that wore I told her how he pined: and ah! She listened with a flitting blush, But when I told the cruel scorn SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. And that he crossed the mountain-woods, [1772-1834.] GENEVIEVE. ALL thoughts, all passions, all delights, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I Beside the ruined tower. The moonshine stealing o'er the scene 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 And that unknowing what he did, SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. And how she wept, and clasped his knees; The scorn that crazed his brain; And that she nursed him in a cave, 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 The rich and balmy eve; And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, Subdued and cherished long. She wept with pity and delight, I heard her breathe my name. Her bosom heaved, she stepped aside, She half enclosed me with her arms, 'T was partly love, and partly fear, 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. HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI. HAST thou a charm to stay the morning star In his steep course? So long he seems to pause 109 From dark and icycaverns called you forth, | Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, Forever shattered and the same forever? Who gave you your invulnerable life, Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, Unceasing thunder and eternal foam? And who commanded (and the silence came), Here let the billows stiffen and have rest? Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow Adown enormous ravines slope amain, Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge! Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? thou That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low Solemnly seemest like a vapory cloud Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills, Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven, Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky, And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. CHRISTABEL. PART L 'T Is the middle of night by the castle clock, And the owls have awakened the crowing cock; Tu-whit! tu-whoo! And hark, again! the crowing cock, Sir Leoline, the Baron rich, Ever and aye, by shine and shower, Is the night chilly and dark? The lovely lady, Christabel, SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE, 111 And she in the midnight wood will pray | And the lady, whose voice was faint and For the weal of her lover that's far away. She stole along, she nothing spoke, The sighs she heaved were soft and low, And naught was green upon the oak, But moss and rarest mistletoe : She kneels beneath the huge oak-tree, And in silence prayeth she. The lady sprang up suddenly, The lovely lady, Christabel! It moaned as near as near can be, But what it is she cannot tell. On the other side it seems to be Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak-tree. The night is chill; the forest bare; Is it the wind that moaneth bleak? There is not wind enough in the air To move away the ringlet curl From the lovely lady's cheek, There is not wind enough to twirl The one red leaf, the last of its clan, That dances as often as dance it can, Hanging so light, and hanging so high, On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky. Hush, beating heart of Christabel ! Jesu Maria, shield her well! She folded her arms beneath her cloak, And stole to the other side of the oak. What sees she there? There she sees a damsel bright, Drest in a silken robe of white, That shadowy in the moonlight shone. The neck that made that white robe wan, Her stately neck, and arms were bare; Her blue-veined feet unsandalled were, And wildly glittered here and there The gems entangled in her hair. I guess, 't was frightful there to see A lady so richly clad as she, Beautiful exceedingly! "Mary mother, save me now!" Said Christabel; "and who art thou?" The lady strange made answer meet, And her voice was faint and sweet: "Have pity on my sore distress, I scarce can speak for weariness.' "Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear!" Said Christabel; "how camest thou here?" sweet, Did thus pursue her answer meet: "My sire is of a noble line, And my name is Geraldine: Five warriors seized me yestermorn, Me, even me, a maid forlorn; They choked my cries with force and fright, And tied me on a palfrey white. And once we crossed the shade of night. Stretch forth thy hand" (thus ended she), "And help a wretched maid to flee." Then Christabel stretched forth her hand And comforted fair Geraldine: Will he send forth, and friends withal, She rose and forth with steps they That strove to be, and were not, fast. They crossed the moat, and Christabel Took the key that fitted well; As still as death with stifled breath! The moon shines 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 fastened to an angel's feet. The silver lamp burns dead and dim; But Christabel the lamp will trim. She trimmed 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, "And will your mother pity me, Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side, And raised to heaven her eyes so blue; Again the wild-flower wine she drank: Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright, |