'Alas, alas!' said Geraldine, 'I cannot speak for weariness.' So free from danger, free from fear, They crossed the court: right glad they were. Outside her kennel the mastiff old They pass'd the hall, that echoes still, Pass as lightly as you will! The brands were flat, the brands were dying, Amid their own white ashes lying; But when the lady pass'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 shield 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 doth bare, And, jealous of the listening air, They steal their way from stair to stair, The rushes of the chamber floor. The moon shines dim in the open air, But they without its light can see The lamp with twofold silver chain Is fastened to an angel's feet. The silver lamp burns dead and dim; She trimm'd the lamp, and made it bright, And left it swinging to and fro, While Geraldine, in wretched plight, 'O weary lady, Geraldine, I pray you, drink this cordial wine! 'And will your mother pity me, But soon with altered voice, said she- Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side, Again the wild-flower wine she drank: And thus the lofty lady spake— And you love them, and for their sake Quoth Christabel, 'So let it be!' But through her brain of weal and woe Beneath the lamp the lady bow'd, The cincture from beneath her breast: Dropt to her feet, and full in view, Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs ; 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 heard'st a low moaning, And found'st a bright lady, surpassingly fair; And didst bring her home with thee in love and in charity, To shield her and shelter her from the damp air. THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. IN SEVEN PARTS. An ancient meeteth three Gallants bid den to a wed ding-feast, and detaineth one. The Wedding-Guest is spell-bound by the eye of the old seafaring-man, and constrained to hear his tale. The Mariner tells how the ship sailed southward with a good PART I. It is an ancient Mariner, "By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, 'The Bridegroom's doors are open'd wide, The guests are met, the feast is set: He holds him with his skinny hand, 'There was a ship,' quoth he. 'Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!' He holds him with his glittering eye- And listens like a three years' child: The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone: And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner. 'The ship was cheer'd, the harbour clear'd, Merrily did we drop Below the kirk, below the hill, Below the light-house top. The sun came up upon the left, Out of the sea came he! And he shone bright, and on the right wind and fair Went down into the sea. weather, till it reached the line. |