Classic Poem

PART III.

BEING THE FIFTH AND LAST OF CHRISTABEL .

Hast thou not seen, world-weary man,
Life's poor pilgrim white and wan —
A gentle beauty for the cheek
Which nothing gives but sorrow,
A sweet expression, soft and weak,
Joy can never borrow?
Where, lingering on the pale wet face,
The rival tears run their slow race,
Each in its wonted furrow;
And patience, eloquently meek,
From the threaten'd stroke unshrinking,
In mild boldness can but speak
The burden of its sadden'd thinking —
" Dreary as to-day has been,
And sad and cheerless yestereen,
'Twill dawn as dark to-morrow! "

Desolate-hearted Christabel,
Hapless, hopeless Christabel —
Nightly tears have dimm'd the lustre
Of thy blue eyes, once so bright,
And, as when dank willows cluster
Weeping over marble rocks,
O'er thy forehead white
Droop thy flaxen locks:
Yet art thou beautiful, poor girl,
As angels in distress,
Yea, comforting the soul, sweet girl,
With thy loveliness;
For thy beauty's light subdued
Hath a soothing charm
In sympathy with all things good
That weep for hate and harm;

And none can ever see unmoved
Thy poor wet face, with sorrow white,
O, none have seen, who have not loved
The sadly sweet religious light
That doth with pearly radiance shine
From those sainted eyes of thine!

A trampling of hoofs at the cullice-port,
A hundred horse in the castle-court!
From border-wastes, a weary way,
Thro' Halegarth wood and Knorren moor,
A mingled numerous array,
On panting palfreys, black and gray,
With foam and mud bespatter'd o'er,
Hastily cross the flooded Irt,
And rich Waswater's beauty skirt,
And Sparkling-Tairn, and rough Scathwaite,
And now that day is dropping late,
Have passed the draw-bridge and the gate.

By thy white flowing beard, and reverend mien,
And gilded harp, and chaplet of green,
And milk-white mare in the castle-yard.
Welcome, glad welcome to Bracy the bard!
And — by thy struggle still to hide
This generous conquest of thy pride,
More than by yon princely train,
And blazon'd banner standing near,
And snorting steed with slackened rein,
Hail, O too long a stranger here,
Hail, to Langdale's friendly hall,
Thou noble spirit, most of all,
Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine!

Like aspens tall beside the brook
The stalworth warriors stood and shook,
And each advancing fear'd to look
Into the other's eye;
'T is fifty years ago to-day
Since in disdain and passion they
Had flung each other's love away
With words of insult high:
How had they long'd and pray'd to meet!
But memories cling; and pride is sweet;
And — which could be the first to greet
The haply scornful other?
What if De Vaux were haughty still —
Or Leoline's unbridled will
Consented not his rankling ill
In charity to smother?

Their knees give way, their faces are pale,
And loudly beneath the corslets of mail
Their aged hearts in generous heat
Almost to bursting boil and beat;
The white lips quiver, the pulses throb,
They stifle and swallow the rising sob —
And there they stand, faint and unmann'd,
As each holds forth his bare right hand!
Yes, the mail-clad warriors tremble,
All unable to dissemble
Penitence and love confest,
As within each aching breast
The flood of affection grows deeper and stronger,
Till they can refrain no longer,
But with, " Oh, my long-lost brother! "
To their hearts they clasp each other,
Vowing in the face of heaven
All forgotten and forgiven!

Then the full luxury of grief
That brings the smothered soul relief,
Within them both so fiercely rushed,
That from their vanquish'd eyes out-gushed
A tide of tears, as pure and deep
As children, yea as cherubs weep!

Quoth Roland de Vaux to Sir Leoline:
" No lady lost can be daughter of mine,
For yestereen, at this same hour,
My Geraldine sat in her latticed bower,
And merrily marvelled much to hear
She had been found in the forest drear:
Nathless, of thee, old friend, to crave
Once more the love I long to have
Ere yet I drop into the grave,
Behold me here!
I hail'd the rich offer, and hither I sped,
Glad to reclaim our friendship fled,
And see that face, ere yet it be dead,
I feel so dear;
And my old heart danced with the joy of a child
When out of school he leaps half wild
To think he could be reconciled. "

" Thy tale is strange, " quoth Leoline,
" As thy return is sweet;
Yet might it please thee, brother mine,
In knightly sort to greet
This wondrous new found Geraldine;
For sure she is a thing divine,
So bright in her doth beauty shine
From head to feet,
Yea, sure she is a thing divine,
For angels meet. "

O, glorious in thy loveliness!
Victorious in thy loveliness!
From what strong magnetic zone,
Circling some strange world unknown,
Hast thou stolen sweet influence
To lull in bliss each ravish'd sense?
That thine eyes rain light and love
Kindlier than the heavens above;
That the sunshine of thy face
Shows richly ripe each winning grace;
That thine innocent laughing dimple,
And thy tresses curling simple,
Thy soft cheek, and rounded arm,
And foot unsandal'd, white and warm,
And every sweet luxurious charm,
Fair, and full, and flush'd, and bright,
Fascinate the dazzled sight
As with a halo of delight?
Her beauty hath conquer'd: a sunny smile
Laughs into goodness her seeming guile.
Ay, was she not in mercy sent
To heal the friendships pride had rent?
Is she not here a blessed saint
To work all good by subtle feint?
Yea, art thou not, mysterious dame,
Our Lady of Furness? — The same, the same!
O, holy one, we know thee now!
O, gracious one, before thee bow!
Help us, Mary, hallowed one!
Bless us, for thy wondrous Son —

The name was half spoken,
The spell was half broken,
And suddenly, from his bent knee
Upleapt each knight in fear,
All warily they look'd around:
Sure, they had heard a hissing sound,
And one quick moment on the ground
Had seen a dragon here!
But now before their 'wildered eyes
Bright Geraldine, all sweet surprise,
With her fair hands in courteous guise,
Hath touch'd them both, and bade them rise.
Alas, kind sirs! she calmly said,
I am but a poor hunted maid —
Hunted, ah me! and sore afraid,
That all too far from home have stray'd,
For love of one who flies and hates me,
For hate of one who loves and waits me.

Wonder stricken were they then,
And full of love, those ancient men,
Full-fired with guilty love, as when
In times of old
To young Susannah's fairness knelt
Those elders twain, and foully felt
The lava-streams of passion melt
Their bosoms cold:
They loved; they started from the floor;
But, hist! within the chamber-door
Softly stole Sir Amador:
Nor look'd, nor wondered as they passed,
(Speeding by in shame and haste,
Meekly thinking of each other
As a weak and guilty brother,)
For all to him in that dark room,
All the light to pierce its gloom,
All he thought of, cared for, there,
Was that loved one, smiling fair,
Wondrous in her charms divine,
Glad and glorious Geraldine.

The eye of a hawk is fierce and bright
As a facet-cut diamond scattering light,
Soft and rayed with invincible love
As the pure pearl is the eye of a dove;
And so in flashes quick and keen
Look'd Amador on Geraldine;
And so, in sweet subduing rays,
On Amador did fondly gaze,
In gentle power of beauty's blaze,
Imperial Geraldine.

His head is cushioned on her breast,
Her dark eyes shed love on his,
And his changing cheek is prest
By her hot and thrilling kiss,
While again from her moist lips
The honey-dew of joy he sips,
And views, with rising transport warm,
Her half unveiled bewitching form. —

A step on the threshold! — the chamber is dim,
And gliding ghost-like up to him,
While entranced in conscious fear
He feels an injured angel near,
Sad Christabel with wringing hands
Beside her faithless lover stands;
Sad Christabel with streaming eyes
In silent anguish stands and sighs.
Ave, Maria! send her aid,
Bless, oh bless the wretched maid!

It is done! he is won! Stung with remorse,
He hath dropt at her feet as a clay-cold corse,
And Christabel with trembling dread
Hath raised on her knee his pale dear head,
And bathed his brow with many a tear,
And listened for his breath in fear,
And when she thought that none was near
But guardian saints, and God above,
Set on his lips the seal of her love!

But Geraldine had watch'd that kiss,
And with involuntary hiss,
And malice in her snake-like stare,
She gnashed her teeth on the loving pair,
And shed on them both a deadly glare.

Softly through the sounding hall,
In rich melodious notes,
With many a gentle swell and fall,
Holy music floats,
Like gossamer in a sultry sky,
Drooping low, or sailing high:
Bard Bracy, Bard Bracy, that touch was thine
On Cambria's harp with triple strings;
Wild and sweet is the hymn divine,
Fanning the air like unseen wings;
Thy hand, good Bracy, thine alone
Can wake so sad, so sweet a tone;
Naught but the magic of thy touch
Can charm so well, and cheer so much,
And wondrously, with strong control,
Rouse or lull the passive soul.

What aileth thee, O Geraldine?
Why waileth Lady Geraldine?
The body, convulsed, groweth lank and lean,
Thy smooth white neck is shrivel'd and green
Thine eyes are blear'd, and sunk, and keen
O dreadful! Art thou Geraldine? —

The spell is dead, the charm is o'er,
Writhing and coiling on the floor
A while she curl'd in pain, and then was seen no more.