And woe is hers-alas! alack!
She hates the three times ten so black,
As a mastiff bitch doth bark,
I hear her moaning in the dark !
'Tis the month of January,
Why, lovely maiden, light and airy,
While the moon can scarcely glow,
Thro' the plumes of falling snow,
While the moss upon the bark
Is wither'd all, and damp, and dark,
While cold above the stars in doubt
Look dull, and scarcely will stay out,
While the snow is heavy on beechen bower
And hides its namesake, the snow-drop flower,
Why walk forth thus mysteriously!
Dear girl, I ask thee seriously.
Thy cheek is pale, thy looks are wild
Ah, think, how big thou art with child!
Tho' the baron's red cloak thro' the land hath no fellow, Thou should'st not thus venture without an umbrella!
Dost thou wander to the field of graves
Where the elder its spectral branches weaves;
And will thy hurried footsteps halt
Where thy mother sleeps in the silent vault?
Where the stranger pauses long to explore
The emblems quaint of heraldic lore,
Where, though the lines are tarnish'd and dim,
Thy mother's features stare gaunt and grim,
And grinning skull, and transverse bone,
And the names of warriors dead and gone,
Mark Sir Leoline's burial stone;
Thither go not, or I deem almost
That thou wilt frighten thy mother's ghost!
Or wilt thou wend to the huge oak-tree,
And, kneeling down upon thy knee,
Number the beads of thy rosary?
Nine beads of gold and a tenth of pearl,
And a prayer with each, my lovely girl,
Nine, and one, shalt thou record,
Nine to the Virgin and one to the Lord!
The pearls are ten times one to behold,
And ten times nine are the beads of gold,
Methinks 'tis hard of the friar to ask
On a night like this so weary a task!
'Tis pleasant-'tis pleasant, in summer time,
In the greenwood to spell the storied rhyme,
When the light winds above 'mong the light leaves are singing,
And the song of the birds through your heart is ringing,
"Tis pleasant-'tis pleasant, when happily humming
To the flowers below the blithe bee is coming!-
When the rivulet coy, and ashamed to be seen,
Is heard where it hides 'mong the grass blades green,
When the light of the moon and each sweet starry islet
Gives a charm more divine to the long summer twilight,
When the breeze o'er the blossomy hawthorn comes
cheerful,
'Tis pleasant with heart-ah, how happy!-though fearful,
With heaven-beaming eyes, where tears come while smiles
To the lover's low vows in the silence to listen!
'Tis pleasant too, on a fine spring day
(A month before the month of May)
To pray for a lover that's far away!
But, Christabel, I cannot see
The powerful cause that sways with thee
Thus, with a face all waxen white
To wander forth on a winter night.
The snow hath ceased, dear lady meek,
But the night is chill and bleak !—
And clouds are passing swift away
Below the moon so old and gray-
The crescent moon, like a bark of pearl,
That lies so calm on the billowy whirl;-
Rapidly-rapidly
With the blast,
Clouds of ebony
Wander fast,
And one the maiden hath fix'd her eyes on,
Hath pass'd o'er the moon and is near the horizon!
Ah, Christabel, I dread it, I dread it,
That the clouds of shame
Will darken and gather
O'er the maiden's name,
To give birth to a child, and knows not its father! One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine
Tempest or calm-moonshine or shower,
The castle clock still tolls the hour,
And the cock awakens, and echoes the sound,
And is answer'd by the owls around—
And at every measured tone
You may hear the old Baron grunt and groan;
'Tis a thing of wonder, of fright, and fear,
The mastiff bitches' moans to hear-
And the aged cow in her stall that stands
And is milk'd each morning by female hands.
(That the Baron's breakfast of milk and bread
May be brought betimes to the old man's bed,
Who often gives, while he is dressing,
His Christabel a father's blessing.)
That aged cow, as each stroke sounds slow,
Answers it with a plaintive low!
And the Baron old, who is ill at rest,
Curses the favourite cat for a pest-
For let him pray, or let him weep,
She mews through all the hours of sleep-
Till morning comes with its pleasant beams,
And the cat is at rest and the Baron dreams.
Let it rain however fast,
Rest from rain will come at last,
And the blaze that strongest flashes
Sinks at last, and ends in ashes!
But sorrow from the human heart
And mists of care, will they depart?
I know not, and I cannot tell,
Saith the Lady Christabel-
But I feel my bosom swell!
In my spirit I behold
A lady-call her firm not bold
Standing lonely by the burn;
Strange feelings through her breast and brain
Shoot with a sense of madness and pain.
Ah, Christabel, return, return,
Let me not call on thee in vain!
Think, lady dear, if thou art drown'd
That thy body will be found,
What anguish will thy spirit feel,
When it must to all reveal
What the spell binds thee to conceal!
How the Baron's heart will knock 'gainst his chest
When the stake is driven into thy breast,
When thy body to dust shall be carelessly flung,
And over the dead no dirge be sung,
No friend in mourning vesture dight,
No lykewake sad-no taper'd rite!-
Return, return, thy home to bless,
Daughter of good Sir Leoline;
In that chamber a recess
Known to no other eye than thine,
Contains the powerful wild-flower wine
That often cheer'd thy mother's heart;
Lady, lovely as thou art,
Return, and ere thou dost undress
And lie down in thy nakedness,
Repair to thy secret and favourite haunt
And drink the wine as thou art wont!
Hard to uncork and bright to decant.
My merry girl-she drinks-she drinks,
Faster she drinks, and faster;
My brain reels round as I see her whirl,
She hath turn'd on her heel with a sudden twirl;
Wine, wine, is a cure for every disaster,
For when sorrow wets the eye
Yet the heart within is dry,
Sweet maid upon the bed she sinks
May her dreams be light, and her rest be deep,
Good angels guard her in her sleep!
From Poems by A. (query, Matthew Arnold?) published by Fellowes.
COME to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again :
For then the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.
Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times,
A messenger from radiant climes,
And smile on thy new world, and be
As kind to all the rest as me.
Or as thou never canst in sooth
Come now, and let me dream it truth,
And part my hair, and kiss my brow,
And say-my love! why sufferest thou?
Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again:
For then the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.
One of BERANGER'S beautiful Songs very neatly translated by
Mr. Friswell.
SHEPHERD! thou sayest each has a star
Which guides our lives and lights the skies.
Yes, child, but in its sable veil
The night obscures them from our eyes.
Since, shepherd, of that sky serene,
To read the secrets, thee 'tis given, What is that star which brightly shines, Then falls for ever from the heaven?
My child! a mortal being expires,
His course the star is downward winging;
'Midst friends, whom mirth and wine inspires,
He died; whilst gaily singing,
He drank his fill, and soundly sleeps,
And in this world will waken never.
--"Again another star outshines,
Sparkles and shines, and falls for ever."
My child! this one, so pure, and bright,
Watch'd o'er a being as pure and fair,
Good daughter, constant mistress she,
And blest with lover true and rare;
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