Kitabı oku: «Coleridge's Ancient Mariner and Select Poems», sayfa 6

THE CONCLUSION TO PART THE FIRST

 
  It was a lovely sight to see
  The lady Christabel, when she 280
  Was praying at the old oak tree.
    Amid the jagged shadows
    Of mossy leafless boughs,
    Kneeling in the moonlight,
    To make her gentle vows; 285
  Her slender palms together prest,
  Heaving sometimes on her breast;
  Her face resigned to bliss or bale—
  Her face, oh call it fair not pale,
  And both blue eyes more bright than clear, 290
  Each about to have a tear.
 
 
  With open eyes (ah woe is me!)
  Asleep, and dreaming fearfully,
  Fearfully dreaming, yet, I wis,
  Dreaming that alone, which is— 295
  O sorrow and shame! Can this be she,
  The lady, who knelt at the old oak tree?
  And lo! the worker of these harms,
  That holds the maiden in her arms,
  Seems to slumber still and mild, 300
  As a mother with her child.
 
 
  A star hath set, a star hath risen,
  O Geraldine! since arms of thine
  Have been the lovely lady's prison.
  O Geraldine! one hour was thine— 305
  Thou 'st had thy will! By tairn and rill,
  The night-birds all that hour were still.
  But now they are jubilant anew,
  From cliff and tower, tu—whoo! tu—whoo!
  Tu—whoo! tu—whoo! from wood and fell! 310
 
 
  And see! the lady Christabel
  Gathers herself from out her trance;
  Her limbs relax, her countenance
  Grows sad and soft; the smooth thin lids
  Close o'er her eyes; and tears she sheds— 315
  Large tears that leave the lashes bright!
  And oft the while she seems to smile
  As infants at a sudden light!
 
 
  Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep,
  Like a youthful hermitess, 320
  Beauteous in a wilderness,
  Who, praying always, prays in sleep.
  And, if she move unquietly,
  Perchance, 'tis but the blood so free
  Comes back and tingles in her feet. 325
  No doubt, she hath a vision sweet.
  What if her guardian spirit 'twere,
  What if she knew her mother near?
  But this she knows, in joys and woes,
  That saints will aid if men will call: 330
  For the blue sky bends over all!
 

PART THE SECOND

 
  "Each matin bell," the Baron saith,
  "Knells us back to a world of death."
  These words Sir Leoline first said,
  When he rose and found his lady dead: 335
  These words Sir Leoline will say
  Many a morn to his dying day!
 
 
  And hence the custom and law began
  That still at dawn the sacristan,
  Who duly pulls the heavy bell, 340
  Five and forty beads must tell
  Between each stroke—a warning knell,
  Which not a soul can choose but hear
  From Bratha Head to Wyndermere.
 
 
  Saith Bracy the bard, "So let it knell! 345
  And let the drowsy sacristan
  Still count as slowly as he can!
  There is no lack of such, I ween,
  As well fill up the space between.
  In Langdale Pike and Witch's Lair, 350
  And Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent,
  With ropes of rock and bells of air
  Three sinful sextons' ghosts are pent,
  Who all give back, one after t' other,
  The death-note to their living brother; 355
  And oft too, by the knell offended,
  Just as their one! two! three! is ended,
  The devil mocks the doleful tale
  With a merry peal from Borrowdale."
 
 
  The air is still! through mist and cloud 360
  That merry peal comes ringing loud;
  And Geraldine shakes off her dread,
  And rises lightly from the bed;
  Puts on her silken vestments white,
  And tricks her hair in lovely plight, 365
  And nothing doubting of her spell
  Awakens the lady Christabel.
  "Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel?
  I trust that you have rested well."
 
 
  And Christabel awoke and spied 370
  The same who lay down by her side—
  O rather say, the same whom she
  Raised up beneath the old oak tree!
  Nay, fairer yet! and yet more fair!
  For she belike hath drunken deep 375
  Of all the blessedness of sleep!
  And while she spake, her looks, her air,
  Such gentle thankfulness declare,
  That (so it seemed) her girded vests
  Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts. 380
  "Sure I have sinn'd!" said Christabel,
  "Now heaven be praised if all be well!"
  And in low faltering tones, yet sweet,
  Did she the lofty lady greet
  With such perplexity of mind 385
  As dreams too lively leave behind.
 
 
  So quickly she rose, and quickly arrayed
  Her maiden limbs, and having prayed
  That He, who on the cross did groan,
  Might wash away her sins unknown, 390
  She forthwith led fair Geraldine
  To meet her sire, Sir Leoline.
 
 
  The lovely maid and the lady tall
  Are pacing both into the hall,
  And pacing on through page and groom, 395
  Enter the Baron's presence-room.
 
 
  The Baron rose, and while he prest
  His gentle daughter to his breast,
  With cheerful wonder in his eyes
  The lady Geraldine espies, 400
  And gave such welcome to the same,
  As might beseem so bright a dame!
 
 
  But when he heard the lady's tale,
  And when she told her father's name,
  Why waxed Sir Leoline so pale, 405
  Murmuring o'er the name again,
  Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine?
 
 
  Alas! they had been friends in youth;
  But whispering tongues can poison truth;
  And constancy lives in realms above; 410
  And life is thorny; and youth is vain;
  And to be wroth with one we love
  Doth work like madness in the brain.
  And thus it chanced, as I divine,
  With Roland and Sir Leoline. 415
  Each spake words of high disdain
  And insult to his heart's best brother:
  They parted—ne'er to meet again!
  But never either found another
  To free the hollow heart from paining— 420
  They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
  Like cliffs which had been rent asunder;
  A dreary sea now flows between.
  But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,
  Shall wholly do away, I ween, 425
  The marks of that which once hath been.
 
 
  Sir Leoline, a moment's space,
  Stood gazing on the damsel's face:
  And the youthful Lord of Tryermaine
  Came back upon his heart again. 430
 
 
  O then the Baron forgot his age,
  His noble heart swelled high with rage;
  He swore by the wounds in Jesu's side
  He would proclaim it far and wide,
  With trump and solemn heraldry, 435
  That they, who thus had wronged the dame
  Were base as spotted infamy!
  "And if they dare deny the same,
  My herald shall appoint a week,
  And let the recreant traitors seek 440
  My tourney court—that there and then
  I may dislodge their reptile souls
  From the bodies and forms of men!"
  He spake: his eye in lightning rolls!
  For the lady was ruthlessly seized; and he kenned 445
  In the beautiful lady the child of his friend!
 
 
  And now the tears were on his face,
  And fondly in his arms he took
  Fair Geraldine, who met the embrace,
  Prolonging it with joyous look. 450
  Which when she viewed, a vision fell
  Upon the soul of Christabel,
  The vision of fear, the touch and pain!
  She shrunk and shuddered, and saw again—
  (Ah, woe is me! Was it for thee, 455
  Thou gentle maid! such sights to see?)
 
 
  Again she saw that bosom old,
  Again she felt that bosom cold,
  And drew in her breath with a hissing sound:
  Whereat the Knight turned wildly round, 460
  And nothing saw, but his own sweet maid
  With eyes upraised, as one that prayed.
 
 
  The touch, the sight, had passed away,
  And in its stead that vision blest,
  Which comforted her after-rest, 465
  While in the lady's arms she lay,
  Had put a rapture in her breast,
  And on her lips and o'er her eyes
  Spread smiles like light!
                            With new surprise,
  "What ails then my beloved child?" 470
  The Baron said—His daughter mild
  Made answer, "All will yet be well!"
  I ween, she had no power to tell
  Aught else: so mighty was the spell.
 
 
  Yet he, who saw this Geraldine, 475
  Had deemed her sure a thing divine.
  Such sorrow with such grace she blended,
  As if she feared she had offended
  Sweet Christabel, that gentle maid!
  And with such lowly tones she prayed 480
  She might be sent without delay
  Home to her father's mansion.
                                "Nay!
  Nay, by my soul!" said Leoline.
  "Ho! Bracy the bard, the charge be thine!
  Go thou, with music sweet and loud, 485
  And take two steeds with trappings proud,
  And take the youth whom thou lov'st best
  To bear thy harp, and learn thy song,
  And clothe you both in solemn vest,
  And over the mountains haste along, 490
  Lest wandering folk, that are abroad,
  Detain you on the valley road.
 
 
  "And when he has crossed the Irthing flood,
  My merry bard! he hastes, he hastes
  Up Knorren Moor, through Halegarth Wood, 495
  And reaches soon that castle good
  Which stands and threatens Scotland's wastes.
 
 
  "Bard Bracy! bard Bracy! your horses are fleet,
  Ye must ride up the hall, your music so sweet,
  More loud than your horses' echoing feet! 500
  And loud and loud to Lord Roland call,
  'Thy daughter is safe in Langdale hall!
  Thy beautiful daughter is safe and free—
  Sir Leoline greets thee thus through me.
  He bids thee come without delay 505
  With all thy numerous array
  And take thy lovely daughter home:
  And he will meet thee on the way
  With all his numerous array
  White with their panting palfreys' foam': 510
  And, by mine honour! I will say,
  That I repent me of the day
  When I spake words of fierce disdain
  To Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine!—
  —For since that evil hour hath flown, 515
  Many a summer's sun hath shone;
  Yet ne'er found I a friend again
  Like Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine."
 
 
  The lady fell, and clasped his knees,
  Her face upraised, her eyes o'erflowing; 520
  And Bracy replied, with faltering voice,
  His gracious hail on all bestowing;
  "Thy words, thou sire of Christabel,
  Are sweeter than my harp can tell;
  Yet might I gain a boon of thee, 525
  This day my journey should not be,
  So strange a dream hath come to me;
  That I had vowed with music loud
  To clear yon wood from thing unblest,
  Warned by a vision in my rest! 530
  For in my sleep I saw that dove,
  That gentle bird, whom thou dost love,
  And call'st by thy own daughter's name—
  Sir Leoline! I saw the same,
  Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan, 535
  Among the green herbs in the forest alone.
  Which when I saw and when I heard,
  I wondered what might ail the bird;
  For nothing near it could I see,
  Save the grass and green herbs underneath the old tree. 540
 
 
  "And in my dream, methought, I went
  To search out what might there be found;
  And what the sweet bird's trouble meant,
  That thus lay fluttering on the ground.
  I went and peered, and could descry 545
  No cause for her distressful cry;
  But yet for her dear lady's sake
  I stooped, methought, the dove to take,
  When lo! I saw a bright green snake
  Coiled around its wings and neck. 550
  Green as the herbs on which it couched,
  Close by the dove's its head it crouched;
  And with the dove it heaves and stirs,
  Swelling its neck as she swelled hers!
  I woke; it was the midnight hour, 555
  The clock was echoing in the tower;
  But though my slumber was gone by,
  This dream it would not pass away—
  It seems to live upon my eye!
  And thence I vowed this self-same day 560
  With music strong and saintly song
  To wander through the forest bare,
  Lest aught unholy loiter there."
 
 
  Thus Bracy said: the Baron, the while,
  Half-listening heard him with a smile; 565
  Then turned to Lady Geraldine,
  His eyes made up of wonder and love;
  And said in courtly accents fine,
  "Sweet maid, Lord Roland's beauteous dove,
  With arms more strong than harp or song, 570
  Thy sire and I will crush the snake!"
  He kissed her forehead as he spake,
  And Geraldine in maiden wise
  Casting down her large bright eyes,
  With blushing cheek and courtesy fine 575
  She turned her from Sir Leoline;
  Softly gathering up her train,
  That o'er her right arm fell again;
  And folded her arms across her chest,
  And couched her head upon her breast, 580
  And looked askance at Christabel—
  Jesu, Maria, shield her well!
 
 
  A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy,
  And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her head,
  Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye, 585
  And with somewhat of malice, and more of dread,
  At Christabel she looked askance!—
  One moment—and the sight was fled!
  But Christabel in dizzy trance
  Stumbling on the unsteady ground 590
  Shuddered aloud, with a hissing sound;
  And Geraldine again turned round,
  And like a thing, that sought relief,
  Full of wonder and full of grief,
  She rolled her large bright eyes divine 595
  Wildly on Sir Leoline.
 
 
  The maid, alas! her thoughts are gone,
  She nothing sees—no sight but one!
  The maid, devoid of guile and sin,
  I know not how, in fearful wise, 600
  So deeply had she drunken in
  That look, those shrunken serpent eyes,
  That all her features were resigned
  To this sole image in her mind:
  And passively did imitate 605
  That look of dull and treacherous hate!
  And thus she stood, in dizzy trance,
  Still picturing that look askance
  With forced unconscious sympathy
  Full before her father's view— 610
  As far as such a look could be
  In eyes so innocent and blue!
 
 
  And when the trance was o'er, the maid
  Paused awhile, and inly prayed:
  Then falling at the Baron's feet, 615
  "By my mother's soul, do I entreat
  That thou this woman send away!"
  She said: and more she could not say:
  For what she knew she could not tell,
  O'er-mastered by the mighty spell. 620
 
 
  Why is thy cheek so wan and wild,
  Sir Leoline? Thy only child
  Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride,
  So fair, so innocent, so mild;
  The same, for whom thy lady died! 625
  O, by the pangs of her dear mother
  Think thou no evil of thy child!
  For her, and thee, and for no other,
  She prayed the moment ere she died:
  Prayed that the babe for whom she died, 630
  Might prove her dear lord's joy and pride!
    That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled,
      Sir Leoline!
  And wouldst thou wrong thy only child,
      Her child and thine? 635
 
 
  Within the Baron's heart and brain
  If thoughts, like these, had any share,
  They only swelled his rage and pain,
  And did but work confusion there.
 
 
  His heart was cleft with pain and rage, 640
  His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were wild,
  Dishonoured thus in his old age;
  Dishonour'd by his only child,
  And all his hospitality
  To the insulted daughter of his friend 645
  By more than woman's jealousy
  Brought thus to a disgraceful end—
  He rolled his eye with stern regard
  Upon the gentle minstrel bard,
  And said in tones abrupt, austere— 650
  "Why, Bracy! dost thou loiter here?
  I bade thee hence!" The bard obeyed;
  And turning from his own sweet maid,
  The aged knight, Sir Leoline,
  Led forth the lady Geraldine! 655
 

THE CONCLUSION TO PART THE SECOND

 
  A little child, a limber elf,
  Singing, dancing to itself,
  A fairy thing with red round cheeks,
  That always finds, and never seeks,
  Makes such a vision to the sight 660
  As fills a father's eyes with light;
  And pleasures flow in so thick and fast
  Upon his heart, that he at last
  Must needs express his love's excess
  With words of unmeant bitterness. 665
  Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together
  Thoughts so all unlike each other;
  To mutter and mock a broken charm,
  To dally with wrong that does no harm.
  Perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty 670
  At each wild word to feel within
  A sweet recoil of love and pity.
  And what, if in a world of sin
  (O sorrow and shame should this be true!)
  Such giddiness of heart and brain 675
  Comes seldom save from rage and pain,
  So talks as it's most used to do.
 

KUBLA KHAN

 
  In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
  A stately pleasure-dome decree:
  Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
  Through caverns measureless to man
    Down to a sunless sea. 5
  So twice five miles of fertile ground
  With walls and towers were girdled round:
  And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
  Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
  And here were forests ancient as the hills, 10
  Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
 
 
  But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
  Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
  A savage place! as holy and enchanted
  As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 15
  By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
  And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
  As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
  A mighty fountain momently was forced:
  Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst 20
  Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
  Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
  And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
  It flung up momently the sacred river.
  Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 25
  Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
  Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
  And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
  And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
  Ancestral voices prophesying war! 30
 
 
      The shadow of the dome of pleasure
      Floated midway on the waves;
    Where was heard the mingled measure
      From the fountain and the caves.
  It was a miracle of rare device, 35
  A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
 
 
      A damsel with a dulcimer
      In a vision once I saw:
      It was an Abyssinian maid,
      And on her dulcimer she played, 40
      Singing of Mount Abora.
      Could I revive within me.
      Her symphony and song,
      To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
  That with music loud and long, 45
  I would build that dome in air,
  That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
  And all who heard should see them there,
  And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
  His flashing eyes, his floating hair! 50
  Weave a circle round him thrice,
  And close your eyes with holy dread,
  For he on honey-dew hath fed,
  And drunk the milk of Paradise.
 

LOVE

 
  All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
  Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
  All are but ministers of Love,
    And feed his sacred flame.
 
 
  Oft in my waking dreams do I 5
  Live o'er again that happy hour,
  When midway on the mount I lay,
    Beside the ruined tower.
 
 
  The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene,
  Had blended with the lights of eve; 10
  And she was there, my hope, my joy,
    My own dear Genevieve!
 
 
  She leant against the armed man,
  The statue of the armed knight;
  She stood and listened to my lay, 15
    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. 20
 
 
  I played a soft and doleful air,
  I sang an old and moving story—
  An old rude song, that suited well
    That ruin wild and hoary.
 
 
  She listened with a flitting blush, 25
  With downcast eyes and modest grace;
  For well she knew, I could not choose
    But gaze upon her face.
 
 
  I told her of the Knight that wore
  Upon his shield a burning brand; 30
  And that for ten long years he wooed
    The Lady of the Land.
 
 
  I told her how he pined: and ah!
  The deep, the low, the pleading tone
  With which I sang another's love, 35
    Interpreted my own.
 
 
  She listened with a flitting blush,
  With downcast eyes, and modest grace
  And she forgave me, that I gazed
    Too fondly on her face! 40
 
 
  But when I told the cruel scorn
  That crazed that bold and lovely Knight,
  And that he crossed the mountain-woods,
    Nor rested day nor night;
 
 
  That sometimes from the savage den, 45
  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
  An angel beautiful and bright; 50
  And that he knew it was a Fiend,
    This miserable Knight!
 
 
  And that unknowing what he did,
  He leaped amid a murderous band,
  And saved from outrage worse than death 55
    The Lady of the Land!
 
 
  And how she wept, and clasped his knees;
  And how she tended him in vain—
  And ever strove to expiate
    The scorn that crazed his brain;– 60
 
 
  And that she nursed him in a cave;
  And how his madness went away,
  When on the yellow forest-leaves
    A dying man he lay;—
 
 
  His dying words—but when I reached 65
  That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
  My faltering voice and pausing harp
    Disturbed her soul with pity!
 
 
  All impulses of soul and sense
  Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve; 70
  The music and the doleful tale,
    The rich and balmy eve;
 
 
  And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
  An undistinguishable throng,
  And gentle wishes long subdued, 75
    Subdued and cherished long!
 
 
  She wept with pity and delight,
  She blushed with love, and virgin-shame;
  And like the murmur of a dream,
    I heard her breathe my name. 80
 
 
  Her bosom heaved—she stepped aside,
  As conscious of my look she stepped—
  Then suddenly, with timorous eye
    She fled to me and wept.
 
 
  She half enclosed me with her arms, 85
  She pressed me with a meek embrace;
  And bending back her head, looked up,
    And gazed upon my face.
 
 
  'Twas partly love, and partly fear,
  And partly 'twas a bashful art, 90
  That I might rather feel, than see,
    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, 95
    My bright and beauteous Bride.