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: 
  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, 
  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! 
  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, 
  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; 
  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 
  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, 
  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 
  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 
  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. 
  "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 
  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, 
  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, 
  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, 
  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, 
  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; 
  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. 
  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— 
  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, 
  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. 

  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, 
  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 
  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 
  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. 
  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, 
  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, 
  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, 
  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?" 
  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, 
  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 
  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, 
  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, 
  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, 
  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! 
  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 
  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': 
  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, 
  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; 
  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, 
  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! 
  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, 
  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. 

  "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 
  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. 
  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, 
  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 
  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; 
  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, 
  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 
  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, 
  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, 
  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 
  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 
  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, 
  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 
  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— 
  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, 
  "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. 

  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! 
  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, 
  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? 

  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, 
  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 
  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— 
  "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! 

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 
  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. 
  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 
  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 
  Comes seldom save from rage and pain,
  So talks as it's most used to do.