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 http://archive.org/details/christabelkublakOOcole 
 
to CHRISTABEL, to KUBLA KHAN, 
 Jfr FANCY IN NUBIBUS, AND to SONG, 
 FROM ZAPOLYA. 
 BY SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
5^^lo^ 
 
V PREFACE TO CHRIST ABEL. 
 
 THE first part of the following poem was 
 written in the year one thousand seven 
 hundred and ninety/seven, at Stowey, in the 
 county of Somerset. The second part, after my 
 return from Germany, in the year one thousand 
 eight hundred, at Keswick, Cumberland. 
 It is probable, that if the poem had been finished 
 at either of the former periods, or if even the 
 first and second part had been published in the 
 year 1800, the impression of its originality 
 would have been much greater than I dare at 
 present expect. But for this, I have only my own 
 indolence to blame. The dates are mentioned 
 for the exclusive purpose of precludingcharges 
 of plagiarism or servile imitation from myself. 
 For there is amongst us a set of critics, who 
 seem to hold, that every possible thought and 
 image is traditional; who have no notion that 
 there are such things as fountains in the world, 
 small as well as great; and who would therefore 
 charitably derive every rill they behold flowing, 
 from a perforation made in some other man's 
 tank. I am confident, however, that as far as the 
 present poem is concerned, the celebrated poets 
 whose writings I might be suspected of having 
 imitated, either in particular passages, or in the 
 tone & the spirit of the whole, would be among 
 the first to vindicate me from the charge, and 
 
 3 
 
 
who, on any striking coincidence, would per/ 
 mit me to address them in this doggrel version 
 of two monkish Latin hexameters: — 
 'Tis mine and it is likewise your's 
 But an if this will not do; 
 Let it be mine, good friend! for I 
 Am the poorer of the two. 
 I have only to add, that the metre of the Christa/ 
 bel is not, properly speaking, irregular, though 
 it may seem so from its being founded on a new 
 principle: namely, that of counting in each line 
 the accents, not the syllables. Though the latter 
 may vary from seven to twelve, yet in each line 
 the accents will be found to be only four. Never/ 
 theless this occasional variation in number of 
 syllables is not introduced wantonly, or for the 
 mere ends of convenience, but in correspon/ 
 dence with some transition, in the nature of the 
 imagery or passion. 
 
CHRISTABEL 
 
 PART THE FIRST. 
 
 ism 
 
 THE MIDDLE OF NIQHT BY THE T^ 
 CASTLE CLOCK, 
 AND THE OWLS HAVE AWAK/ 
 ENED THE CROWING COCK, 
 
 TU— WHIT! TU— WHOO! 
 
 AND HARK, AQAIN! THE CROW, 
 
 sQ INQ COCK, 
 
 '(q HOW DROWSILY IT CREW. 
 
 Y 
 
 g^ 
 
 f^g® 
 
Sir Leoline, the Baron rich, 
 
 Hath a toothless mastiff bitch; 
 
 From her kennel beneath the rock 
 
 She maketh answer to the clock, 
 
 Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour; 
 
 Ever and aye, by shine and shower, 
 
 Sixteen short howls, not over loud; 
 
 Some say, she sees my lady's shroud. 
 
 Is the night chilly and dark? 
 The night is chilly, but not dark. 
 The thin gray cloud is spread on high, 
 It covers but not hides the sky. 
 The moon is behind, and at the full; 
 And yet she looks both small and dull. 
 The night is chill, the cloud is gray: 
 'Tis a month before the month of May, 
 And the Spring comes slowly up this way. 
 
 The lovely lady, Christabel, 
 
 Whom her father loves so well, 
 
 What makes her in the wood so late, 
 
 A furlong from the castle gate? 
 
 She had dreams all yesternight 
 
 Of her own betrothed knight; 
 
 And she in the midnight wood will pray 
 
 For the weal of her lover that's far away. 
 
 She stole along, she nothing spoke, 
 The sighs she heaved were soft and low, 
 8 
 
And nought was green upon the oak 
 But moss and rarest mistletoe: 
 She kneels beneath the huge oak tree, 
 And in silence prayeth she. 
 
 The lady sprang up suddenly, 
 
 The lovely lady, Christabel ! 
 
 It moaned as near, as near can be, 
 
 But what it is, she cannot tell. — 
 
 On the other side it seems to be, 
 
 Of the huge, broad/breasted, old oak tree. 
 
 The night is chill; the forest bare; 
 Is it the wind that moaneth bleak? 
 There is not wind enough in the air 
 To move away the ringlet curl 
 From the lovely lady's cheek — 
 There is not wind enough to twirl 
 The one red leaf, the last of its clan, 
 That dances as often as dance it can, 
 Hanging so light, and hanging so high, 
 On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky. 
 
 Hush, beating heart of Christabel ! 
 
 Jesu, Maria, shield her well! 
 
 She folded her arms beneath her cloak, 
 
 And stole to the other side of the oak. 
 
 What sees she there? 
 
 There she sees a damsel bright, 
 
 Drest in a silken robe of white, 
 
That shadowy in the moonlight shone: 
 The neck that made that white robe wan, 
 Her stately neck, and arms were bare; 
 Her blue/veined feet unsandal'd were, 
 And wildly glittered here and there 
 The gems entangled in her hair. 
 I guess, 'twas frightful there to see 
 A lady so richly clad as she — 
 Beautiful exceedingly. 
 
 Mary mother, save me now! 
 
 (Said Christabel,) and who art thou? 
 
 The lady strange made answer meet, 
 And her voice was faint and sweet:— 
 Have pity on my sore distress, 
 I scarce can speak for weariness: 
 Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear, 
 Said Christabel, How earnest thou here? 
 And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet, 
 Did thus pursue her answer meet: — 
 
 My sire is of a noble line, 
 
 And my name is Qeraldine: 
 
 Five warriors seized me yestermorn, 
 
 Me, even me, a maid forlorn: 
 
 They choked my cries with force and fright, 
 
 And tied me on a palfrey white. 
 
 The palfrey was as fleet as wind, 
 
 And they rode furiously behind. 
 
 10 
 
They spurred amain, their steeds were white; 
 
 And once we crossed the shade of night. 
 
 As sure as Heaven shall rescue me, 
 
 I have no thought what men they be; 
 
 Nor do I know how long it is 
 
 (For I have lain entranced I wis) 
 
 Since one, the tallest of the five, 
 
 Took me from the palfrey's back, 
 
 A weary woman, scarce alive. 
 
 Some muttered words his comrades spoke: 
 
 He placed me underneath this oak; 
 
 He swore they would return with haste; 
 
 Whither they went I cannot tell — 
 
 I thought I heard, some minutes past, 
 
 Sounds as of a castle bell. 
 
 Stretch forth thy hand (thus ended she), 
 
 And help a wretched maid to flee. 
 
 Then Christabel stretched forth her hand, 
 
 And comforted fair Qeraldine: 
 
 O well, bright dame! may you command 
 
 The service of Sir Leoline; 
 
 And gladly our stout chivalry 
 
 Will he send forth and friends withal 
 
 To guide and guard you safe and free 
 
 Home to your noble father's hall. 
 
 She rose: and forth with steps they passed, 
 That strove to be, and were not, fast. 
 Her gracious stars the lady blest, 
 
 11 
 
And thus spake on sweet Christabel: 
 
 All our household are at rest, 
 
 The hall as silent as the cell; 
 
 Sir Leoline is weak in health, 
 
 And may not well awakened be, 
 
 But we will move as if in stealth, 
 
 And I beseech your courtesy, 
 
 This night, to share your couch with me. 
 
 They crossed the moat, and Christabel 
 
 Took the key that fitted well; 
 
 A little door she opened straight, 
 
 All in the middle of the gate; 
 
 The gate that was ironed within and without, 
 
 Where an army in battle array had marched out. 
 
 The lady sank, belike through pain, 
 
 And Christabel with might and main 
 
 Lifted her up, a weary weight, 
 
 Over the threshold of the gate: 
 
 Then the lady rose again, 
 
 And moved, as she were not in pain. 
 
 So free from danger, free from fear, 
 
 They crossed the court: right glad they were. 
 
 And Christabel devoutly cried 
 
 To the lady by her side, 
 
 Praise we the Virgin all divine 
 
 Who hath rescued thee from thy distress! 
 
 Alas, alas! said Qeraldine, 
 
 I cannot speak for weariness. 
 
 12 
 
So free from danger, free from fear, 
 
 They crossed the court: right glad they were. 
 
 Outside her kennel, the mastiff old 
 Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold. 
 The mastiff old did not awake, 
 Yet she an angry moan did make! 
 And what can ail the mastiff bitch? 
 Never till now she uttered yell 
 Beneath the eye of Christabel. 
 Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch: 
 For what can ail the mastiff bitch? 
 
 They passed 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 passed, 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, 
 Now in glimmer, and now in gloom, 
 
 13 
 
And now they pass the Baron's room, 
 As still as death, with stifled breath 1 
 And now have reached her chamber door; 
 And now doth Qeraldine press down, 
 The rushes of the chamber floor. 
 
 The moon shines dim in the open air, 
 And not a moonbeam enters here. 
 But they without its light can see 
 The chamber carved so curiously, 
 Carved with figures strange and sweet, 
 All made out of the carver's brain, 
 For a lady's chamber meet: 
 The lamp with twofold silver chain 
 Is fastened to an angel's feet. 
 
 The silver lamp burns dead and dim; 
 
 But Christabel the lamp will trim. 
 
 She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright, 
 
 And left it swinging to and fro, 
 
 While Qeraldine, in wretched plight, 
 
 Sank down upon the floor below. 
 
 weary lady, Qeraldine, 
 
 1 pray you, drink this cordial wine! 
 It is a wine of virtuous powers; 
 My mother made it of wild flowers. 
 
 And will your mother pity me, 
 Who am a maiden most forlorn? 
 
 14 
 
Christabel answered — Woe is me! 
 She died the hour that I was born. 
 I have heard the gray/haired friar tell, 
 How on her death/bed she did say, 
 That she should hear the castle/bell 
 Strike twelve upon my wedding/day. 
 
 mother dear! that thou wert here! 
 
 1 would, said Qeraldine, she were! 
 
 But soon with altered voice, said she — 
 «Off, wandering mother! Peak and pine! 
 «I have power to bid thee flee.» 
 Alas! what ails poor Qeraldine? 
 Why stares she with unsettled eye? 
 Can she the bodiless dead espy? 
 And why with hollow voice cries she, 
 «Off, woman, off! this hour is mine — 
 ((Though thou her guardian spirit be, 
 «Off, woman, off! 'tis given to me.» 
 
 Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side, 
 And raised to heaven her eyes so blue — 
 Alas! said she, this ghastly ride — 
 Dear lady! it hath wildered you! 
 The lady wiped her moist cold brow, 
 And faintly said, «'tis over now!» 
 
 Again the wild/flower wine she drank: 
 Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright, 
 And from the floor whereon she sank, 
 
 15 
 
The lofty lady stood upright: 
 She was most beautiful to see, 
 Like a lady of a far countree. 
 And thus the lofty lady spake — 
 All they who live in the upper sky, 
 Do love you, holy Christabel 1 
 And you love them, and for their sake 
 And for the good which me befel, 
 Even I in my degree will try, 
 Fair maiden, to requite you well. 
 But now unrobe yourself; for I 
 Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie. 
 
 Quoth Christabel, So let it be! 
 And as the lady bade, did she. 
 Her gentle limbs did she undress, 
 And lay down in her loveliness. 
 
 But through her brain of weal and woe 
 So many thoughts moved to and fro, 
 That vain it were her lids to close; 
 So half/way from the bed she rose, 
 And on her elbow did recline 
 To look at the lady Qeraldine. 
 
 Beneath the lamp the lady bowed, 
 And slowly rolled her eyes around; 
 Then drawing in her breath aloud, 
 Like one that shuddered, she unbound 
 The cincture from beneath her breast: 
 16 
 
Her silken robe, and inner vest, 
 Dropt to her feet, and full in view, 
 
 Behold! her bosom and half her side 
 
 A sight to dream of, not to tell ! 
 
 Oh shield her! shield sweet Christabel ! 
 
 Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs; 
 Ah! what a stricken look was hers! 
 Deep from within she seems half/way 
 To lift some weight with sick assay, 
 And eyes the maid and seeks delay; 
 Then suddenly as one defied, 
 Collects herself in scorn and pride, 
 And lay down by the maiden's side! — 
 And in her. arms the maid she took, 
 Ah wel/a/day! 
 
 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. 
 
 d 17 
 
THE CONCLUSION TO PART THE 
 FIRST. 
 
 IT was a lovely sight to see 
 The lady Christabel, when she 
 Was praying at the old oak tree. 
 Amid the jagged shadows 
 Of mossy leafless boughs, 
 Kneeling in the moonlight, 
 To make her gentle vows; 
 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, 
 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 — 
 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, 
 As a mother with her child. 
 
 A star hath set, a star hath risen, 
 O Qeraldine! since arms of thine 
 Have been the lovely lady's prison. 
 18 
 
O Qeraldine! one hour was thine — 
 Thou'st had thy will ! By tair n 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 ! 
 
 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 — 
 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, 
 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. 
 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: 
 For the blue sky bends over all ! 
 
 19 
 
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. 
 
 20 
 
The air is still ! through mist and cloud 
 That merry peal comes ringing loud; 
 And Qeraldine 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 sinned!» 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 
 
 21 
 
That He, who on the cross did groan, 
 Might wash away her sins unknown, 
 She forthwith led fair Qeraldine 
 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 Qeraldine espies, 
 And gave such welcome to the same, 
 As might beseem so bright a darnel 
 
 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, 
 
 22 
 
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 tournay court — that there and then 
 
 «I may dislodge their reptile souls 
 
 23 
 
«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 of 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! 
 24 
 
With new surprise, 
 « What ails then my beloved child?)) 
 The Baron said — His daughter mild 
 Made answer, «A11 will yet be well!» 
 I ween, she had no power to tell 
 Aught else: so mighty was the spell. 
 Yet he, who saw this Qeraldine, 
 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 i 
 Home to her father's mansion. 
 
 «Nayl 
 «Nay, by my soulb> said Leoline. 
 «Ho! Bracy the bard, the charge be thine! 
 «Qo 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. 
 
 e 25 
 
«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 nath 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 f aultering 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, 
 26 
 
So strange a dream hath come to me: 
 
 That I had vowed with music loud 
 
 To clear yon wood from thing unblest, 
 
 Warn'd 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 wonder'd 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. 
 Qreen 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! 
 
 27 
 
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 Qeraldine, 
 
 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 Qeraldine 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 ! 
 
 28 
 
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 look'd askance! — 
 
 One moment — and the sight was fledl 
 
 But Christabel in dizzy trance 
 
 Stumbling on the unsteady ground 
 
 Shuddered aloud, with a hissing sound; 
 
 And Qeraldine 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 
 
 29 
 
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 would'st 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, 
 30 
 
And did but work confusion there. 
 
 His heart was cleft with pain and rage, 
 
 His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were wild, 
 
 Dishonour'd 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, Bracyl 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 Qeraldine! 
 
 3* 
 
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 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. 
 
 32 
 
V KUBLA KHAN. 
 
 33 
 
OFTHE FRAGMENT of KUBLA KHAN. 
 
 THE following fragment is here published 
 at the request of a poet of great and de/ 
 served celebrity, and, as far as the Author's own 
 opinions are concerned, rather as a psychologi/ 
 cal curiosity, than on the ground of any sup/ 
 posed poetic merits. 
 
 In the summer of the year 1797, the Author, 
 then in ill health, had retired to a lonely farm/ 
 house between Porlock and Linton, on the 
 Exmoor confines of Somerset and Devonshire. 
 In consequence of a slight indisposition, an 
 anodyne had been prescribed, from the effects 
 of which he fell asleep in his chair at the mo/ 
 ment that he was reading the following sen/ 
 tence, or words of the same substance, in «Pur/ 
 chas's Pilgrimage»: «Here the Khan Kubla 
 commanded a palace to be built, and a stately 
 garden thereunto. And thus ten miles of fertile 
 ground were inclosed with a wall. » The Author 
 continued for about three hours in a profound 
 sleep, at least of the external senses, during 
 which time he has the most vivid confidence, 
 that he could not have composed less than from 
 two to three hundred lines; if that indeed can 
 be called composition in which all the images 
 rose up before him as things, with a parallel 
 production of the correspondent expressions, 
 without any sensation or consciousness of 
 effort. On awaking he appeared to himself to 
 34 
 
have a distinct recollection of the whole, and 
 taking his pen, ink, and paper, instantly and 
 eagerly wrote down the lines that are here pre/ 
 served. At this moment he was unfortunately 
 called out by a person on business from Por/ 
 lock, and detained by him above an hour, and 
 on his return to his room, found, to his no small 
 surprise and mortification, that though he still 
 retained some vague and dim recollection of 
 the general purport of the vision, yet, with the 
 exception of some eight or ten scattered lines 
 and images, all the rest had passed away like 
 the images on the surface of a stream into 
 which a stone has been cast, but, alas! without 
 the after restoration of the latterl 
 
 Then all the charm 
 Is broken — all that phantom/ world so fair 
 Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread, 
 And each mis/shape the other. Stay awhile, 
 Poor youth! who scarcely durst lift up thine 
 eyes — 
 
 The stream will soon renew its smoothness, 
 soon 
 
 The visions will return! And lo, he stays, 
 And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms 
 Come trembling back, unite, and now once 
 more 
 The pool becomes a mirror. 
 
 Yet from the still surviving recollections in his 
 
 35 
 
mind, the Author has frequently purposed to 
 finish for himself what had been originally, as 
 it were, given to him. Idjuepo* S&ion Scco: but 
 the to/morrow is yet to come. 
 
 36 
 
V KUBLA_K1? AN - 
 
 |N Xanadu did Kubia Khan 
 
 A stately pleasure/dome 
 
 decree: 
 
 i Where Alph, the sacred 
 
 I river, ran 
 
 'Through caverns measure/ 
 
 jless to man 
 Down to a sunless sea. 
 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, 
 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 
 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 
 Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, 
 Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: 
 
 37 
 

 And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever 
 It flung up momently the sacred river. 
 Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 
 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! 
 
 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, 
 
 A sunny pleasure/dome with caves of icel 
 
 A damsel with a dulcimer 
 
 In a vision once I saw: 
 
 It was an Abyssinian maid 
 
 And on her dulcimer she played, 
 
 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, 
 
 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! 
 
 Weave a circle round him thrice, 
 
 38 
 
And close your eyes with holy dread, 
 For he on honey/dew hath fed, 
 And drank the milk of Paradise. 
 
 39 
 
5ff FANCY IN NUBIBUS OR THE POET 
 IN THE CLOUDS. 
 
 
 ! IT is pleasant, with a 
 heart at ease, 
 Just after sunset, or by 
 moonlight skies, 
 To make the shifting 
 clouds be what you please, 
 Or let the easily per/ 
 suaded eyes 
 
 Own each quaint like/ 
 ness issuing from the mould 
 Of a friend's fancy; or with head bent low 
 And cheek aslant see rivers flow of gold 
 'Twixt crimson banks; and then, a traveller, go 
 From mount to mount through Cloudland, 
 gorgeous land! 
 
 Or list'ning to the tide, with closed sight, 
 Be that blind bard, who on the Chian strand 
 By those deep sounds possessed with inward light, 
 Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssee 
 Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea. 
 
 40 
 
Sff SONG FROM ZAPOLYA. 
 
 (Act ii. Scene i.) 
 
 SUNNY shaft did I 
 
 behold, 
 
 From sky to earth it 
 
 slanted: 
 
 And poised therein 
 
 a bird so bold — 
 
 Sweet bird, thou 
 
 wert enchanted! 
 
 He sunk, he rose, he twinkled, he trolled 
 Within that shaft of sunny mist; 
 His eyes of fire, his beak of gold, 
 All else of amethyst! 
 
 And thus he sang: « Adieu! adieu! 
 « Love's dreams prove seldom true. 
 «The blossoms, they make no delay: 
 «The sparkling dew/drops will not stay. 
 « Sweet month of May, 
 « We must away; 
 «Far, far away! 
 «To/day! to/day!» 
 
 41 
 
JfrTHE FRONTISPIECE HAS BEEN DE/ 
 
 SIGNED & ENGRAVED on THE WOOD 
 
 BY L. PISSARRO; THE BORDER AND 
 
 INITIAL LETTERS WERE DESIGNED 
 
 BY L. PISSARRO & ENGRAVED BY E. 
 
 PISSARRO. JfrTHE BOOK has BEEN 
 
 PRINTED BY THEM AT THEIR 
 
 ERAGNY PRESS, THE 
 
 BROOK, HAMMER/ 
 
 SMITH, & FIN/ 
 
 ISHED IN 
 
 OCTO/ 
 
 BER, 
 
 1904. 
 
 V SOLD BY THE ERAGNY 
 
 PRESS, LONDON, 
 
 AND 
 
 JOHN LANE, NEW YORK. 
 
j(p This edition is strictly limited to 226 paper 
 and 10 vellum copies, of which 200 paper and 
 8 vellum copies are for sale. 
 
Mitt 
 
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