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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,
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!
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 Geraldine.

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:

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!
O 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:

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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!

FRANCE: AN ODE*

I

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Ye Clouds! that far above me float and pause,
Whose pathless march no mortal may control!"
Ye Ocean Waves! that, whereso 'er ye roll,
Yield homage only to eternal laws!

Ye Woods! that listen to the night-bird's

singing,

III

And what," I said, "though Blasphemy's
loud scream

With that sweet music of deliverance strove!
Though all the fierce and drunken passions

wove

Midway the smooth and perilous slope re- A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's clined,

Save when your own imperious branches swing-
ing,

Have made a solemn music of the wind!
Where, like a man beloved of God,
Through glooms, which never woodman trod, 10

How oft, pursuing fancies holy,

My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I
wound,

Inspired beyond the guess of folly,
By each rude shape and wild unconquerable

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dream! 1

Ye storms, that round the dawning east assembled,

The Sun2 was rising, though ye hid his light!"' And when to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled,

The dissonance ceased, and all seemed calm and bright;

50

When France her front deep-scarred and

gory

Concealed with clustering wreaths of glory;

When, insupportably advancing,

Her arm made mockery of the warrior's

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"And soon," I said, "shall Wisdom teach her lore

When France in wrath her giant-limbs up In the low huts of them that toil and groan;

reared,

And with that oath which smote air, earth and sea,

Stamped her strong foot and said she would be free,

• Written in 1798; called forth by the French Invasion of Switzerland.

And, conquering by her happiness alone, 61
Shall France compel the nations to be free,
Till Love and Joy look round, and call the
earth their own.''

1 Alluding to the excesses that attended the
French Revolution.
2 Liberty

IV

Forgive me, Freedom! O forgive those dreams!
I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament,
From bleak Helvetia 's3 icy caverns sent-
I hear thy groans upon her blood-stained

streams!

Heroes, that for your peaceful country per-
ished,

And ye, that fleeing, spot your mountain snows
With bleeding wounds; forgive me, that I

cherished

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One thought that ever blessed your cruel foes!
To scatter rage and traitorous guilt
Where Peace her jealous home had built;

A patriot-race to disinherit

HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE IN THE VALE
OF CHAMOUNI*

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star
In his steep course? So long he seems to pause
On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc!
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form!
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines,
How silently! Around thee and above
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,
An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it,
As with a wedge! But when I look again, 10
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,
Thy habitation from eternity!

O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee,

Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear; Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,

And with inexpiable spirit

To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer

O France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind,

And patriot only in pernicious toils! Are these thy boasts, Champion of human kind?

80

To mix with Kings in the low lust of sway, Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey; To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils From freemen torn; to tempt and to betray?

V

The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain, Slaves by their own compulsion! In mad game

They burst their manacles and wear the name
Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain!
O Liberty! with profitless endeavour
Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour; 90
But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain nor
ever

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O struggling with the darkness all the night, Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human And visited all night by troops of stars,

power.

Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee,
(Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee)
Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions,
And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves,
Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions,

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Or when they climb the sky or when they sink:
Companion of the morning-star at dawn,
Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn
Co-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise!
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth?
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light?

The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?

the waves!

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Who gave you your invulnerable life,

THE KNIGHT'S TOMB

Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn? joy,

Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?

And who commanded (and the silence came),
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?

Where may the grave of that good man be?—
By the side of a spring, on the breast of
Helvellyn,1

Under the twigs of a young birch tree!
The oak that in summer was sweet to hear,

Ye Ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year,

brow

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Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost! Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! Ye signs and wonders of the element!

And whistled and roared in the winter alone,

Is gone, and the birch in its stead is grown.-
The Knight's bones are dust,
And his good sword rust;-

His soul is with the saints, I trust.

SONG

FROM ZAPOLYA, ACT II, SCENE I

A 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!
Today! today!

YOUTH AND AGE*

Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise! Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying,

Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee—

Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-point- Both were mine! Life went a-maying ing peaks,

70

Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure

serene

With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,
When I was young!

When I was young?-Ah, woeful When! Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then! Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast-This breathing house not built with hands, Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thou That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low In adoration, upward from thy base Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused tears,

10

This body that does me grievous wrong,
O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands,
How lightly then it flashed along:-
with Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,
On winding lakes and rivers wide,
That ask no aid of sail or oar,
That fear no spite of wind or tide!
Nought cared this body for wind or weather

79

Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud,
To rise before me-Rise, O ever rise,
Rise like a cloud of incense from the Earth!
Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills,
Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven,
Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.

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Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like; Friendship is a sheltering tree;

O! the joys, that came down shower-like, Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,

Ere I was old!

Ere I was old? Ah woeful Ere,

Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!
O Youth! for years so many and sweet,
'Tis known, that Thou and I were one,
I'll think it but a fond conceit-
It cannot be that Thou art gone!
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd:-
And thou wert aye a masker bold!
What strange disguise hast now put on,
To make believe, that thou art gone?
I see these locks in silvery slips,
This drooping gait, this altered size:
But Spring-tide blossoms on thy lips,
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!
Life is but thought: so think I will
That Youth and I are house-mates still.

Dew-drops are the gems of morning,
But the tears of mournful eve!
Where no hope is, life 's a warning
That only serves to make us grieve,
When we are old:

That only serves to make us grieve
With oft and tedious taking-leave,
Like some poor nigh-related guest,
That may not rudely be dismist;

Yet hath out-stay'd his welcome while,
And tells the jest without the smile.

WORK WITHOUT HOPE

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So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,

All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their For the poor craven bridegroom said never a

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Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may,

For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!

word,

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And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,

To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.

There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,

With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I That would gladly be bride to the young

stroll:

Written in 1827; the mournful Ay de mi of a man confronted by age and sickness and looking back over a life of defeated hopes and wasted opportunities.

Lochinvar."'

1 Solway Firth, noted for its swift tides.

24

* Compare Katharine Jaffray. p. 79, upon which Scott "in a very slight degree founded" the present ballad.

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