Coleridge's Ancient Mariner and Select Poems

  Under the water it rumbled on,  Still louder and more dread:  It reached the ship, it split the bay;  The ship went down like lead.

[Sidenote: The ancient Mariner is saved in the Pilot's boat.]

  Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, 550  Which sky and ocean smote,  Like one that hath been seven days drowned  My body lay afloat;  But swift as dreams, myself I found  Within the Pilot's boat. 555  Upon the whirl, where sank the ship,  The boat spun round and round;  And all was still, save that the hill  Was telling of the sound.  I moved my lips—the Pilot shrieked 560  And fell down in a fit;  The holy Hermit raised his eyes,  And prayed where he did sit.  I took the oars: the Pilot's boy,  Who now doth crazy go, 565  Laughed loud and long, and all the while  His eyes went to and fro.  'Ha! ha!' quoth he, 'full plain I see,  The Devil knows how to row.'  And now, all in my own countree, 570  I stood on the firm land!  The Hermit stepped forth from the boat,  And scarcely he could stand.

[Sidenote: The ancient Mariner earnestly entreateth the Hermit to shrieve him; and the penance of life falls on him.]

  'O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!'  The Hermit crossed his brow. 575  'Say quick,' quoth he, 'I bid thee say—  What manner of man art thou?'  Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched  With a woful agony,  Which forced me to begin my tale; 580  And then it left me free.

[Sidenote: And ever and anon throughout his future life an agony constraineth him to travel from land to land,]

  Since then, at an uncertain hour,  That agony returns:  And till my ghastly tale is told,  This heart within me burns. 585  I pass, like night, from land to land;  I have strange power of speech;  That moment that his face I see,  I know the man that must hear me:  To him my tale I teach. 590  What loud uproar bursts from that door!  The wedding-guests are there:  But in the garden-bower the bride  And bride-maids singing are:  And hark the little vesper bell, 595  Which biddeth me to prayer!  O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been  Alone on a wide, wide sea:  So lonely 't was, that God himself  Scarce seemed there to be. 600  O sweeter than the marriage-feast,  'T is sweeter far to me,  To walk together to the kirk  With a goodly company!—  To walk together to the kirk, 605  And all together pray,  While each to his great Father bends,  Old men, and babes, and loving friends  And youths and maidens gay!

[Sidenote: And to teach, by his own example, love and reverence to all things that God made and loveth.]

  Farewell, farewell! but this I tell 610  To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!  He prayeth well, who loveth well  Both man and bird and beast.  He prayeth best, who loveth best  All things both great and small; 615  For the dear God who loveth us,  He made and loveth all."  The Mariner, whose eye is bright,  Whose beard with age is hoar,  Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest 620  Turned from the bridegroom's door.  He went like one that hath been stunned,  And is of sense forlorn:  A sadder and a wiser man,  He rose the morrow morn. 625

CHRISTABEL

PART THE FIRST

  'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,  And the owls have awakened the crowing cock.  Tu—whit!–Tu—whoo!  And hark, again! the crowing cock,  How drowsily it crew. 5  Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,  Hath a toothless mastiff, which  From her kennel beneath the rock  Maketh answer to the clock,  Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour; 10  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. 15  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: 20  'T is 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, 25  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. 30  She stole along, she nothing spoke,  The sighs she heaved were soft and low,  And naught was green upon the oak  But moss and rarest mistletoe:  She kneels beneath the huge oak tree, 35  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.– 40  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 45  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, 50  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, 55  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: 60  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. 65  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?" 70  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!" 75  Said Christabel, "How camest 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 Geraldine: 80  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, 85  And they rode furiously behind.  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; 90  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. 95  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, 100  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 Geraldine: 105  "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 110  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,  And thus spake on sweet Christabel: 115  "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, 120  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, 125  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 130  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, 135  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!" 140  "Alas, alas!" said Geraldine,  "I cannot speak for weariness."  So free from danger, free from fear,  They crossed the court: right glad they were.  Outside her kennel, the mastiff old 145  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 150  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! 155  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, 160  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." 165  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,  And now they pass the Baron's room, 170  As still as death, with stifled breath  And now have reached her chamber door;  And now doth Geraldine press down  The rushes of the chamber floor.  The moon shines dim in the open air, 175  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, 180  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. 185  She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright,  And left it swinging to and fro,  While Geraldine, in wretched plight,  Sank down upon the floor below.  "O weary lady, Geraldine, 190  I 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? 195  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 200  Strike twelve upon my wedding-day.  O mother dear! that thou wert here!"  "I would," said Geraldine, "she were!"  But soon with altered voice, said she—  "Off, wandering mother! Peak and pine! 205  I have power to bid thee flee."  Alas! what ails poor Geraldine?  Why stares she with unsettled eye?  Can she the bodiless dead espy?  And why with hollow voice cries she, 210  "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— 215  "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: 220  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. 225  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 befell, 230  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!" 235  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, 240  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, 245  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, 250  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; 255  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, 260  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 265  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; 270    But vainly thou warrest,      For this is alone in    Thy power to declare,      That in the dim forest    Thou heard'st a low moaning, 275  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."

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