(BEING THE THIRD OF CHRISTABEL.)
IT is the wolf on stealthy prowl,
Hath startled the night with a dismal howl,
It is the raven, whose hoarse croak
Comes like a groan from the sear old oak,
It is the owl, whose curdling screech
Hath peopled with terrors the spectral beech;
For again the clock hath tolled out twelve,
And sent to their gambols the gnome and the elve
And awoken the friar his beads to tell,
And taught the magician the time for his spell,
And to her cauldron hath hurried the witch,
And aroused the deep bay of the mastiff bitch.
The gibbous moon, all chilling and wan,
Like a sleepless eyeball looketh on,
Like an eyeball of sorrow behind a shroud
Forth looketh she from a torn grey cloud,
Pouring sad radiance on the black air, -
Sun of the night, what sees she there?
O lonely one, O lovely one,
What dost thou here in the forest dun,
Fair truant, like an angel of light
Hiding from heaven in deep midnight?
Alas! there is guilt in thy glittering eye,
As fearfully dark it looks up to the sky;
Alas! a dull unearthly light
Like a dead star, bluely white;
A seal of sin, I note it now,
Flickers upon thy ghastly brow;
And about the huge old oak
Thickly curls a poisonous smoke,
And terrible shapes with evil names
Are leaping around a circle of flames,
And the tost air whirls, storm-driven,
And the rent earth quakes, charm-riven, --
And art thou not afraid?
All dauntless stands the maid
In mystical robe array'd,
And still with flashing eyes
She dares the sorrowful skies,
And to the moon, like one possest,
Hath shown, O dread! that face so fair Should smile above so shrunk a breast,
Haggard and brown, as hangeth there, O evil sight, wrinkled and old,
Muttering wildly through her set teeth,
She seeketh and stirreth the demons beneath,
And hist! the magical mandate is spoken.
The bonds of the spirit of evil are broken,
There is a rush of invisible wings
Amid shrieks and distant thunderings,
And now one nearer than others is heard
Flapping his way as a huge seabird,
Or liker the deep-dwelling ravenous shark
Cleaving through the waters dark.
It is the hour, the spell hath power!
Now haste thee, ere the tempest lower.
Her mouth grows wide, and her face falls in,
And her beautiful brow becomes flat and thin,
And sulphurous flashes blear and singe
That sweetest of eyes with its delicate fringe,
Till, all its loveliness blasted and dead,
The eye of a snake blinks deep in her head;
For raven locks flowing loose and long
Bristles a red mane, stiff and strong,
And sea-green scales are beginning to speck
Her shrunken breasts, and lengthening neck;
The white round arms are sunk in her sides, –
As when in chrysalis canoe
A may-fly down the river glides,
Struggling for life and liberty too,-
Her body convulsively twists and twirls,
This way and that it bows and curls,
And now her soft limbs melt into one
Strangely and horribly tapering down,
Till on the burnt grass dimly is seen
A serpent monster, scaly and green.
Horror! can this be Geraldine?
Haste, O haste, - 'tis almost past,
The sand is dripping thick and fast;
And distant roars the coming blast.
Swiftly the dragon-maid unroll'd
The burnished strength of each sinewy fold, And round the old oak trunk with toil
Hath wound and trailed each tortuous coil, Then with one crush hath splitten and broke The hollow black heart of the sear old oar
The hour is fled, the spell hath sped;
And heavily dropping down as dead
All in her own beauty drest,
Brightest, softest, loveliest,
Fair faint Geraldine lies on the ground,
Moaning sadly;
And forth from the oak,
In a whirl of thick smoke,
Grinning gladly,
Leaps with a hideous howl at a bound
A squat black dwarf of visage grim,
With crutches beside each twisted limb
Half-hidden in many a flame-colored rag,
It is Ryxa the Hag!
Ho, ho! what wouldst thou, daughter mine,
Wishes three, or curses nine?
Wishes three to work thy will,
Or curses nine thy hate to fulfil ?
Ryxa, spite of thy last strong charm,
Some pure spirit saves from harm
Her, who before me was loved too well,
Our holy hated Christabel:
Her who stole my heart from him,
One of the guardian cherubim,
Hovers around, and cheers in dreams,
Thwarting from heaven my hell-bought schemes Now, for another five hundred years,
O mother mine, will I be thine,
To writhe in pains, and shriek in fears,
And toil in chains, and waste in tears,
So thy might will scorch and smite
The beautiful face of Christabel,
And will drain by jealous pain
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