« PreviousContinue »
Tis the middle of night by the castle clock, And the owls have awaken'd the crowing cock;
And hark, again! the crowing cock,
Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,
From her kennel beneath the rock
She makes answer to the clock,
Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour;
Ever and aye, moonshine or shower,
Sixteen short howls, not over loud;
Some say, she sees my lady's shroud.
Is the night chilly and dark?
The lovely lady, Christabel,
She stole along, she nothing spoke,
The lady leaps up suddenly,
It moan'd 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!
She folded her arms beneath her cloak,
There she sees a damsel bright,
Mary mother, save me now!
(Said Christabel,) And who art thou?
The lady strange made answer meet,