Archive for the Poesía Category

Literatura Gratuita de Vampiros

Posted in Cuentos, Links, Literatura, Poesía, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on agosto 15, 2013 by Morning Kryziz Bonny

Usualmente el primer pretexto para no leer es que “los libros son caros” así que hoy  les tengo un regalo.

Los siguientes enlaces son libros, cuentos y relatos de vampiros de dominio público (gratuitos) ya que han pasado al menos 70 años desde la muerte del autor. Esto quiere decir que pueden leerlos/descargarlos legalmente.

Muchas de estas obras han inspirado novelas y películas de nuestros días.

Lenore – Gottfried August Bürger

Sobre Los Vampiros – Voltaire

El Vampiro Bondadoso – Charles Nodier

Diversos Relatos de Vampiros en las Mil y una Noches

El Giaour – Lord Byron

Christabel – Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Rojo es el Color de la Sangre – Conrad Potter Aiken

El Vampiro – Vasile Alecsandri

El Vampiro – Rudyard Kipling

La Novia de Corinto – Goethe

Ligeia – Edgar Allan Poe

La metamorfosis del vampiro y El Vampiro – Charles Baudelaire

Drácula – Bram Stoker

El Vampiro – John Stagg

El Vampiro – John William Polidori

La Muerte Amorosa – Théophille Gautier

La Familia Vurdalak – Alexei Tolstoi

Varney el Vampiro – James Malcom Rymer y Thomas Preskett (Inglés)

El Extraño Misterioso – Anónimo (Inglés)

La Vampira – Paul Féval (Francés)

La Ciudad Vampiro – Paul Féval

El Caballero Tenebroso – Paul Féval (Francés)

Carmilla – Sheridan Le Fanu

El destino de Madame Cabanel – Eliza Lynn Linton (Inglés)

Manor – Karl Heinrich Ulrichs

La Verdadera Historia de un Vampiro – Eric von Stenbock

Lilith – George MacDonald (Inglés)

La guarida del gusano blanco – Bram Stoker (Inglés)

Pues la sangre es vida – Francis Marion Crawford

Claro de Luna – Seabury Quinn

Hechizado – Edith Wharton

Deja a los Muertos en Paz- Ernst Raupach

El Cuarto en la Torre – E.F Benson

El Almohadón de Plumas – Horacio Quiroga

El Castillo de los Carpatos – Julio Verne

El Conde Magnus – M.R James

El Espectro – Horacio Quiroga

El Horla – Guy de Maupassant

El Rostro – E.F Benson

El Vampiro – Horacio Quiroga

El Vampiro Arnold Paul – Charles Nodier

El Vampiro Bailarín – Alexander Afanasiev

El Vampiro en el Convento – Louis-Antoine Caraccioli

El Vampiro Harppe – Charles Nodier

Vampirismo – E.T.A Hoffmann

La guerra de los vampiros – Gustave Le Rouge

El prisionero del planeta Marte – Gustave Le Rouge

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The Giaour – Lord Byron

Posted in Literatura, Poesía with tags , , , , , on mayo 12, 2012 by Morning Kryziz Bonny

The Giaour o “El Giaour” (“El infiel” “El no creyente” es un poema escrito por Lord Byron. Hay falsos relatos que dicen que este es el cuento que Byron escribió en aquella épica reunión con Mary Shelley y John William Polidori, donde estos escribieron “Frankestein” y “El Vampiro” respectivamente. Sin embargo esto es falso ya que “The Giaour” se publicó por primera vez en 1813 y la reunión se realizó en 1816.

El poema lo inspiró un viaje que hizo y al enterarse de ciertas drásticas costumbres turcas de esos tiempos.

Byron tiene muchas ligaduras con el tema de los vampiros no sólo por este poema o su gusto por las historias de horror. El personaje principal de “El vampiro” de Polidori está basado en el mismo Byron.

Otras historias cuentan que al publicarse “El vampiro” muchos atribuían la obra a Byron por el estilo de escritura.


A Fragment of a Turkish Tale

The tale which these disjointed fragments present, is founded upon circumstances now less common in the East than formerly; either because the ladies are more circumspect than in the ‘olden time’, or because the Christians have better fortune, or less enterprise. The story, when entire, contained the adventures of a female slave, who was thrown, in the Mussulman manner, into the sea for infidelity, and avenged by a young Venetian, her lover, at the time the Seven Islands were possessed by the Republic of Venice, and soon after the Arnauts were beaten back from the Morea, which they had ravaged for some time subsequent to the Russian invasion. The desertion of the Mainotes on being refused the plunder of Misitra, led to the abandonment of that enterprise, and to the desolation of the Morea, during which the cruelty exercised on all sides was unparalleled even in the annals of the faithful.

No breath of air to break the wave
That rolls below the Athenian’s grave,
That tomb which, gleaming o’er the cliff
First greets the homeward-veering skiff
High o’er the land he saved in vain;
When shall such Hero live again?

Fair clime! where every season smiles
Benignant o’er those blesséd isles,
Which, seen from far Colonna’s height,
Make glad the heart that hails the sight,
And lend to lonliness delight.
There mildly dimpling, Ocean’s cheek
Reflects the tints of many a peak
Caught by the laughing tides that lave
These Edens of the Eastern wave:
And if at times a transient breeze
Break the blue crystal of the seas,
Or sweep one blossom from the trees,
How welcome is each gentle air
That waves and wafts the odours there!
For there the Rose, o’er crag or vale,
Sultana of the Nightingale,

The maid for whom his melody,
His thousand songs are heard on high,
Blooms blushing to her lover’s tale:
His queen, the garden queen, his Rose,
Unbent by winds, unchilled by snows,
Far from winters of the west,
By every breeze and season blest,
Returns the sweets by Nature given
In soft incense back to Heaven;
And gratefu yields that smiling sky
Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh.
And many a summer flower is there,
And many a shade that Love might share,
And many a grotto, meant by rest,
That holds the pirate for a guest;
Whose bark in sheltering cove below
Lurks for the pasiing peaceful prow,
Till the gay mariner’s guitar
Is heard, and seen the Evening Star;
Then stealing with the muffled oar,
Far shaded by the rocky shore,
Rush the night-prowlers on the prey,
And turns to groan his roudelay.
Strande–that where Nature loved to trace,
As if for Gods, a dwelling place,
And every charm and grace hath mixed
Within the Paradise she fixed,
There man, enarmoured of distress,
Shoul mar it into wilderness,
And trample, brute-like, o’er each flower
That tasks not one labourious hour;
Nor claims the culture of his hand
To blood along the fairy land,
But springs as to preclude his care,
And sweetly woos him–but to spare!
Strange–that where all is Peace beside,
There Passion riots in her pride,
And Lust and Rapine wildly reign
To darken o’er the fair domain.
It is as though the Fiends prevailed
Against the Seraphs they assailed,
And, fixed on heavenly thrones, should dwell
The freed inheritors of Hell;
So soft the scene, so formed for joy,
So curst the tyrants that destroy!

He who hath bent him o’er the dead
Ere the first day of Death is fled,
The first dark day of Nothingness,
The last of Danger and Distress,
(Before Decay’s effacing fingers
Have swept the lines where Beauty lingers,)
And marked the mild angelic air,
The rapture of Repose that’s there,
The fixed yet tender thraits that streak
The languor of the placid cheek,
And–but for that sad shrouded eye,
That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now,
And but for that chill, changeless brow,

Where cold Obstruction’s apathy
Appals the gazing mourner’s heart,
As if to him it could impart
The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;
Yes, but for these and these alone,
Some moments, aye, one treacherous hour,
He still might doubt the Tyrant’s power;
So fair, so calm, so softly sealed,
The first, last look by Death revealed!
Such is the aspect of his shore;
‘T is Greece, but living Greece no more!
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start, for Soul is wanting there.
Hers is the loveliness in death,
That parts not quite with parting breath;
But beauty with that fearful bloom,
That hue which haunts it to the tomb,
Expression’s last receding ray,
A gilded Halo hovering round decay,
The farewell beam of Feeling past away!
Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth,
Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished earth!

Clime of the unforgotten brave!
Whose land from plain to mountain-cave
Was Freedom;s home or Glory’s grave!
Shrine of the mighty! can it be,
That this is all remains of thee?
Approach, thou craven crouching slave:
Say, is this not Thermopylæ?
These waters blue that round you lave,–
Of servile offspring of the free–
Pronounce what sea, what shore is this?
The gulf, the rock of Salamis!
These scenes, their story yet unknown;
Arise, and make again your own;
Snatch from the ashes of your Sires
The embers of their former fires;
And he who in the strife expires
Will add to theirs a name of fear
That Tyranny shall quake to hear,
And leave his sons a hope, a fame,
They too will rather die than shame:
For Freedom’s battle once begun,
Bequeathed by bleeding Sire to Son,
Though baffled oft is ever won.
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page!
Attest it many a deathless age!
While Kings, in dusty darkness hid,
Have left a namesless pyramid,
Thy Heroes, though the general doom
Hath swept the column from their tomb,
A mightier monument command,
The mountains of thy native land!
There points thy Muse to stranger’s eye
The graves of those that cannot die!
‘T were long to tell, and sad to trace,
Each step from Spledour to Disgrace;
Enough–no foreign foe could quell
Thy soul, till from itself it fell;
Yet! Self-abasement paved the way
To villain-bonds and despot sway.

What can he tell who tread thy shore?
No legend of thine olden time,
No theme on which the Muse might soar
High as thine own days of yore,
When man was worthy of thy clime.
The hearts within thy valleys bred,
The fiery souls that might have led
Thy sons to deeds sublime,
Now crawl from cradle to the Grave,
Slaves–nay, the bondsmen of a Slave,
And callous, save to crime.
Stained with each evil that pollutes
Mankind, where least above the brutes;
Without even savage virtue blest,
Without one free or valiant breast,
Still to the neighbouring ports tey waft
Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft;
In this subtle Greek is found,
For this, and this alown, renowned.
In vain might Liberty invoke
The spirit to its bondage broke
Or raise the neck that courts the yoke:
No more her sorrows I bewail,
Yet this will be a mournful tale,
And they who listen may believe,
Who heard it first had cause to grieve.

Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing,
The shadows of the rocks advancing
Start on the fisher’s eye like boat
Of island-pirate or Mainote;
And fearful for his light caïque,
He shuns the near but doubtful creek:
Though worn and weary with his toil,
And cumbered with his scaly spoil,
Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar,
Till Port Leone’s safer shore
Receives him by the lovely light
That best becomes an Eastern night.

… Who thundering comes on blackest steed,
With slackened bit and hoof of speed?
Beneath the clattering iron’s sound
The caverned echoes wake around
In lash for lash, and bound for bound;
The foam that streaks the courser’s side
Seems gathered from the ocean-tide:
Though weary waves are sunk to rest,
There’s none within his rider’s breast;
And though tomorrow’s tempest lower,
‘Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour!
I know thee not, I loathe thy race,
But in thy lineaments I trace
What time shall strengthen, not efface:
Though young and pale, that sallow front
Is scathed by fiery passion’s brunt;
Though bent on earth thine evil eye,
As meteor-like thou glidest by,
Right well I view thee and deem thee one
Whom Othman’s sons should slay or shun.

On – on he hastened, and he drew
My gaze of wonder as he flew:
Though like a demon of the night
He passed, and vanished from my sight,
His aspect and his air impressed
A troubled memory on my breast,
And long upon my startled ear
Rung his dark courser’s hoofs of fear.
He spurs his steed; he nears the steep,
That, jutting, shadows o’er the deep;
He winds around; he hurries by;
The rock relieves him from mine eye;
For, well I ween, unwelcome he
Whose glance is fixed on those that flee;
And not a start that shines too bright
On him who takes such timeless flight.
He wound along; but ere he passed
One glance he snatched, as if his last,
A moment checked his wheeling steed,
A moment breathed him from his speed,
A moment on his stirrup stood –
Why looks he o’er the olive wood?
The crescent glimmers on the hill,
The mosque’s high lamps are quivering still
Though too remote for sound to wake
In echoes of far tophaike,
The flashes of each joyous peal
Are seen to prove the Moslem’s zeal,
Tonight, set Rhamazani’s sun;
Tonight the Bairam feast’s begun;
Tonight – but who and what art thou
Of foreign garb and fearful brow?
That thou should’st either pause or flee?

He stood – some dread was on his face,
Soon hatred settled in its place:
It rose not with the reddening flush
Of transient anger’s hasty blush,
But pale as marble o’er the tomb,
Whose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom.
His brow was bent, his eye was glazed;
He raised his arm, and fiercely raised,
And sternly shook his hand on high,
As doubting to return or fly;
Impatient of his flight delayed,
Here loud his raven charger neighed –
Down glanced that hand and, and grasped his blade;
That sound had burst his waking dream,
As slumber starts at owlet’s scream.
The spur hath lanced his courser’s sides;
Away, away, for life he rides:
Swift as the hurled on high jerreed
Springs to the touch his startled steed;
The rock is doubled, and the shore
Shakes with the clattering tramp no more;
The crag is won, no more is seen
His Christian crest and haughty mien.
‘Twas but an instant he restrained
That fiery barb so sternly reined;
‘Twas but a moment that he stood,
Then sped as if by death pursued;
But in that instant 0’er his soul
Winters of memory seemed to roll,
And gather in that drop of time
A life of pain, an age of crime.
O’er him who loves, or hates, or fears,
Such moment pours the grief of years:
What felt he then, at once opprest
By all that most distracts the breast?
That pause, which pondered o’er his fate,
Oh, who its dreary length shall date!
Though in time’s record nearly nought,
It was eternity to thought!
For infinite as boundless space
The thought that conscience must embrace,
Which in itself can comprehend
Woe without name, or hope, or end.

The hour is past, the Giaour is gone;
And did he fly or fall alone?
Woe to that hour he came or went!
The curse for Hassan’s sin was sent
To turn a palace to a tomb:
He came, he went, like the Simoom,
That harbinger of fate and gloom,
Beneath whose widely – wasting breath
The very cypress droops to death –
Dark tree, still sad when others’ grief is fled,
The only constant mourner o’er the dead!

The steed is vanished from the stall;
No serf is seen in Hassan’s hall;
The lonely spider’s thin grey pall
Waves slowly widening o’er the wall;
The bat builds in his harem bower,
And in the fortress of his power
The owl usurps the beacon-tower;
The wild-dog howls o’er the fountain’s brim,
With baffled thirst and famine, grim;
For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed,
Where the weeds and the desolate dust are spread.
‘Twas sweet of yore to see it play
And chase the sultriness of day,
As springing high the silver dew
In whirls fantastically flew,
And flung luxurious coolness round
The air, and verdure o’er the ground.
‘Twas sweet, when cloudless stars were bright,
To view the wave of watery light,
And hear its melody by night.
And oft had Hassan’s childhood played
Around the verge of that cascade;
And oft upon his mother’s breast
That sound had harmonized his rest;
And oft had Hassan’s youth along
Its bank been soothed by beauty’s song;
And softer seem’d each melting tone
Of music mingled with its own.
But ne’er shall Hassan’s age repose
Along the brink at twilight’s close:
The stream that filled that font is fled –
The blood that warmed his heart is shed!
And here no more shall human voice
Be heard to rage, regret, rejoice.
The last sad note that swelled the gale
Was woman’s wildest funeral wall:
That quenched in silence all is still,
But the lattice that flaps when the wind is shrill:
Though raves the gust, and floods the rain,
No hand shall clasp its clasp again.
On desert sands ‘twere joy to scan
The rudest steps of fellow man,
So here the very voice of grief
Might wake an echo like relief –
At least ‘twould say, ‘All are not gone;
There lingers life, though but in one’ –
For many a gilded chamber’s there,
Which solitude might well forbear;
Within that dome as yet decay
Hath slowly worked her cankering way –
But gloom is gathered o’er the gate,
Nor there the fakir’s self will wait;
Nor there will wandering dervise stay,
For bounty cheers not his delay;
Nor there will weary stranger halt
To bless the sacred ‘bread and salt’.
Alike must wealth and poverty
Pass heedless and unheeded by,
For courtesy and pity died
With Hassan on the mountain side.
His roof, that refuge unto men,
Is desolation’s hungry den.
The guest flies the hall, and the vassal from labour,
Since his turban was cleft by the infidel’s sabre!

I hear the sound of coming feet,
But not a voice mine ear to greet;
More near – each turban I can scan,
And silver-sheathed ataghan;
The foremost of the band is seen
An emir by his garb of green:
‘Ho! Who art thou?’ – ‘This low salam
Replies of Moslem faith I am.’
‘The burden ye so gently bear,
Seems one that claims your utmost care,
And, doubtless, holds some precious freight,
My humble bark would gladly wait.’

‘Thou speakest sooth; they skiff unmoor,
And waft us from the silent shore;
Nay, leave the sail still furled, and ply
The nearest oar that’s scattered by,
And midway to those rocks where sleep
The channeled waters dark and deep.
Rest from your task – so – bravely done,
Of course had been right swiftly run;
Yet ‘tis the longest voyage, I trow,
That one of –

Sullen it plunged, and slowly sank,
The calm wave rippled to the bank;
I watched it as it sank, methought
Some motion from the current caught
Bestirred it more, – ‘twas but the beam
That checkered o’er the living stream:
I gazed, till vanishing from view,
Like lessening pebble it withdrew;
Still less and less, a speck of white
That gemmed the tide, then mocked the sight;
And all its hidden secrets sleep,
Known but to Genii of the deep,
Which, trembling in their coral caves,
They dare not whisper to the waves.

As rising on its purple wing
The insect-queen of eastern spring,
O’er emerald meadows of Kashmeer
Invites the young pursuer near,
And leads him on from flower to flower
A weary chase and wasted hour,
Then leaves him, as it soars on high,
With panting heart and tearful eye:
So beauty lures the full-grown child,
With hue as bright, and wing as wild:
A chase of idle hopes and fears,
Begun in folly, closed in tears.
If won, to equal ills betrayed,
Woe waits the insect and the maid;
A life of pain, the loss of peace,
From infant’s play and man’s caprice:
The lovely toy so fiercely sought
Hath lost its charm by being caught,
For every touch that wooed its stay
Hath brushed its brightest hues away,
Till charm, and hue, and beauty gone,
‘Tis left to fly or fall alone.
With wounded wing, or bleeding breast,
Ah! Where shall either victim rest?
Can this with faded pinion soar
From rose to tulip as before?
Or beauty, blighted in an hour,
Find joy within her broken bower?
No: gayer insects fluttering by
Ne’er droop the wing o’er those that die,
And lovelier things have mercy shown
To every failing but their own,
And every woe a tear can claim
Except an erring sister’s shame.

The mind that broods o’er guilty woes,
Is like the scorpion girt by fire;
In circle narrowing as it glows,
The flames around their captive close,
Till inly searched by thousand throes,
And maddening in her ire,
One sad and sole relief she knows,
The sting she nourished for her foes,
Whose venom never yet was vain,
Gives but one pang, and cures all pain,
So do the dark in soul expire,
Or live like scorpion girt by fire;
So writhes the mind remorse hath riven,
Unfit for earth, undoomed for heaven,
Darkness above, despair beneath,
Around it flame, within it death!

Black Hassan from the harem flies,
Nor bends on woman’s form his eyes;
The unwonted chase each hour employs,
Yet shares he not the hunter’s joys.
Not thus was Hassan wont to fly
When Leila dwelt in his Serai.
Doth Leila there no longer dwell?
That tale can only Hassan tell:
Strange rumours in our city say
Upon that eve she fled away
When Rhamazan’s last sun was set,
And flashing from each minaret
Millions of lamps proclaimed the feast
Of Bairam through the boundless East.
‘Twas then she went as to the bath,
Which Hassan vainly searched in wrath;
For she was flown her master’s rage
In likeness of a Georgian page,
And far beyond the Moslem’s power
Had wronged him with the faithless Giaour.
Somewhat of this had Hassan deemed;
But still so fond, so fair she seemed,
Too well he trusted to the slave
Whose treachery deserved a grave:
And on that eve had gone to mosque,
And thence to feast in his kiosk.
Such is the tale his Nubians tell,
Who did not watch their charge too well;
But others say, that on that night,
By pale Phingari’s trembling light,
The Giaour upon his jet-black steed
Was seen, but seen alone to speed
With bloody spur along the shore,
Nor maid nor page behind him bore.

Her eye’s dark charm ‘twere vain to tell,
But gaze on that of the gazelle,
It will assist thy fancy well;
As large, as languishingly dark,
But soul beamed forth in every spark
That darted from beneath the lid,
Bright as the jewel of Giamschild.
Yea, Soul, and should our prophet say
That form was nought but breathing clay,
By Allah! I would answer nay;
Though on Al-Sirat’s arch I stood,
Which totters o’er the fiery flood,
With Paradise within my view,
And all his Houris beckoning through.
Oh! Who young Leila’s glance could read
And keep that portion of his creed,
Which saith that woman is but dust,
A soulless toy for tyrant’s lust?
On her might Muftis might gaze, and own
That through her eye the Immortal shone;
On her fair cheek’s unfading hue
The young pomegranate’s blossoms strew
Their bloom in blushes ever new;
Her hair in hyacinthine flow,
When left to roll its folds below,
As midst her handmaids in the hall
She stood superior to them all,
Hath swept the marble where her feet
Gleamed whiter than the mountain sleet
Ere from the cloud that gave it birth
It fell, and caught one stain of earth.
The cygnet nobly walks the water;
So moved on earth Circassia’s daughter,
The loveliest bird of Franguestan!
As rears her crest the ruffled swan,
And spurns the wave with wings of pride,
When pass the steps of stranger man
Along the banks that bound her tide;
Thus rose fair Leila’s whiter neck:-
Thus armed with beauty would she check
Intrusion’s glance, till folly’s gaze
Shrunk from the charms it meant to praise:
Thus high and graceful as her gait;
Her heart as tender to her mate;
Her mate – stern Hassan, who was he?
Alas! That name was not for thee!

Stern Hassan hath a journey ta’en
With twenty vassals in his train,
Each armed, as best becomes a man,
With arquebuss and ataghan;
The chief before, as decked for war,
Bears in his belt the scimitar
Stain’d with the best of Amaut blood
When in the pass the rebels stood,
And few returned to tell the tale
Of what befell in Parne’s vale.
The pistols which his girdle bore
Were those that once a pasha wore,
Which still, though gemmed and bossed with gold,
Even robbers tremble to behold.
‘Tis said he goes to woo a bride
More true than her who left his side;
The faithless slave that broke her bower,
And – worse than faithless – for a Giaour!

The sun’s last rays are on the hill,
And sparkle in the fountain rill,
Whose welcome waters, cool and clear,
Draw blessings from the mountaineer:
Here may the loitering merchant Greek
Find that repose ‘twere vain to seek
In cities lodged too near his lord,
And trembling for his secret hoard –
Here may he rest where none can see,
In crowds a slave, in deserts free;
And with forbidden wine may stain
The bowl a Moslem must not drain.

The foremost Tartar’s in the gap,
Conspicuous by his yellow cap;
The rest in lengthening line the while
Wind slowly through the long defile:
Above, the mountain rears a peak,
Where vultures whet the thirsty beak,
And theirs may be a feast tonight,
Shall tempt them down ere morrow’s light;
Beneath, a river’s wintry stream
Has shrunk before the summer beam,
And left a channel bleak and bare,
Save shrubs that spring to perish there:
Each side the midway path there lay
Small broken crags of granite grey
By time, or mountain lightning, riven
From summits clad in mists of heaven;
For where is he that hath beheld
The peak of Liakura unveiled?

They reach the grove of pine at last:
‘Bismillah! now the peril’s past;
For yonder view the opening plain,
And there we’ll prick our steeds amain.’
The Chiaus spake, and as he said,
A bullet whistled o’er his head;
The foremost Tartar bites the ground!
Scarce had they time to check the rein,
Swift from their steeds the riders bound;
But three shall never mount again:
Unseen the foes that gave the wound,
The dying ask revenge in vain.
With steel unsheathed, and carbine bent,
Some o’er their courser’s harness leant,
Half sheltered by the steed;
Some fly behind the nearest rock,
And there await the coming shock,
Nor tamely stand to bleed
Beneath the shaft of foes unseen,
Who dare not quit their craggy screen.
Stern Hassan only from his horse
Disdains to light, and keeps his course,
Till fiery flashes in the van
Proclaim too sure the robber-clan
Have well secured the only way
Could now avail the promised prey;
Then curled his very beard with ire,
And glared his eye with fiercer fire:
‘Though far and near the bullets hiss,
I’ve ‘scaped a bloodier hour than this.’
And now the foe their covert quit,
And call his vassals to submit;
But Hassan’s frown and furious word
Are dreaded more than hostile sword,
Nor of his little band a man
Resigned carbine or ataghan,
Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun!
In fuller sight, more near and near,
The lately ambushed foes appear,
And, issuing from the grove, advance
Some who on battle-charger prance.
Who leads them on with foreign brand,
Far flashing in his red right hand?
“Tis he! ‘tis he! I know him now;
I know him by his pallid brow;
I know him by the evil eye
That aids his envious treachery;
I know him by his jet-black barb:
Though now arrayed in Arnaut garb
Apostate from his own vile faith,
It shall not save him from the death:
‘Tis he! well met in any hour,
Lost Leila’s love, accursed Giaour!

As rolls the river into ocean,
In sable torrent wildly streaming;
As the sea-tide’s opposing motion,
In azure column Proudly gleaming
Beats back the current many a rood,
In curling foam and mingling flood,
While eddying whirl, and breaking wave,
Roused by the blast of winter, rave;
Through sparkling spray, in thundering clash,
The lightnings of the waters flash
In awful whiteness o’er the shore,
That shines and shakes beneath the roar;
Thus – as the stream, and Ocean greet,
With waves that madden as they meet –
Thus join the bands, whom mutual wrong,
And fate, and fury, drive along.
The bickering sabres’ shivering jar;
And pealing wide or ringing near
Its echoes on the throbbing ear,
The deathshot hissing from afar;
The shock, the shout, the groan of war,
Reverberate along that vale
More suited to the shepherds tale:
Though few the numbers – theirs the strife
That neither spares nor speaks for life!
Ah! fondly youthful hearts can press,
To seize and share the dear caress;
But love itself could never pant
For all that beauty sighs to grant
With half the fervour hate bestows
Upon the last embrace of foes,
When grappling in the fight they fold
Those arms that ne’er shall lose their hold:
Friends meet to part; love laughs at faith;
True foes, once met, are joined till death!

With sabre shivered to the hilt,
Yet dripping with the blood he spilt;
Yet strained within the severed hand
Which quivers round that faithless brand;
His turban far behind him rolled,
And cleft in twain its firmest fold;
His flowing robe by falchion torn,
And crimson as those clouds of morn
That, streaked with dusky red, portend
The day shall have a stormy end;
A stain on every bush that bore
A fragment of his palampore
His breast with wounds unnumbered riven,
His back to earth, his face to heaven,
Fallen Hassan lies – his unclosed eye
Yet lowering on his enemy,
As if the hour that sealed his fate
Surviving left his quenchless hate;
And o’er him bends that foe with brow
As dark as his that bled below.

‘Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave,
But his shall be a redder grave;
Her spirit pointed well the steel
Which taught that felon heart to feel.
He called the Prophet, but his power
Was vain against the vengeful Giaour:
He called on Allah – but the word.
Arose unheeded or unheard.
Thou Paynim fool! could Leila’s prayer
Be passed, and thine accorded there?
I watched my time, I leagued with these,
The traitor in his turn to seize;
My wrath is wreaked, the deed is done,
And now I go – but go alone.’

The browsing camels’ bells are tinkling:
His mother looked from her lattice high –
She saw the dews of eve besprinkling
The pasture green beneath her eye,
She saw the planets faintly twinkling:
”Tis twilight – sure his train is nigh.’
She could not rest in the garden-bower,
But gazed through the grate of his steepest tower:
‘Why comes he not? his steeds are fleet,
Nor shrink they from the summer heat;
Why sends not the bridegroom his promised gift?
Is his heart more cold, or his barb less swift?
Oh, false reproach! yon Tartar now
Has gained our nearest mountain’s brow,
And warily the steep descends,
And now within the valley bends;
And he bears the gift at his saddle bow
How could I deem his courser slow?
Right well my largess shall repay
His welcome speed, and weary way.’
The Tartar lighted at the gate,
But scarce upheld his fainting weight!
His swarthy visage spake distress,
But this might be from weariness;
His garb with sanguine spots was dyed,
But these might be from his courser’s side;
He drew the token from his vest –
Angel of Death! ‘tis Hassan’s cloven crest!
His calpac rent – his caftan red –
‘Lady, a fearful bride thy son hath wed:
Me, not from mercy, did they spare,
But this empurpled pledge to bear.
Peace to the brave! whose blood is spilt:
Woe to the Giaour! for his the guilt.’

A turban carved in coarsest stone,
A pillar with rank weeds o’ergrown,
Whereon can now be scarcely read
The Koran verse that mourns the dead,
Point out the spot where Hassan fell
A victim in that lonely dell.
There sleeps as true an Osmanlie
As e’er at Mecca bent the knee;
As ever scorned forbidden wine,
Or prayed with face towards the shrine,
In orisons resumed anew
At solemn sound of ‘Allah Hu!’
Yet died he by a stranger’s hand,
And stranger in his native land;
Yet died he as in arms he stood,
And unavenged, at least in blood.
But him the maids of Paradise
Impatient to their halls invite,
And the dark Heaven of Houris’ eyes
On him shall glance for ever bright;
They come – their kerchiefs green they wave,
And welcome with a kiss the brave!
Who falls in battle ‘gainst a Giaour
Is worthiest an immortal bower.

But thou, false Infidel! shalt writhe
Beneath avenging Monkir’s scythe;
And from its torment ‘scape alone
To wander round lost Eblis’ throne;
And fire unquenched, unquenchable,
Around, within, thy heart shall dwell;
Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell
The tortures of that inward hell!
But first, on earth as vampire sent,
Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent:
Then ghastly haunt thy native place,
And suck the blood of all thy race;
There from thy daughter, sister, wife,
At midnight drain the stream of life;
Yet loathe the banquet which perforce
Must feed thy livid living corse:
Thy victims ere they yet expire
Shall know the demon for their sire,
As cursing thee, thou cursing them,
Thy flowers are withered on the stem.
But one that for thy crime must fall,
The youngest, most beloved of all,
Shall bless thee with a father’s name –
That word shall wrap thy heart in flame!
Yet must thou end thy task, and mark
Her cheek’s last tinge, her eye’s last spark,
And the last glassy glance must view
Which freezes o’er its lifeless blue;
Then with unhallowed hand shalt tear
The tresses of her yellow hair,
Of which in life a lock when shorn
Affection’s fondest pledge was worn,
But now is borne away by thee,
Memorial of thine agony!
Wet with thine own best blood shall drip
Thy gnashing tooth and haggard lip;
Then stalking to thy sullen grave,
Go – and with Gouls and Afrits rave;
Till these in horror shrink away
From spectre more accursed than they!

‘How name ye yon lone Caloyer?
His features I have scanned before
In mine own land: ‘tis many a year,
Since, dashing by the lonely shore,
I saw him urge as fleet a steed
As ever served a horseman’s need.
But once I saw that face, yet then
It was so marked with inward pain,
I could not pass it by again;
It breathes the same dark spirit now,
As death were stamped upon his brow.

”Tis twice three years at summer tide
Since first among our freres he came;
And here it soothes him to abide
For some dark deed he will not name.
But never at our vesper prayer,
Nor e’er before confession chair
Kneels he, nor recks he when arise
Incense or anthem to the skies,
But broods within his cell alone,
His faith and race alike unknown.
The sea from Paynim land he crost,
And here ascended from the coast;
Yet seems he not of Othman race,
But only Christian in his face:
I’d judge him some stray renegade,
Repentant of the change he made,
Save that he shuns our holy shrine,
Nor tastes the sacred bread and wine.
Great largess to these walls he brought,
And thus our abbot’s favour bought;
But were I prior, not a day
Should brook such stranger’s further stay,
Or pent within our penance cell
Should doom him there for aye to dwell.
Much in his visions mutters he
Of maiden whelmed beneath the sea;
Of sabres clashing, foemen flying,
Wrongs avenged, and Moslem dying.
On cliff he hath been known to stand,
And rave as to some bloody hand
Fresh severed from its parent limb,
Invisible to all but him,
Which beckons onward to his grave,
And lures to leap into the wave.’

Dark and unearthly is the scowl
That glares beneath his dusky cowl:
The flash of that dilating eye
Reveals too much of times gone by;
Though varying, indistinct its hue,
Oft will his glance the gazer rue,
For in it lurks that nameless spell,
Which speaks, itself unspeakable,
A spirit yet unquelled and high,
That claims and keeps ascendency;
And like the bird whose pinions quake,
But cannot fly the gazing snake,
Will others quail beneath his look,
Nor ‘scape the glance they scarce can brook.
From him the half-affrighted friar
When met alone would fain retire,
As if that eye and bitter smile
Transferred to others fear and guile:
Not oft to smile descendeth he,
And when he doth ‘tis sad to see
That he but mocks at misery.
How that pale lip will curl and quiver!
Then fix once more as if for ever;
As if his sorrow or disdain
Forbade him e’er to smile again.
Well were it so – such ghastly mirth
From joyaunce ne’er derived its birth.
But sadder still it were to trace
What once were feelings in that face:
Time hath not yet the features fixed,
But brighter traits with evil mixed;
And there are hues not always faded,
Which speak a mind not all degraded
Even by the crimes through which it waded:
The common crowd but see the gloom
Of wayward deeds, and fitting doom;
The close observer can espy
A noble soul, and lineage high:
Alas! though both bestowed in vain,
Which grief could change, and guilt could stain,
It was no vulgar tenement
To which such lofty gifts were lent,
And still with little less than dread
On such the sight is riveted.
The roofless cot, decayed and rent,
Will scarce delay the passer-by;
The tower by war or tempest bent,
While yet may frown one battlement,
Demands and daunts the stranger’s eye;
Each ivied arch, and pillar lone,
Pleads haughtily for glories gone!

‘His floating robe around him folding,
Slow sweeps he through the columned aisle;
With dread beheld, with gloom beholding
The rites that sanctify the pile.
But when the anthem shakes the choir,
And kneel the monks, his steps retire;
By yonder lone and wavering torch
His aspect glares within the porch;
There will he pause till all is done –
And hear the prayer, but utter none.
See – by the half-illumined wall
His hood fly back, his dark hair fall,
That pale brow wildly wreathing round,
As if the Gorgon there had bound
The sablest of the serpent-braid
That o’er her fearful forehead strayed:
For he declines the convent oath
And leaves those locks unhallowed growth,
But wears our garb in all beside;
And, not from piety but pride,
Gives wealth to walls that never heard
Of his one holy vow nor word.
Lo! – mark ye, as the harmony
Peals louder praises to the sky,
That livid cheek, that stony air
Of mixed defiance and despair!
Saint Francis, keep him from the shrine!
Else may we dread the wrath divine
Made manifest by awful sign.
If ever evil angel bore
The form of mortal, such he wore:
By all my hope of sins forgiven,
Such looks are not of earth nor heaven!’

To love the softest hearts are prone,
But such can ne’er be all his own;
Too timid in his woes to share,
Too meek to meet, or brave despair;
And sterner hearts alone may feel
The wound that time can never heal.
The rugged metal of the mine,
Must burn before its surface shine,
But plunged within the furnace-flame,
It bends and melts – though still the same;
Then tempered to thy want, or will,
‘Twill serve thee to defend or kill;
A breast-plate for thine hour of need,
Or blade to bid thy foeman bleed;
But if a dagger’s form it bear,
Let those who shape its edge, beware!
Thus passion’s fire, and woman’s art,
Can turn and tame the sterner heart;
From these its form and tone are ta’en,
And what they make it, must remain,
But break – before it bend again.

If solitude succeed to grief,
Release from pain is slight relief;
The vacant bosom’s wilderness
Might thank the pang that made it less.
We loathe what none are left to share:
Even bliss – ‘twere woe alone to bear;
The heart once left thus desolate
Must fly at last for ease – to hate.
It is as if the dead could feel
The icy worm around them steal,
And shudder, as the reptiles creep
To revel o’er their rotting sleep,
Without the power to scare away
The cold consumers of their clay I
It is as if the desert-bird,
Whose beak unlocks her bosom’s stream
To still her famished nestlings’ scream,
Nor mourns a life to them transferred,
Should rend her rash devoted breast,
And find them flown her empty nest.
The keenest pangs the wretched find
Are rapture to the dreary void,
The leafless desert of the mind,
The waste of feelings unemployed.
Who would be doomed to gaze upon
A sky without a cloud or sun?
Less hideous far the tempest’s roar
Than ne’er to brave the billows more –
Thrown, when the war of winds is o’er,
A lonely wreck on fortune’s shore,
‘Mid sullen calm, and silent bay,
Unseen to drop by dull decay; –
Better to sink beneath the shock
Than moulder piecemeal on the rock!

‘Father! thy days have passed in peace,
‘Mid counted beads, and countless prayer;
To bid the sins of others cease
Thyself without a crime or care,
Save transient ills that all must bear,
Has been thy lot from youth to age;
And thou wilt bless thee from the rage
Of passions fierce and uncontrolled,
Such as thy penitents unfold,
Whose secret sins and sorrows rest
Within thy pure and pitying breast.

My days, though few, have passed below
In much of joy, but more of woe;
Yet still in hours of love or strife,
I’ve ‘scaped the weariness of life:
Now leagued with friends, now girt by foes,
I loathed the languor of repose.
Now nothing left to love or hate,
No more with hope or pride elate,
I’d rather be the thing that crawls
Most noxious o’er a dungeon’s walls,
Than pass my dull, unvarying days,
Condemned to meditate and gaze.
Yet, lurks a wish within my breast
For rest – but not to feel ‘tis rest
Soon shall my fate that wish fulfil;
And I shall sleep without the dream
Of what I was, and would be still,
Dark as to thee my deeds may seem:
My memory now is but the tomb
Of joys long dead; my hope, their doom:
Though better to have died with those
Than bear a life of lingering woes.
My spirit shrunk not to sustain
The searching throes of ceaseless pain;
Nor sought the self-accorded grave
Of ancient fool and modern knave:
Yet death I have not feared to meet;
And the field it had been sweet,
Had danger wooed me on to move
The slave of glory, not of love.
I’ve braved it – not for honour’s boast;
I smile at laurels won or lost;
To such let others carve their way,
For high renown, or hireling pay:
But place again before my eyes
Aught that I deem a worthy prize
The maid I love, the man I hate,
And I will hunt the steps of fate,
To save or slay, as these require,
Through rending steel, and rolling fire:
Nor needest thou doubt this speech from one
Who would but do ~ what he hath done.
Death is but what the haughty brave,
The weak must bear, the wretch must crave;
Then let life go to him who gave:
I have not quailed to danger’s brow
When high and happy – need I now?

‘I loved her, Friar! nay, adored –
But these are words that all can use –
I proved it more in deed than word;
There’s blood upon that dinted sword,
A stain its steel can never lose:
‘Twas shed for her, who died for me,
It warmed the heart of one abhorred:
Nay, start not – no – nor bend thy knee,
Nor midst my sins such act record;
Thou wilt absolve me from the deed,
For he was hostile to thy creed!
The very name of Nazarene
Was wormwood to his Paynim spleen.
Ungrateful fool! since but for brands
Well wielded in some hardy hands,
And wounds by Galileans given –
The surest pass to Turkish heaven
For him his Houris still might wait
Impatient at the Prophet’s gate.
I loved her – love will find its way
Through paths where wolves would fear to prey;
And if it dares enough, ‘twere hard
If passion met not some reward –
No matter how, or where, or why,
I did not vainly seek, nor sigh:
Yet sometimes, with remorse, in vain
I wish she had not loved again.
She died – I dare not tell thee how;
But look – ‘tis written on my brow!
There read of Cain the curse and crime,
In characters unworn by time:
Still, ere thou dost condemn me, pause;
Not mine the act, though I the cause.
Yet did he but what I had done
Had she been false to more than one.
Faithless to him, he gave the blow;
But true to me, I laid him low:
Howe’er deserved her doom might be,
Her treachery was truth to me;
To me she gave her heart, that all
Which tyranny can ne’er enthral;
And I, alas! too late to save!
Yet all I then could give, I gave,
‘Twas some relief, our foe a grave.
His death sits lightly; but her fate
Has made me – what thou well mayest hate.
His doom was sealed – he knew it well
Warned by the voice of stern Taheer,
Deep in whose darkly boding ear
The deathshot pealed of murder near,
As filed the troop to where they fell!
He died too in the battle broil,
A time that heeds nor pain nor toil;
One cry to Mahomet for aid,
One prayer to Allah all he made:
He knew and crossed me in the fray –
I gazed upon him where he lay,
And watched his spirit ebb away:
Though pierced like pard by hunters’ steel,
He felt not half that now I feel.
I searched, but vainly searched, to find
The workings of a wounded mind;
Each feature of that sullen corse
Betrayed his rage, but no remorse.
Oh, what had vengeance given to trace
Despair upon his dying face I
The late repentance of that hour,
When penitence hath lost her power
To tear one terror from the grave,
And will not soothe, and cannot save.

‘The cold in clime are cold in blood,
Their love can scarce deserve the name;
But mine was like a lava flood
That boils in Etna’s breast of flame.
I cannot prate in puling strain
Of ladye-love, and beauty’s chain:
If changing cheek, and searching vein,
Lips taught to writhe, but not complain,
If bursting heart, and maddening brain,
And daring deed, and vengeful steel,
And all that I have felt, and feel,
Betoken love – that love was mine,
And shown by many a bitter sign.
‘Tis true, I could not whine nor sigh,
I knew but to obtain or die.
I die – but first I have possessed,
And come what may, I have been blessed.
Shall I the doom I sought upbraid?
No – reft of all, yet undismayed
But for the thought of Leila slain,
Give me the pleasure with the pain,
So would I live and love again.
I grieve, but not, my holy guide!
For him who dies, but her who died:
She sleeps beneath the wandering wave
Ah! had she but an earthly grave,
This breaking heart and throbbing head
Should seek and share her narrow bed.
She was a form of life and light,
That, seen, became a part of sight;
And rose, where’er I turned mine eye,
The morning-star of memory!

‘Yes, love indeed is light from heaven..
A spark of that immortal fire
With angels shared, by Allah given,
To lift from earth our low desire.
Devotion wafts the mind above,
But Heaven itself descends in love;
A feeling from the Godhead caught,
To wean from self each sordid thought;
A ray of him who formed the whole;
A glory circling round the soul !
I grant my love imperfect, all
That mortals by the name miscall;
Then deem it evil, what thou wilt;
But say, oh say, hers was not guilt !
She was my life’s unerring light:
That quenched, what beam shall break my night?
Oh! would it shone to lead me still,
Although to death or deadliest ill!
Why marvel ye, if they who lose
This present joy, this future hope,
No more with sorrow meekly cope;
In phrensy then their fate accuse;
In madness do those fearful deeds
That seem to add but guilt to woe?
Alas! the breast that inly bleeds
Hath nought to dread from outward blow;
Who falls from all he knows of bliss,
Cares little into what abyss.
Fierce as the gloomy vulture’s now
To thee, old man, my deeds appear:
I read abhorrence on thy brow,
And this too was I born to bear!
‘Tis true, that, like that bird of prey,
With havock have I marked my way:
But this was taught me by the dove,
To die – and know no second love.
This lesson yet hath man to learn,
Taught by the thing he dares to spurn:
The bird that sings within the brake,
The swan that swims upon the lake,
One mate, and one alone, will take.
And let the fool still prone to range,
And sneer on all who cannot change,
Partake his jest with boasting boys;
I envy not his varied joys,
But deem such feeble, heartless man,
Less than yon solitary swan;
Far, far beneath the shallow maid
He left believing and betrayed.
Such shame at least was never mine –
Leila! each thought was only thine!
My good, my guilt, my weal, my woe,
My hope on high – my all below.
Earth holds no other like to thee,
Or, if it doth, in vain for me:
For worlds I dare not view the dame
Resembling thee, yet not the same.
The very crimes that mar my youth,
This bed of death – attest my truth!
‘Tis all too late – thou wert, thou art
The cherished madness of my heart!

‘And she was lost – and yet I breathed,
But not the breath of human life:
A serpent round my heart was wreathed,
And stung my every thought to strife.
Alike all time, abhorred all place,
Shuddering I shrunk from Nature’s face,
Where every hue that charmed before
The blackness of my bosom wore.
The rest thou dost already know,
And all my sins, and half my woe.
But talk no more of penitence;
Thou see’st I soon shall part from hence:
And if thy holy tale were true,
The deed that’s done canst thou undo?
Think me not thankless – but this grief
Looks not to priesthood for relief.
My soul’s estate in secret guess:
But wouldst thou pity more, say less.
When thou canst bid my Leila live,
Then will I sue thee to forgive;
Then plead my cause in that high place
Where purchased masses proffer grace.
Go, when the hunter’s hand hath wrung
From forest-cave her shrieking young,
And calm the lonely lioness:
But soothe not – mock not my distress!

‘In earlier days, and calmer hours,
When heart with heart delights to blend,
Where bloom my native valley’s bowers
I had – Ah! have I now? – a friend!
To him this pledge I charge thee send,
Memorial of a youthful vow;
I would remind him of my end:
Though souls absorbed like mine allow
Brief thought to distant friendship’s claim,
Yet dear to him my blighted name.
‘Tis strange – he prophesied my doom,
And I have smiled – I then could smile –
When prudence would his voice assume,
And warn – I recked not what – the while:
But now remembrance whispers o’er
Those accents scarcely marked before.
Say – that his bodings came to pass,
And he will start to hear their truth,
And wish his words had not been sooth:
Tell him, unheeding as I was,
Through many a busy bitter scene
Of all our golden youth had been,
In pain, my faltering tongue had tried
To bless his memory ere I died;
But Heaven in wrath would turn away,
If guilt should for the guiltless pray.
I do not ask him not to blame,
Too gentle he to wound my name;
And what have I to do with fame?
I do not ask him not to mourn,
Such cold request might sound like scorn;
And what than friendship’s manly tear
May better grace a brother’s bier?
But bear this ring, his own of old,
And tell him – what thou dost behold!
The withered frame, the ruined mind,
The wrack by passion left behind,
A shrivelled scroll, a scattered leaf,
Seared by the autumn blast of grief!

‘Tell me no more of fancy’s gleam,
No, father, no, ‘twas not a dream;
Alas! the dreamer first must sleep.
I only watched, and wished to weep;
But could not, for my burning brow
Throbbed to the very brain as now:
I wished but for a single tear,
As something welcome, new, and dear-;
I wished it then, I wish it still;
Despair is stronger than my will.
Waste not thine orison, despair
Is mightier than thy pious prayer:
I would not if I might, be blest;
I want no paradise, but rest.
‘Twas then, I tell thee, father! then
I saw her; yes, she lived again;
And shining in her white symar,
As through yon pale grey cloud the star
Which now I gaze on, as on her,
Who looked and looks far lovelier;
Dimly I view its trembling spark;
Tomorrow’s night shall be more dark;
And I, before its rays appear,
That lifeless thing the living fear.
I wander, father! for my soul
Is fleeting towards the final goal.
I saw her, friar! and I rose
Forgetful of our former woes;
And rushing from my couch, I dart,
And clasp her to my desperate heart;
I clasp – what is it that I clasp?
No breathing form within my grasp,
No heart that beats reply to mine,
Yet, Leila! yet the form is thine!
And art thou, dearest, changed so much,
As meet my eye, yet mock my touch?
Ah! were thy beauties e’er so cold,
I care not; so my arms enfold
The all they ever wished to hold.
Alas! around a shadow prest,
They shrink upon my lonely breast;
Yet still ‘tis there! In silence stands,
And beckons with beseeching hands!
With braided hair, and bright black eye –
I knew ‘twas false – she could not die!
But he is dead! within the dell
I saw him buried where he fell;
He comes not, for he cannot break
From earth; why then art thou awake?
They told me wild waves rolled above
The face I view, the form I love;
They told me – ‘twas a hideous tale I
I’d tell it, but my tongue would fail:
If true, and from thine ocean-cave
Thou com’st to claim a calmer grave;
Oh! pass thy dewy fingers o’er
This brow that then will burn no more;
Or place them on my hopeless heart:
But, shape or shade! whate’er thou art,
In mercy ne’er again depart!
Or farther with thee bear my soul
Than winds can waft or waters roll!

‘Such is my name, and such my tale.
Confessor ! to thy secret ear
I breathe the sorrows I bewail,
And thank thee for the generous tear
This glazing eye could never shed.
Then lay me with the humblest dead,
And, save the cross above my head,
Be neither name nor emblem spread,
By prying stranger to be read,
Or stay the passing pilgrims tread.’

He passed – nor of his name and race
Hath left a token or a trace,
Save what the father must not say
Who shrived him on his dying day:
This broken tale was all we knew
Of her he loved, or him he slew.


Posted in Literatura, Poesía with tags , , , , , on enero 13, 2012 by Morning Kryziz Bonny

Christabel de Samuel Taylor Coleridge es un poema importante debido a que al parecer es reconocido como el primer poema de vampiros en el idioma inglés.

El poema quedó por siempre incompleto aunque el autor tenía planes de hacer tres partes más.

La historia es sobre una dama noble (Christabel) que encuentra en el bosque a otra dama (Geraldine). Esta habla de su linaje y cuenta que fue secuestrada. Christabel decide llevarla a su castillo, pero en el camino hay señales muy extrañas: su belleza es inusual, su perro ladra sin razón, el fuego reacciona a su presencia, parece ser acosada por fantasmas, hay algo extraño en su cuerpo, algo le impide emitir palabras en contra de ella y se siente en un constante ensueño.

Podrás nunca haber escuchado sobre este poema y después de leerlo pienses que no es tan relevante en la literatura vampírica o que las señales son más bien demónicas pero ¿qué tal si te dijera que al parecer este poema inspiró a Le Fanu para dar vida a la vampira Carmilla? Es clara la relación entre ambas historias ya que nos cuentan sobre una dama que da entrada a una extraña a su hogar y vida. También entre ambas historias hay una atracción sexual entre las protagonistas y otros detalles que si conoces la historia te saltarán de inmediato.

Versión Original


‘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.
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;
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:
‘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,
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,
And naught 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,
Dressed 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 unsandaled were;
And wildly glittered here and there
The gems entangled in her hair.
I guess, ‘t was 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 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:
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.
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 Geraldine:
‘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,
And thus spake on sweet Christabel:
‘All our household are at rest,
The hall is 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 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
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 aid 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,
And now they pass the Baron’s room,
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,
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 Geraldine, in wretched plight,
Sank down upon the floor below.
‘O weary lady, Geraldine,
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?’
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.
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!
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,
‘Off, woman, off! this hour is mine-
Though thou her guardian spirit be,
Off, woman. off! ‘t is 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, ”T is 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 befell,
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,
Dropped 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, well-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.’

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 Geraldine! since arms of thine
Have been the lovely lady’s prison.
O Geraldine! one hour was thine-
Thou’st had thy will! By tarn 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, ‘t is but the blood so free
Comes back and tingles in her feet.
No doubt, she hath a vision sweet.
What if her guardian spirit ‘t were,
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.


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.

The air is still! through mist and cloud
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,
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
That He, who on the cross did groan,
Might wash away her sins unknown,
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,
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,
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,
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,
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 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
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 and 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!
With new surprise,
‘What ails then my beloved child?’
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,
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
Home to her father’s mansion.
Nay, by my soul!’ said Leoline.
‘Ho! Bracy the bard, the charge be thine!
Go 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.

‘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 honor! 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,
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 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,
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!
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 wondered what might ail the bird;
For nothing near it could I see,
Save the grass and 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.
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,
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 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,
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
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!

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 looked askance!-
One moment- and the sight was fled!
But Christabel in dizzy trance
Stumbling on the unsteady ground
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
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
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 wouldst 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,
And did but work confusion there.
His heart was cleft with pain and rage,
His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were wild,
Dishonored thus in his old age;
Dishonored 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 ministrel bard,
And said in tones abrupt, austere-
‘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!


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 all 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.


Traducción al español

Es la mitad de la noche marcada por el reloj del castillo

Y las lechuzas han despertado el canto del gallo

Tu-whit!- Tu-whoo!

Y canta de nuevo el gallo,

Como soñoliento

Sir Leoline, el barón rico comanda,

A su mastín chimuela, que

Desde su casita bajo la roca,

Responde al reloj.

Cuatro para los cuartos, y doce para la hora

Siempre dispuesta, al brillo y baño

Dieciséis pequeños aullidos no muy sonoros

Algunos dicen, ve a mi dama cubrirse.

Es la noche fría y obscura.

La noche es fría pero no obscura

La nube delgada y gris se expande en lo alto

Cubre pero no esconde el cielo

La luna está cubierta y llena:

Pero aún así se ve pequeña y aburrida

La noche es fría, la nube gris:

“Es un mes antes de Mayo,

Y la primavera va llegando”

La dulce dama, Christabel

A quien su padre ama tanto

Qué la lleva a estar en el bosque tan tarde,

A una gran distancia a la puerta de su castillo?

Tuvo sueños toda la noche pasada

De su amado caballero;

Y ella en el medio del bosque rezará

Por el bien de su amado que se encuentra lejos.

Se movió en secreto y silencio,

Su respiración agitada era suave.

Eran verdes en el roble,

El musgo y el raro muérdago

Ella se arrodilla bajo el gran roble

Y en silencio hace una plegaria

La dama se levantó de pronto

¡La dulce dama, Christabel!

Gimió tan cerca, tan cerca como se podía

Pero ¿qué es lo que no podía pronunciar?

Del otro lado parece estar

Al lado del enorme y frondoso roble

La noche es fría, el bosque desnudo;

¿Es el viento que gime desolado?

No hay suficiente viento en el aire

Para mover el rizo

De la mejilla de la adorable dama,

No hay viento suficiente para arrastrar

La hoja roja, la última en su clan

Que danza tan seguido como puede

Colgando tan ligera y elevándose tan alto,

En la rama que mira hacia el cielo

¡Silencio, corazón agitado de Christabel!

¡Jesús, María, Protéjanla bien!

Cruzó los brazos bajo su capa

Y se movió al otro lado del roble

¿Qué ve ahí?

Ahí mira a una brillante damisela

Vestida en una capa de seda blanca

Esa sombra que en la luz de la luna brillaba:

Con el cuello pálido sobre la capa blanca.

Su magnífico cuello y brazos desnudos;

Sus pies descalzos y de venas azules:

Y brillando salvaje aquí y allá.

Las gemas bordadas en su cabello.

Creo que fue temible ver ahí

Una dama vestida tan deliciosamente

¡De belleza excedente!

¡Madre María, sálvame ahora!

“¿Y quién eres tú?” Dijo Christabel

La extraña dama emitió respuesta

En una voz cálida y dulce

“Ten piedad de mi terrible desgracia,

Apenas puedo hablar por la fatiga:

¡Toma mi mano y no temas!

“Cómo es que estás aquí?” Dijo Christabel

Y la dama con la voz era cálida y dulce

Dio su respuesta

“Mi padre es de linaje noble,

Y mi nombre es Geraldine:

Cinco guerreros me secuestraron la mañana de ayer,

A mi, una dama inocente.

Ahogaron mis lamentos con temible fuerza

Y me ataron a un caballo blanco.

El caballo era tan rápido como el viento

Y cabalgaron furiosamente atrás.

Con toda la fuerza de sus espuelas, sus corceles eran blancos;

Y una vez que cruzaron la sombra de la noche

Tan segura como que el cielo me salvará,

No tengo idea de qué hombres serán

Tampoco sé que tan lejos estoy

(Pues he sido engañada)

Desde que uno, el más alto de los cinco

Me tomó del lomo del caballo.

Yo, una pobre mujer apenas viva.

Algunos murmuraron palabras:

Me puso bajo el roble

Y juraron que regresarían pronto

A dónde fueron, no puedo decir

Aunque escuché después de unos minutos,

Las campanas de un castillo.

Toma mi mano- terminó-

Y ayuda a una pobre dama a huír.

Entonces Christabel tomó su mano,

Y consoló a la pobre Geraldine:

Bueno, brillante dama, pide entonces

Por el serivio de Sir Leoline

Y con gusto él mandará

A nuestros caballeros y amigos

Para protegerte y llevarte

Hasta el hogar de tu noble padre

Se levantó y con pasos

Lentos y seguros

Las graciosas estrellas la dama bendijo

Y entonces habló la dulce Christabel

“Todos nuestros sirvientes descansan,

El salón está tan silencioso como una celda.

Sir Leoline está debil de salud

Y no debemos despertarlo,

Pero nos moveremos en silencio

Y pido tu cortesía

Esta noche para compartir el lecho conmigo”

Cruzaron el bosque y Christabel

Tomó la llave que cabía bien

En una pequeña cerradura en la puerta que abrió;

En mitad de la puerta había hierro forjado

Ilustrando a un ejercito que marchaba en batalla

La dama se hundió al parecer de dolor

Y Christabel con fuerza

Levantó su peso fatigado

Sobre la entrada de la puerta.

Entonces la dama se levantó de nuevo

Y se movió como si no hubiera dolor

Tan libre de peligro, tan libre de miedo.

Cruzaron la entrada, alegres estaban

Y Christabel lloró devotamente;

“¡Alabemos a la virgen tan divina

que te ha rescatado de la agonía!”

“¡Claro, claro!” Dijo Geraldine

“Pero no puedo hablar por la fatiga”

Tan libres de peligro, tan libres de miedo

Cruzaron la entrada, alegres estaban.

Fuera de su casita, la vieja perra mastín

Dormía bajo la fría luz de luna.

La vieja perra no despertó

Pero rugió y gimió enojada

¿Y qué pudo notar la mastín?

Nunca hasta ahora había llorado

Bajo el ojo de Christabel.

Tal vez es el chillido de un pichón:

¿Pues qué puede enojar a la mastín?

Pasaron el salón, con ecos quietos,

“Pasa tan ligeramente como puedas”

La leña acabada, la leña moría.

Sobre su lecho de ceniza blanca

Pero cuando la dama pasó

Se encendió una lengua de luz, un hilo de fuego

Y Christabel miró a los ojos de la dama

Y nada más pudo ver

Fuera del ornamento del alto escudo de Sir Leoline,

Que colgaba en un nicho viejo en la pared

“Oh, camina despacio” dijo Christabel-

“Mi padre muy pocas veces duerme bien”

Dulce Christabel, sus pies caminando desnudos

Y celosa del callado viento.

Caminaron sigilosas de escalón en escalón

En poca luz, y en obscuridad

Pasan el cuarto del Barón

¡Quietas como la muerte, con respiración sofocada!

Y llegan a la puerta de la habitación

Geraldine presionando

Los mosaicos del piso del dormitorio.

La luna brilla opaca en el aire

Y ni un claro entra aquí

Pero pueden ver aún sin luz

La recamara adornada tan curiosamente

Adornada con figuras extrañas y dulces.

Todas hechas con el cerebro de un artesano

La lámpara con cadena de plata

Atada al pie de un ángel.

La lámpara plateada encendida, muerta y opaca

Pero la lámpara de Christabel se moverá

Movió la lámpara y la iluminó más

Y la dejó columpiándose aquí y allá

Mientras Geraldine, en fatiga infortunada

Se hundía en el suelo.

“Oh cansada dama, Geraldine,

Te pido, ¡bebe este vino cordial!

Es un vino de virtuosos poderes;

Que mi madre hizo de flores salvajes”

“¿Y tu madre me tendrá piedad?

¿A mí, una dama desconocida?”

Christabel contestó “¡Lamento ser sólo yo!

Ella murió a la hora que nací

He escuchado al monje de pelo gris decir

Que debe escuchar la campana del castillo

Marcar las doce el día de mi boda

¡Oh madre querida, que te encontrabas aquí!

“Yo sé” dijo Geraldine “Que estará”

Pero pronto con voz alterada dijo ella

“¡Fuera, madre que deambula! ¡Pico y pino!

Tengo poder para huir de tu oferta.”

¡Ay! ¿Qué aflige a la pobre Geraldine?

¿Por qué mira con ojos sin respuesta?

¿Puede percibir a los fantasmas?

¿Y por qué con voz hueca llora?

“¡Fuera, mujer, fuera! esta hora es mía

Aunque tú, su espíritu guardián seas,

¡Fuera, mujer, fuera! es mía.”

A continuación, Christabel se arrodilló al lado de la dama,

Y elevo al cielo sus ojos tan azules

“¡Ay! dijo “Este horrible viaje

Querida dama! ¡Le ha hecho perder la cabeza!”

La dama se secó de la frente el sudor

Y débilmente dijo ”¡Ha terminado!”

Bebió una vez más el vino de flores silvestres

Sus grandes ojos, trampa brillante y luminosa

Y desde el suelo, sobre el cual se hundió,

La noble dama se levantó:

Era hermoso verla,

Como una dama de un lugar lejano

Y por lo tanto la dama noble habló

“Todos ellos, que viven en el cielo,

Te aman, ¡Divina Christabel!

Tú los amas, y por su bien,

Y por el bien que haré

Incluso yo, en mis posibilidades intentaré,

Hermosa doncella, hacerte bien

Pero ahora desvístete, porque yo

Debo orar, antes de dormir.”

“¡Que así sea!” Dijo Christabel

Y como la dama pidió, hizo.

Sus miembros suaves desnudó

Y se acostó en su hermosura.

Pero a través de su cerebro, de penas y alegrías,

Muchos pensamientos se movieron de aquí para allá,

¡Que vanos fueron sus párpados para cerrar!

Así que a mitad de su ensueño de la cama se levantó,

Y con el codo se enderezó

Para ver a la señora Geraldine.

Bajo la lámpara se inclinó,

Y poco a poco fijó los ojos en todo;

Luego, en un respiro agitado

Como si se hubiera estremecido,

El cíngulo por debajo de su pecho:

Su túnica de seda, y sus interiores,

Cayeron a sus pies, y completa a la vista,

Mirad! su pecho y la mitad de su figura

Una vista de ensueño, secreto!

¡Oh protégela! ¡Protege a la dulce Christabel!

Sin embargo, Geraldine, ni habla ni se mueve:

¡Ah! ¡Qué mirada afligida!

Dentro de ella se parece estar a mitad de camino

Para levantar enferma algo de peso ,

Y mira a de la doncella buscando detener el tiempo

Entonces, de repente, como un desafiada,

Se refugia en el desprecio y el orgullo,

¡Y se acuesta al lado de la doncella! –

Y en sus brazos tomó a la dama,

¡Ah, y al día!

Y con voz baja y mirada triste

Estas palabras dijo:

“En el toque de este pecho hay un hechizo,

¿Quién es el amo de tu expresión, Christabel!

Tú sabes que por la noche, y tú sabes que mañana,

Esta marca de mi vergüenza, este sello de mi dolor;

Pero en vano peleas

Pues esto sólo es

Tu poder de declarar,

Que en el bosque oscuro

Tú oíste un gemido,

Y encontraste una señora brillante, excedente de belleza:

Y decidiste traerla a casa contigo, en el amor y en la caridad,

Para protegerla y cubrirla del aire húmedo.

Era un espectáculo hermoso para ver

La dama Christabel, cuando

Estaba orando en el viejo roble.

En medio de las sombras dentadas

De ramas con musgo y sin hojas,

Arrodillada en el claro de luna,

Para hacer su gentiles votos;

Sus esbeltas palmas presionadas juntas,

Agitando a veces el pecho;

Su rostro resignado a la felicidad o angustia de

Su rostro, oh, bello pero no pálido,

Y los dos ojos azules más brillantes que claros.

Cada uno a punto de llorar.

Con los ojos abiertos (ah, ay de mí!)

Dormidos, y soñando con miedo,

Temible sueño, sin embargo, yo sé,

Que soñar que solo es-

¡Oh, la tristeza y la vergüenza! ¿Puede ser ella,

La señora, que se arrodilló ante el viejo roble?

¡Y he aquí! el obrero de estos daños,

Que mantiene a la doncella en sus brazos,

Parece dormir quieto y moderado

Como una madre con su hijo.

Una estrella ha puesto, una estrella se ha levantado,

¡Oh Geraldine! ya que sus brazos

Han sido la prisión de la bella dama.

¡Oh Geraldine! una hora fue tuya-

¡Hágase tu voluntad! Por lagos y arroyos,

Los pájaros nocturnos esa hora se quedaron quietos

Pero ahora están jubilosos de nuevo,

Desde los acantilados y las torres, ¡Tu-whoo! ¡Tu-whoo!

¡Tu-whoo! ¡Tu-whoo! ¡De la madera y árbol!

¡Y vean! La señorita Christabel

Se compone al salir de su trance;

Sus miembros se relajan, su rostro

Se entristece y suaviza, las capas finas y suaves

Cercanas a sus ojos; y ella llora

¡Grandes lágrimas que dejan a sus pestañas brillantes!

Al mismo tiempo que parece sonreír

¡Como los niños en una luz repentina!

Sí, ella ¿Acaso sonríe y llora?

Como una ermitaña joven

Bella en los bosques,

Que, orando siempre, ora en el sueño.

Y, si se mueve inquiera,

Tal vez, no es más que la sangre gratuita

Regresa el hormigueo en los pies.

Sin duda, tiene una visión dulce.

¿Qué pasa si su espíritu guardián estuviera,

¿Y si ella sabía que su madre se encuentra cerca?

Pero esto se sabe, en las alegrías y penas,

Que los santos serán de ayuda si los hombres llaman:

Pues cielo azul se inclina ante todo.


Cada campanada, dice el barón,

Nos lleva a un mundo de muerte.

Estas palabras las dijo Sir Leoline  primero

Cuando se levantó y encontró a su mujer muerta:

Estas palabras Sir Leoline dirá

Cada mañana hasta el día de su muerte!

Y por lo tanto, la costumbre y ley comenzó

Que aún en la madrugada del sacristán,

Que debidamente tira de la pesada campana,

Cuentas cuarenta y cinco y debe rezar

Entre cada grande, un toque de advertencia,

Que ni un alma puede negarse a escuchar

De Bratha Head a Wyndermere.

Bracy el bardo dijo, “¡Déjen que lo toque!”

¡Y dejen que el sacristán soñoliento

Cuente poco a poco como pueda!

No hay ninguna falta, yo supongo

Además de llenar el espacio entre ellos.

Entre Langdale Pike y la guarida de la bruja,

Y Dungeon Ghyll, tan vilmente ocupada

Con cuerdas de roca y las campanas de aire

Tres pecaminosos fantasmas sacristanes son reprimidos,

Y todos dan la espalda, unos tras otros

La nota de muerte a su hermano vivo;

Y a menudo también, por el toque de ofendido,

Al igual que su uno! dos! tres! ha terminado,

El diablo se burla del triste cuento

Con un repique alegre de Borrowdale.

El aire está quieto! través de la niebla y las nubes

El alegre repique viene sonando fuerte;

Y Geraldine sacude su miedo,

Y se eleva ligeramente de la cama;

Se pone su vestimenta de seda blanca,

Y arregla su pelo de forma encantadora,

Y no dudando de su hechizo

Despierta a la dama Christabel.

“¿Acaso está dormida, dulce Christabel?

Confío en que ha descansado bien.”

Y Christabel se despertó y espió

A la misma que se acostó a su lado

¡O mejor dicho, a la misma que ella

Levantó bajo el viejo roble!

No, ¡más bella todavía! ¡y aún más bella!

Ella en un ensueño borracho y profundo

¡De todas las bendiciones de sueño!

Y mientras ella hablaba, su mirada, su aire,

Tal agradecimiento declaraba

Que (al menos eso parecía) sus ceñidos interiores

Crecieron bajo sus pechos agitados.

“¡Seguro que he pecado!” Christabel dijo,

“Ahora el cielo sea alabado si todo es así!”

Y en voz baja y entrecortada, pero dulce,

¿Acaso saludó a la noble dama

Con tal perplejidad en la mente

Con sueños tan reales para dejar atrás?

Así que rápidamente se levantó y vistió rápidamente

Sus miembros de mujer, y agitada rezó

Que Él, que en la cruz gimió

Pueda lavar sus pecados desconocidos,

Ella entonces llevó a la bella Geraldine

Para conocer a su padre, Sir Leoline.

La doncella hermosa y la dama

Caminan con ritmo hacia el salón

Y pasaron a través de pajes y sirvientes

Para entrar en la habitación del Barón

El barón se levantó, y al mismo tiempo que presionaba

A su dulce hija contra su pecho,

Con curiosidad alegre en los ojos

Espía a la señorita Geraldina,

Y dio la bienvenida a la señorita

¡Tan bella y brillante!

Pero cuando se enteró de historia de la dama,

Y cuando le dijo el nombre de su padre,

¿Por qué Sir Leoline palideció cual cera,

Murmurando el nombre otra vez,

¿Lord Roland de Vaux de Tryermaine?

¡Ay! habían sido amigos en la juventud;

Pero las lenguas murmurantes pueden envenenar a la verdad;

Y la vida de la constancia vive en reinos altos;

Y la vida es espinosa, y la juventud es vana;

Y llena ira contra quien amamos

Obrando como la locura en el cerebro.

Y así por casualidad, como divina,

Con Roland y Sir Leoline.

Cada uno habló palabras enormes de desprecio

E insultó a su más querido hermano:

Se separaron, ¡para nunca reunirse de nuevo!

Pero nunca ninguno encontró a otro

Para liberar el hueco doloroso de su corazón-

Se quedaron al margen, las cicatrices permanecieron,

Al igual que los acantilados que habían sido partido en dos;

Un mar triste ahora fluía entre ellos.

Que ni el calor, ni frío, ni el trueno,

suponían unir

Las marcas de lo que una vez había sido.

Sir Leoline, perdido en sus pensamientos,

Se quedó mirando el rostro de la doncella:

Y el joven Señor de Tryermaine

Regresó a su corazón de nuevo.

Oh entonces el barón olvidó su edad,

Su noble corazón hinchado por la rabia;

Juró por las heridas en el costado de Jesus

Que proclamaría por todas partes,

Con triunfo y la heráldica solemne,

Que ellos, que tanto habían perjudicado a la dama

¡Serían tachados como infames!

“Y si se atreven a negar la misma,

Mi heraldo designará a la semana,

Y dejar a los traidores buscar

La justicia de mi corte, que en el acto

Puede desalojar sus almas reptiles

¡De los cuerpos y las formas de hombres!

Él habló: su ojo relampagueando

Pues la dama fue capturada sin piedad; y reparó

¡En la hermosa dama, hija de su amigo!

Y ahora las lágrimas corrían en su rostro,

Y cariñosamente en sus brazos tomó

A la bella Geraldine que correspondió el abrazo,

Prolongándolo con la mirada alegre.

Cuando miró, una visión cayó

En el alma de Christabel,

¡La visión del miedo, el tacto y el dolor!

Se redujo y se estremeció, y vio de nuevo-

(Ah, ¡ay de mí! ¿Qué era para ti,

gentil dama? con tales vistas para mirar)

Una vez más vio ese seno viejo

Volvió a sentir el frío pecho,

Y tomó aire en un silbido:

Donde quiera que el caballero volteó salvaje

Y nada vio, fuera de su dulce doncella

Con los ojos en alto, como rezando.

El tacto, la vista, habían fallecido,

Y en su lugar  la visión bendita,

Que la consolaba después de descansar,

Mientras que en los brazos de la dama yacía,

Había puesto una herida en el pecho,

en sus labios y sus ojos

¡Propagaba sus sonrisas como la luz!

Con nueva sorpresa,

“¿Qué le pasa a mi hija amada?

El Baron preguntó -Su hija apenas dió respuesta

“Todo estará bien!”

Yo supongo, no tenía poder de decir

Alguna otra cosa: tan fuerte era el hechizo.

Sin embargo, que haya visto a Geraldine,

La había considerado divina.

Esta pena con tal gracia se mezclaba,

Como si temiera que había ofendido a la

Dulce Christabel, ¡esa dama gentil!

Y con un tono tan bajo pidió

Que pudiera ser enviada sin demora

A su hogar en la mansión de su padre.


¡No, por mi alma! ” dijo Leoline.

“¡Hey! Bracy el bardo, el cargo será tuyo!

Ve tú, con una música dulce y fuerte,

Y toma dos caballos con arreos de orgullo,

Y toma a los jóvenes que quieras

Para llevar el arpa, y aprender las canciones,

Y a vosotros, vestir solemnes,

Y sobre las montañas cabalguen con prisa

Para que ningún errante

Pueda detenerlo, a usted en el camino del valle.

“Y cuando él haya cruzado la inundación Irthing,

Mi alegre bardo! continúa, continúa

Hasta Knorren Moor, a través de Halegarth Wood

Y llega pronto al buen castillo

Que se encuentra cerca de Escocia

“Bracy bardo! Bracy bardo! sus caballos son de la flota,

Es necesario viajar hasta la sala, su música es tan dulce,

Más alta que los galopes de caballos

Y en voz alta llama al Señor Roland, y dile

“Tu hija está a salvo en Langdale Hall!

Tu hermosa hija está a salvo y libre,

Sir Leoline te da la bienvenida a través de mí.

La oferta es que llegues sin demora

Con todo tu arsenal numeroso;

Y lleva a casa a tu encantadora hija:

Y él te encontrará en el camino

Con todo su arsenal numeroso

Blanco con la espuma agitada de su boca

¡Y, por mi honor! Voy a decir,

¡Que yo me arrepiento del día

en que hablé palabras de desprecio feroz

Para Roland de Vaux de Tryermaine! –

– Pues ya que esa mala hora ha volado,

Y muchos veranos han brillado;

Y Sin embargo, nunca encontré a un amigo nuevo

Igual que Roland de Vaux de Tryermaine.

La señora cayó y juntó las rodillas,

Su cara en alto, sus ojos llorando

Y Bracy respondió con voz entrecortada,

Su gracia a todos les otorgaba;

“Tus palabras, padre de Christabel,

Son más dulces que el sonido del arpa;

Sin embargo, podría yo obtener un beneficio de ti,

Este día mi viaje no debe ser,

¡Qué raro que un sueño ha venido a mí;

Que me había inclinado con música a todo volumen

¡Advertida por una visión en mi descanso!

En mi sueño vi que la paloma,

Ese pájaro gentil,

Sir Leoline! Vi lo mismo,

Aleteando, y profiriendo terribles gemidos,

Entre las hierbas verdes en el bosque solo.

Cuando la vi y cuando me enteré,

Me preguntaba qué podría hacer ahí el pájaro;

Pues nada cerca podía ver

Salvo el pasto y las hierbas bajo el árbol viejo.

Y en mi sueño me pareció que fui

Para descubrir lo que podría haber encontrado;

¿Y qué molestaría a esta dulce paloma?

¿Que lo estaba revoloteando en el suelo?

Me fui y miré, y podía notar

Que no había motivo para su grito angustioso;

Pero sin embargo, por el bien de su querida señora de

Me agaché, pienso, para la paloma tomar,

¡Cuando he aquí! Vi una serpiente de color verde brillante

Enrollada alrededor de sus alas y el cuello.

Verde como la hierba sobre la que se arrastraba

Muy cerca de la cabeza de la paloma se agachó;

Y con la paloma entonces agitada,

Hinchando su cuello como el de ella.

Me desperté, era la medianoche,

El reloj se hizo eco en la torre;

Pero, aunque mi sueño se había ido,

Este sueño no pasaría-

¡Parece que vivirá en mis ojos!

Y de allí prometí que el día de hoy

Con la canción de la música fuerte y santa

Pasearemos por el bosque desnudas,

Y no perder el tiempo profano.

Por lo tanto, dijo Bracy: el barón, al mismo tiempo,

Escuchaba a medias y lo escuchó con una sonrisa;

Luego se volvió a Lady Geraldine,

Sus ojos se componían de curiosidad y amor;

Y dijo con un acento bien cortés,

‘Dulce doncella, hermosa paloma del Señor Roland,

Con los brazos más fuertes que el arpa o una canción,

¡Por tu padre yo herirá la serpiente!

La besó en la frente mientras hablaba,

Y Geraldine, la doncella sabioa

Bajaba sus ojos grandes y brillantes,

Con la mejilla sonrojada en una fina cortesía

Le dio vuelta de Sir Leoline;

Suavemente recogiendo su cuerpo

Su brazo derecho cayó de nuevo;

Y cruzó los brazos sobre el pecho,

Y recostó la cabeza sobre su pecho,

¡Mirando con recelo a Christabel-

¡Jesús, María, protéjanla bien!

El ojo pequeño de la serpiente parpadea aburrido y tímido,

Y los ojos de la dama, se redujeron en su cabeza

Cada uno se redujo como el de la serpiente,

Y con un poco de malicia, y más de temor,

¡En Christabel se fijaban con recelo! –

¡En un momento la vista había huido!

Sin embargo, Christabel en trance vertiginoso

Tropezó en el terreno inestable

Y Se estremeció en voz alta, con un silbido;

Geraldine otra vez se dio la vuelta,

Y como algo que buscaba alivio,

Llena de asombro y llena de dolor

Puso los ojos grandes y brillantes

Violentamente en Sir Leoline.

La dama, ¡ay! sus pensamientos se han ido,

Ella no ve, nada fuera de algo

La dama carente de la astucia y el pecado,

No sé como, en temible sabiduría

Tan profundamente briaga

Esa mirada, esos pequeños ojos de serpiente ,

Todos sus rasgos se habían resignado

A esta imagen única en su mente:

Y pasivamente imitó

¡Esa mirada de odio sordo y traidor!

Y así se puso de pie, en trance vertiginoso,

Aún imaginando que mirar con recelo

Con simpatía forzada inconsciente

Completa antes de que su padre la viera

Tanto como se podían hacer

Los ojos tan inocentes y azules!

Y cuando el trance terminó, la dama

Se detuvo un rato, y oró

Y después, cayendo a los pies del barón,

“¡Por el alma de mi madre lo suplico

Que debes mandar lejos a esa mujer!”

Ella dijo: y más que no podía decir;

Por lo que sabía que no podía decir,

Dominada por el poderoso hechizo.

¿Por qué es tan pálida y salvaje su mejilla

Sir Leoline? Tu única hija

Está a tus pies, tu alegría, tu orgullo.

Tan bella, tan inocente, tan suave;

¡Igual que tu difunta mujer!

Oh por los dolores de su querida madre

Piensa que no le haces mal

Para ella, por ti, y no por otra,

Rezaba en el momento en el que murió

Oró para que el bebé por el que ella murió

¡Podría resultar la alegría de su querido señor, y el orgullo!

Que la oración en sus últimos momentos

Sir Leoline!

En el corazón del barón y el cerebro

Si los pensamientos, como estos, tenían alguna voz

Sólo aumentaron su rabia y dolor,

Y no pudieron más que confundirlo

Su corazón estaba hundido por el dolor y la rabia,

Sus mejillas se estremecieron, sus ojos eran salvajes,

Deshonrado en su vejez;

Deshonrado por su única hija,

Y toda su hospitalidad

Para la hija de su amigo insultado

Por más que los celos de la mujer

Presentaron así a un final vergonzoso

Giró los ojos con severidad

Hacia el bardo

Y dijo en tono brusco, austero-

“¿Por qué, Bracy! ¿Pierdes el tiempo aquí?

¡Ya te mandé ahí! ” El bardo obedeció;

Y volviéndose a su propia dulce doncella,

El caballero de edad, Sir Leoline,

Guió a la señorita Geraldine

La conclusión a la PARTE II

Una niña pequeña, un elfo ágil,

Cantando, bailando para sí mismo,

Una cosa de hadas con rojas mejillas redondas,

Que siempre encuentra, y nunca busca

Hace tal visión

Como se llenan los ojos de un padre con la luz;

Y los placeres fluyen tan densos y rápidos

A través de su corazón, que al fin

Debe expresar el exceso de las necesidades de su amor

Con palabras de amargura no intencionadas

Tal vez esta belleza podrá forzar juntos

Pensamientos de modo muy distintos unos a otros;

A murmurar y burlar un encanto roto,

Para perder el tiempo con el mal que no hace daño.

Tal vez es demasiado tierna y bonita

En cada palabra salvaje se siente

Un retroceso dulce del amor y la compasión.

¿Y qué, si en un mundo de pecado

(¡O la tristeza y la vergüenza de que esto es verdad!)

Vértiginosos como el corazón y el cerebro

Rara vez tratan de salvar de la ira y el dolor,

Así que habla, ya que es lo más fácil

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