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connected; and who in the darkness of the forest is meditating the wreck of all her hopes

      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 misletoe:

       She kneels beneath the huge oak tree,

       And in silence prayeth she.

      There are persons who have considered the description of Christabel in the act of praying, so far from the baron’s castle, too great a poetical license. He was fully aware that all baronial castles had their chapels and oratories attached to them, — and that in these lawless times, for such were the middle ages, the young lady who ventured unattended beyond the precincts of the castle, would have endangered her reputation. But to such an imaginative mind, it would have been scarcely possible to pass by the interesting image of Christabel, presenting itself before him, praying by moonlight at the old oak tree. But to proceed:

      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,

       Drest 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 unsandal’d were.

       And wildly glittered here and there

       The gems entangled in her hair.

       I guess, ‘twas frightful there to see

       A lady so richly clad as she —

       Beautiful exceedingly!

      This description is exquisite. Now for the mystic demon’s tale of art:

      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 chok’d 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 as silent as the cell;

       Sir Leoline is weak in health,

       And may not well awakened be,

       But we will move as if in stealth,

       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.

      Following the popular superstition that dogs are supposed to see ghosts, and therefore

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