Dost thou wander to the field of graves Where the elder its spectral branches waves? And will thy hurried footsteps halt Where thy mother sleeps in the silent vault? Where the stranger pauses long to explore The emblems quaint of heraldic lore, Where tho’ the lines are tarnished and dim, Thy mother’s features stare gaunt and grim, And grinning skull, and transverse bone, And the names of warriors dead and gone Mark Sir Leoline’s burial stone; Thither go not, or I deem almost That thou wilt frighten thy mother’s ghost! Or wilt thou wend to the huge oak-tree, And, kneeling down upon thy knee, Number the beads of thy rosary? Nine beads of gold and a tenth of pearl, And a prayer with each, my lovely girl, Nine and one, shalt thou record, Nine to the virgin and one to the Lord! The pearls are ten times one to behold, And ten times nine are the beads of gold, Methinks ’tis hard of the friar to ask On a night like this so weary a task! ’Tis pleasant――’tis pleasant, in summer time, In the green wood to spell the storied rhyme, When the light winds above ’mong the light leaves are singing, And the song of the birds thro’ your heart is ringing, ’Tis pleasant――’tis pleasant, when happily humming To the flowers below the blythe bee is coming!―― When the rivulet coy, and ashamed to be seen, Is heard where it hides ’mong the grass-blades green, When the light of the moon and each sweet starry islet Gives a charm more divine to the long summer twilight, When the breeze o’er the blossomy hawthorn comes cheerful, ’Tis pleasant――with heart――ah, how happy!――tho’ fearful, With heaven-beaming eyes, where tears come, while smiles glisten To the lover’s low vows in the silence to listen! ’Tis pleasant too, on a fine spring day (A month before the month of May) To pray for a lover that’s far away! But, Christabel, I cannot see The powerful cause that sways with thee Thus, with a face all waxen white, To wander forth on a winter night. The snow hath ceased, dear lady meek, But the night is chill and bleak!―― And clouds are passing swift away Before the moon so cold and gray―― The crescent moon, like a bark of pearl, That lies so calm on the billowy whirl;―― Rapidly――rapidly With the blast, Clouds of ebony Wander fast, And one the maiden hath fixed her eyes on, Hath pass’d o’er the moon, and is near the horizon! Ah Christabel, I dread it, I dread it, That the clouds of shame Will darken and gather O’er the maiden’s name, Who chances unwedded To give birth to a child, and knows not its father! One――Two――Three――Four――Five――Six――Seven――Eight――Nine――Ten――Eleven!――