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 countrée. 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 all this had given rise to so many different thoughts and feelings, that she could not compose herself for sleep, so she sits up in her bed to look at Geraldine who drew in her breath aloud, and unbound her cincture. Her silken robe and inner vest then drop to her feet, and she discovers her hideous form: 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! She then lies down by the side of Christabel, and takes her to her arms, saying in a low voice these words: 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 heardst 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. The conclusion to part the first is a beautiful and well drawn picture, slightly recapitulating some of the circumstances of the opening of the poem. THE CONCLUSION TO PART THE FIRST. 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.