User:Drwpthompson

Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s poem, “Christabel” new ending Over a span of 56 years, starting as a senior at Syracuse University, I made a painstaking study of the poem and, following very specific hints that Coleridge had included in the body of his poem, completed my work September, 2009. I might better say that this ending is a collaborative effort since so much of what I have written was prompted by Coleridge. The ending has been formatted thusly: I wrote “Part Three” to come directly after Coleridge’s “Part II” and then followed with “Conclusion to Part III,” and “Epilogue.” I purposely ended with “Apologia” (Coleridge’s “Conclusion to Part II) which placed Coleridge in the position of finishing his beloved “Christabel.”  It was not merely out of sentiment, but I felt it essential to include Coleridge’s apology for having to ill-treat the lovely Christabel and to make explication for Leoline’s momentary pique that led him to temporarily turn his back on Christabel. Please read and enjoy.(TO VIEW IN POETRY FORMAT CLICK ON "EDIT THIS PAGE") (WPT)

“Christabel” (new ending-Coleridge/Thompson)

Part III

Then late at night whilst all was still The beauteous Geraldine at her sill Looked as the cold moon shunned the day, And then at Christabel as she lay. ‘In innocence I gain my strength.’ She turned and stole to the bed at length. She smiled, her wicked eyes gleamed wild As she bent low o'er the slumbering child. ‘Thy strength shall wane in deep travail And I alone shall thence prevail.’

Goodness has thus been betrayed; What hope is left for this fair maid? Then tolled the soulful steeple bell. Jesu, Maria, shield her well.

With the watchful hours that slow passed by, Sir Leoline cried with mournful sigh, ‘How our fair Christabel grows weak; The colour fades from her soft cheek. I must not lose her, too, alas, Not twice the fateful funeral mass Shall haunt this castle's vaulted rooms, While in the dank, dark, prisoning tombs Another of my fairest lay, And I the mourner's chant must pray.’

‘My Lord, fear not thy maiden’s plight I shall keep watch both day and night.’ These words she spoke; he kissed her brow, Her warm assurance calmed him now. His fears allayed, would not have been Had Geraldine’s cold eyes he’d seen.

And with each hour, physicians came. Each known to all by name and fame, And yet not one could soon discover What strange malaise did o’er her hover. Could nothing yet this maiden save, Nor keep her from an earthen grave?

But if our story true to tell, Her mother’s spirit guards her well. No wen the curse is there to scorn The love of one for her first born.

Unknown to him the maiden's plight, The bard called Bracy on his flight Continued, that he the castle gain Of Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine. Still smarting from his Lord’s command, That bade him hence at quickest speed. Alone, he traveled ‘cross the land, Alone, except his faithful steed. As fast as light the bard had sped Until his mount was nearly dead, Now in his path a stranger stood All masked in velvet cloak and hood.

‘Stand back, sire. Please stand aside,’ The harried bard leaned forth and cried, ‘I must be fast upon my way, I dare not tarry nor delay.’ As if deterred by some strange fright, The horse stood still as solemn night. ‘Who are you with such mighty power? Delay me not upon this hour.’ Though Bracy spurred his sides to bleed, He could not prod the noble steed. ‘Speak up then, sire, and have your say And I'll be once more on my way.’

The stranger told of Christabel And of the terrible dark spell That Geraldine had cast on her That no physician yet could cure. Astounded by this stranger's tale, Bard Bracy turned a sickly pale. ‘Tell me stranger, how can I Save her that she might not die?’ ‘With this bright sword of silver blest Quick through the wicked Geraldine's breast Shall thrust. No evil can withstand The blade I hold here in my hand.’

The stranger handed up the sword And disappeared with naught a word. The mighty stallion wheeled around With wings of Mercury homeward bound. The gallant horse sped through the night, Which turned, as well, to dawning light. At last he gained the castle gate And hoped he would not be too late. Then up the steps, into the hall, Bard Bracy sped, and there withal Turned from his view, stood Geraldine, And at her side, Sir Leoline. Distraught was she, her fixed stare Sought form from what was naught but air. ‘You've lost the day; the battle’s done, And I at last the victory’s won. I’ve met each challenge, none deny Now spirit! Now you die!’ The bard, the while, advanced toward The two, and in his hand the sword The hooded stranger gave, held fast.

She turned, too late, for ‘twas her last, With one swift move the bard had lunged, The blade into her bosom plunged, And in a blinding blast of light, The witch and sword both passed from sight.

The old knight loosed from witch’s snare Which seemed to melt into thin air. He stood perplexed as if he’d been A party to some wicked sin. How long he stood, he did not know Nor whence Bard Bracy came also. Then down the stair came Christabel, Awakened from her deathly spell. Uttered he a thankful prayer For his dearest child fair.

Conclusion to Part III

A lovely sight it is to see Our lady kneel beneath the tree. Once more the colour lights her face And wipes away the curse’s trace. No longer need she shrink through fear, Yet on her cheek a single tear Belies the joy that she must feel. What sadness doth her rapture steal? For here she walks, a blooming flower, Among the branching ivy bower. Yet there is one who left this place Too soon, and nothing filled the space. No child should lose her mother so, Not live to see her daughter grow, Nor in the night to calm her fears. How lonely were those budding years.

Entranced, she paused, and found a spot To rest, though she was wearied not. Almost a daze upon her fell, Though how unlike the witch’s spell. More like a dream o’ertook the maid, Who heard a voice for which she’d prayed. ‘You see, my child, it would not be Had I not spent this hour with thee. He comes, with laurels 'round his head; He comes so that you two may wed. And through the land, the bells shall peal, By solstice time, thy troth shall seal.’ And thus sweet spirit’s promise kept, While in her drouse, our maiden slept. Would church bells in their belfry play, On Christabel’s sweet wedding day?

Our lady from her sleep awoke Not certain if her mother spoke. What truths are those that dreams bespeak, Are shadowed thoughts of what we seek: Reality,or mere imagined sign, Perhaps some radiant spark divine.

From whence the trumpet’s lusty call Arousing from her lingering thrall? ‘They come,’ the watchman’s eager cry; What sight was there he did espy? The sound of horsemen brought a crowd Of villagers who, with voices loud, Proclaimed the truth her dream foretold. There rode her love both brave and bold, His men, behind in grand array, Who’d fought so well and won the day.

Sir Leoline with purposed stride, His Christable now at his side, Went forth to greet the valiant band Whose deeds resounded o'er the land. The proffered hand of her brave knight Was met with maidenly delight. A flush of scarlet fused her face, Akin to lovers warm embrace. There was no doubt of his intent: A stately bow, his body bent, And to his lips he prest her hand. Was all that lacked, the wedding band.

And in its time the bands were set; The festive mood, none shall forget. What followed was a tale to tell That started with the church’s bell. Twelve times it toned; the hour was noon, In timbre of ancient Celtic rune. The couple,blessed within the hall That held the crypt by the northern wall. Oh mother, what joy your soul must feel To see your child at the altar kneel. For long has the woeful mourning passed, Now the maid is joined to her love at last.

The banquet hall o’erflowed that night, With revelers singing in sheer delight. The Baron, the happiest there to see Two people dear as they could be. His daughter, fair, with her love made one, While the other, like to him a son. The joyous noise that filled the hall, Might have been a doleful funeral pall. But for Bracy, who put the tale aright, This could have been a fateful night.

Sir Leoline rose then from his place, And turned that he the crowd might face. ‘My friends, and fellows gathered here, Who traveled from both far and near, I speak to you with heart so filled, It scarcely has a moment stilled. You know my daughter,my delight, Our family joined by this brave knight. He to my bosom I have prest As son, with whom we have been blest. Yet other too with equal right To share my happiness this night. Bard Bracy, brave beyond belief, Hath saved this home from shame and grief. To him I name as "son" also, With rights and title, not forego His friendship, this I treasure most. With these brave men, I make this toast: ‘May happiness abound throughout our land Forever, may this castle stand, And all who dwell within its wall Let no misfortune thus befall.’

A hush brought silence to the throng Who thence burst forth in joyous song. With men and women kith and kin, Alike, proceeding to join in.

Our tale is told with every word, Indulgence is its own reward. Its truth or none, is left to you. Kind reader, pray do not eschew This verse, for it was meant for you. What learned you here and not forgot May be your fortune or your lot. But hear this now, and hear it well, Those we think heaven, may be hell.

Epilogue In all this realm there is none other Can loose the love of a young girl’s mother. Jesu, Maria, shield her well, Our dear sweet lamb, our Christabel.

Part IV – Apologia (Coleridge)

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.

Completed: 9/27/2009 William Parkhurst Thompson