Mark yon runnel, how ’tis flowing, <br /> Like a sylvan spirit dreaming <br />Of the spring-blooms near it blowing, <br /> And the sunlight o’er it beaming— <br />Bright from bank to bank, or growing <br /> Darkly inter-freaked, when streaming <br /> Where some willowy shade hangs bending <br /> O’er it in green mingled masses— <br />Lights and shades and blossoms glowing, <br /> All for greater beauty blending <br /> In its vision as it passes. <br />Where that shelving rock is spied, <br />There, with a smooth warbling slide, <br />It lapses down into a cool <br />And brimming, not o’erflowing, pool <br />Then between its narrowed banks, <br />Playing merry gurgling pranks, <br />It gushes, till a channel’d stone <br />Gives it a more strenuous tone. <br /> <br />Then its bright curves flashing are, <br />Like a mighty scimitar <br />Dropt by some Jove-vanquished god, <br />And sunk into the yielding sod; <br />Or betwixt thick-reeded beaches <br />It whispers low mysterious speeches; <br />Or, with an underswirling spread <br />Over a wide pebbled bed, <br />It bubbles with a gentle pleasure <br />Ere some new mood change the measure. <br /> <br />Such a runnel typeth well <br />The sweet wild verse of Christabel. <br />And if, all suddenly, at length, <br />It sank, a broken end to make <br />In some subterranean lake, <br />A further type we might behold <br />Of the story, half untold. <br /> <br />But what might picture to our view <br />The wonder-world it warbles through! <br /> <br /> <br /><br /><br />Charles Harpur<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/coleridge-s-cristabel/
