And scarce, methinks, it seems unjust,
That the world should view thee with mistrust,
For who that saw that child of thine
Pale Christabel, who could divine
That its sire was the Ladie Geraldine.
But in I rush, with too swift a gale,
Into the ocean of my tale!
Not yet young Christabel, I ween,
Of her babe hath lighter been.
—’Tis the month of the snow and the blast,