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