XXIII. Out went the taper as she hurried in ; She closed the door, she panted, all akin As though a tongueless nightingale should swell XXVI. Anon his heart revives: her vespers done, Of all its wreathèd pearls her hair she frees; Unclasps her warmèd jewels one by one; Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees: Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed, Pensive a while she dreams awake, and sees, In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in But dares not look behind, or all the charm her dell. is fled. A casement high and triple-arch'd there Soon trembling in her soft and chilly nest, As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain; A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet:Oh for some drowsy Morphean amulet! The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, XXXIII. Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,— Tumultuous, and, in chords that tenderest be, The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet, He XXX. And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd; While he from forth the closet brought a heap play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute, In Provence called "La belle dame sans mercy:" Her blue affrayèd eyes wide open shone: Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth gourd ; With jellies soother than the creamy curd, And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon; Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one, From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Leb anon. XXXI. These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand On golden dishes and in baskets bright Of wreathed silver. Sumptuous they stand In the retired quiet of the night, Filling the chilly room with perfume light. "And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake! Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite; Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake, Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache." XXXII. Thus whispering, his warm, unnervèd arm Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream By the dusk curtains:-'twas a midnight charm Impossible to melt as icèd stream: The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam; Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies; It seem'd he never, never could redeem From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes; So mused a while, entoil'd in woofèd phantasies. 'Tis dark quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet: "This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!" 'Tis dark the icèd gusts still rave and beat: "No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine! Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine. Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring? I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine, Though thou forsakest a deceivèd thing;— A dove forlorn and lost, with sick, unpruned wing." glide, Where lay the porter, in uneasy sprawl, With a huge empty flagon by his side: The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide, But his sagacious eye an inmate owns : By one and one the bolts full easy slide: The chains lie silent on the footworn stones; The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans. XLII. And they are gone: ay, ages long ago These lovers fled away into the storm. That night the baron dreamt of many a woe, And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form Of witch, and demon, and large coffinworm, Were long benightmared. Angela the old Died palsy-twitched, with meagre face deform; |