O Melancholy, turn thine eyes away!
O Music, Music, breathe despondingly!
O Echo, Echo, on some other day,

From isles Lethean, sigh to us-O sigh! Spirits of grief, şing not your " Well-away!'

For Isabel, sweet Isabel, will die : Will die a death too lone and incomplete, Now they have ta'en away her Basil sweet.

Piteous she look'd on dead and senseless things,

Asking for her lost Basil amorously : And with melodious chuckle in the strings

Of her lorn voice, she oftentimes would cry

After the Pilgrim in his wanderings,

To ask him where her Basil was; and why

"Twas hid from her: "For cruel 'tis,"

66

said she,

To steal my Basil-pot away from me."

And so she pined, and so she died forlorn, Imploring for her Basil to the last.

No heart was there in Florence but did mourn

In pity of her love, so overcast. And a sad ditty of this story born

From mouth to mouth through all the country pass'd:

• To steal

"O cruelty, my Basil-pot away from 1818. 1820.

THE EVE OF ST. AGNES

ST. AGNES' Eve-Ah, bitter chill it was! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass,

And silent was the flock in woolly fold: Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told

His rosary, and while his frosted breath, Like pious incense from a censer old, Seem'd taking flight for heaven, with

out a death,

Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith.

His prayer he saith, this patient, holy

man

Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees,

And back returneth, meagre, barefoot,

wan,

Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees: The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze,

Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails: Knights, ladies, praying in dumb ora

"St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes' EveYet men will murder upon holy days: Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve, And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays,

To venture so: it fills me with amaze To see thee, Porphyro!-St. Agnes' Eve! God's help! my lady fair the conjurer plays

This very night; good angels her deceive!

But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time to grieve."

Feebly she laugheth in the languid

moon,

While Porphyro upon her face doth look, Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone Who keepeth clos'd a wond'rous riddlebook,

As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told

His lady's purpose; and he scarce could brook

Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold,

And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old.

Sudden a thought came like a fullblown rose,

Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart

Made purple riot: then doth he propose A stratagem, that makes the beldame start:

A cruel man and impious thou art : Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream

Alone with her good angels, far apart From wicked men like thee. Go, go!I deem

Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem.

"I will not harm her, by all saints I swear,"

Quoth Porphyro: "O may I ne'er find grace

When my weak voice shall whisper its

last prayer,

If one of her soft ringlets I displace,
Or look with ruffian passion in her face:
Good Angela, believe me by these tears;
Or I will, even in a moment's space,
Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's
ears,
And beard them, though they be more
fang'd than wolves and bears."

While legion'd fairies pac'd the coverlet, And pale enchantment held her sleepyeyed.

Never on such a night have lovers met, Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt.

"It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame:

"All cates and dainties shall be stored there

Quickly on this feast-night: by the tambour frame

Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to spare,

For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare On such a catering trust my dizzy head. Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in prayer

The while: Ah! thou must needs the lady wed,

Or may I never leave my grave among the dead."

So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear. The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd;

The dame return'd, and whisper'd in his

ear

To follow her; with aged eyes aghast From fright of dim espial. Safe at last, Through many a dusky gallery, they gain

The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd, and chaste;

Where Porphyro took covert, pleas'd amain.

His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain.

Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade Old Angela was feeling for the stair, When Madeline, St Agnes' charmed maid,

Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware: With silver taper's light, and pious care, She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led To a safe level matting. Now prepare. Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed; She comes, she comes again, like ringdove fray'd and fled.

Out went the taper as she hurried in ; Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died :

She clos'd the door, she panted, all akin
To spirits of the air, and visions wide:
No uttered syllable, or, woe betide!
But to her heart, her heart was voluble,

He ceased-she panted quick-and suddenly

Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone: Upon his knees he sank, pale as smoothsculptured stone.

Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep: There was a painful change, that nigh expell'd

The blisses of her dream so pure and deep At which fair Madeline began to weep, And moan forth witless words with many a sigh ; [keep While still her gaze on Porphyro would Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye, [dreamingly. Fearing to move or speak, she look'd se