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Saving of thy sweet self; if thou

think'st well To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude in


Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine

ear, Made tuneable with every sweetest vow; And those sad eyes were spiritual and

clear : How chang'd thou art ! how pallid, chill,

and drear ! Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, Those looks immortal, those complain

ings dear! Oh leave me not in this eternal woe, For if thou diest, my Love, I know not

where to go." Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far At these voluptuous accents, he arose, Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing

star Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep

repose ; Into her dream he melted, as the rose Blendeth its odor with the violet,Solution sweet: meantime the frost

wind blows Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp

sleet Against the window-panes; St. Agnes'

moon hath set.

“Hark! 'tis an elfin-storm from faery

land, Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed: Arise-arise! the morning is at hand ;The bloated wassaillers will never

heed :Let us away, my love, with happy speed : There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy

mead : Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be, For o'er the southern moors I have a

home for thee."

'Tis dark : quick pattereth the flaw

blown sleet : " This is no dream, my bride, my

Madeline !" 'Tis dark: the iced 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 deceived

thing ;A dove forlorn and lost with sick un

pruned wing.”

She hurried at his words, beset with

fears, For there were sleeping dragons all

around, At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready

spearsDown the wide stairs a darkling way

they found.In all the house was heard no human

sound. A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by

each door ; The arras, rich with horseman, hawk,

and hound, Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar ; And the long carpets rose along the

gusty floor, They glide, like phantoms, into the wide

hall; Like phantoms, to the iron porch, they

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. And they are gone: ay, ages long ago These lovers fled away into the storm. That night the Baron dreamt of many And all his warrior-guests, with shade


“My Madeline ! sweet dreamer ! lovely

bride! Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest? Thy beauty's shield, heart-shap'd and

vermeil dyed ? Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my

rest After so many hours of toil and quest, A famish'd pilgrim,--saved by miracle. Though I have found, I will not rob thy

and form


a woe,

Of witch, and demon, and large coffin

worm, Were long be-nightmard. Angela the

old Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face

deform; The Beadsman, after thousand aves told, For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold.

January, 1819. 1820.


Far as the Bishop's garden-wall ;
Where sycamores and elm-trees tali,
Full-leav'd, the forest had outstript,
By no sharp north-wind ever nipt,
So shelter’d by the mighty pile.
Bertha arose, and read awhile,
With forehead 'gainst the window-pane
Again she try'd, and then again,
Until the dusk eve left her dark
Upon the legend of St. Mark.
From plated lawn-frill, fine and thin,
She lifted up her soft warm chin.
With aching neck and swimming eyes,
And daz'd with saintly imageries.
All was gloom, and silent all,
Save now and then the still foot-fall
Of one returning homewards late,
Past the echoing minster-gate.
The clamorous daws, that all the day
Above tree-tops and towers play,
Pair by pair had gone to rest,
Each in its ancient belfry nest,
Where asleep they fall betimes,
To music and the drowsy chimes.


UPON a Sabbath-day it fell ;
Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell,
That call'd the folks to evening prayer ;
The city streets were clean and fair
From wholesome drench of April rains ;
And, on the western window panes,
The chilly sunset faintly told
Of unmatur'd green valleys cold,
Of the green thorny bloomless hedge,
Of rivers new with spring-tide sedge,
Of primroses by shelter'd rills,
And daisies on the aguish hills.
Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell :
The silent streets were crowded well
With staid and pious companies,
Warm from their fire-side oratóries;
And moving, with demurest air,
To even-song, and vesper prayer.
Each arched porch, and entry low,
Was filld with patient folk and slow,
With whispers hush, and shuffling feet,
While play'd the organ loud and sweet.
The bells had ceas'd, the prayers begun,
And Bertha had not yet hali done
A curious volume, patchd and torn,
That all day long. from earliest morn,
Had taken captive her two eyes,
Among its golden broideries ;
Perplex'd her with a thousand things.-
The stars of Heaven, and angels' wings,
Martyrs in a fiery blaze,
Azure saints and silver rays,
Moses' breastplate, and the seven
Candlesticks John saw in Heaven,
The winged Lion of St. Mark,
And the Covenantal Ark,
With its many mysteries,
Cherubim and golden mice.
Bertha was a maiden fair,
Dwelling in th' old Minster-square ;
From her fire-side she could see,
Sidelong, its rich antiquity,

All was silent, all was gloom,
Abroad and in the homely room:
Down she sat, poor cheated soul ;
And struck a lamp from the dismal coal;
Lean'd forward, with bright drooping

And slant look, full against the glare.
Her shadow, in uneasy guise,
Hover'd about, a giant size,
On ceiling-beam and old oak chair,
The parrot's cage, and panel square ;
And the warm angled winter-screen,
On which were many mousters seen,
Calld doves of Siam, Lima mice,
And legless birds of Paradise,
Macaw, and tender Avadavat,
And silken-furrd Angora cat.
Untir'd she read, her shadow still
Glower'd about, as it would fill
The room with wil.lest forms and shades,
As though some ghostly qneen of spades
Had come to mock beliind her back,
And dance, and ruffle her garments

black. Untir'd slie read the legend page, Of holy Mark, from youth to age, On land, on sea, in pagan chains, Rejoicing for his many pains. Sometimes the learned eremite, With golden star, or dagger bright, Referr'd to pious poesies Written in smallest crow-quill size Reneath the text: and thus the rhyme

Benumbed my eyes; my pulse grew

less and less ; Pain had no sting, and pleasure's wreath

no flower : O why did ye not melt, and leave my

sense Unhaunted quite of all but-noth,

ingness ?


Was parceld out from time to time :

• Als writeth he of swevens, Men han before they wake in bliss, Whanne that hir friendes thinke him

bound In crimped shroude farre under grounde: And how a litling childe mote be A saint er its nativitie, Gif that the modre (God her blesse !) Kepen in solitarinesse, And kissen devout the holy croce. Of Goddes love, and Sathan's force,He writith; and thinges many mo Of swiche thinges I may not show. Bot I must tellen verilio Somdel of Saintè Cicilie, And chiefly what he auctorethe Of Sainte Markis life and dethe :

At length her constant eyelids come
Upon the fervent martyrdom ;
Then lastly to his holy shrine,
Exalt amid the tapers' shine
At Venice,

January and September, 1819. 1848.

A third time passed they by, and, pass

ing, turn'd Each one the face a moinent whiles to

me; Then faded, and to follow them I burn'd And ach'd for wings, because I knew

the three ; The first was a fair Maid, and Love her

name; The second was Ambition, pale of

cheek, And ever watchful with fatigued

eye ; The last, whom I love more, the more of

blame Is heap'd upon her, maiden most un


I knew to be my demon Poesy. They faded, and forsooth! I wanted

wings: O folly ! What is Love? and where is

it ? And for that poor Ambition ! it springs

From a man's little heart's short fever


“ They toil not, neither do they spin."

fit :

One morn before me were three figures

seen, With bowed necks, and joined hands,

side-faced ; And one behind the other stepp'd serene, In placid sandals, and in white robes

gracec'; They pass , like figures on a marble urn, When shifted round to see the other

side ; They came again; as when the urn

once more Is shifted round, the first seen shades

return; And they were strange to me, as may

betide With vases, to one deep in Phidian


For Poesy !--no-she has not a joy,-
At least for me,---so sweet as drowsy

And evenings steep'd in honied in-

dolence; 0, for an age so sheltered from annoy, That I may never know how change

the moons, Or hear the voice of busy common.


How is it. Shadows ! that I knew ye not ? How same ye muffled in so hush a

mask? Was it a silent deep-disgnised plot Tu steal away, and leave without a

task My idle days ? Ripe was the drowsy

hour : The blissful cloud of summer-indo


And once more came they by ;-alas!

wherefore ? My sleep had been embroider'd with

din dreams; My soul bad been a lawn besprinkled

o'er With flowers, and stirring shades, and baffled beams:

(fell, The morn was clouded, but no shower Tho' in her lids hung the sweet tears

of May ; The open casement pressd a new

leav'd vine,

Let in the budding warmth and thros

tle's lay ; O Shadows! 'twas a time to bid fare

well! Upon your skirts had fallen no tears

of mine.

Of their sorrows and delights ;
Of their passions and their spites ;
Of their glory and their shame ;
What doth strengthen and what maim.
Thus ye teach us, every day,
Wisdom, though fled far away.

So, ye three Ghosts, adieu! Ye cannot

raise My head cool-bedded in the flowery

grass ; For I would not be dieted with praise,

A pet-lamb in a sentimental farce ! Fade softly from my eyes, and be once

Bards of Passion and of Mirth, Ye have left your souls on earth ! Ye have souls in heaven too, Double-lived in regions new !

1819. 1820.



In masque-like Figures on the dreamy

urn; Farewell! I yet have visions for the

night, And for the day faint visions there is

store : Vanish, ye Phantoms! from my

idle spright, Into the clouds, and never more re

turn ! March, 1819, 1848.


BARDS of Passion and of Mirth,
Ye have left your souls on earth !
Have ye souls in heaven too,
Double-lived in regions new?
Yes, and those of heaven commune
With the spheres of sun and moon;
With the noise of fountains wond'rous,
And the parle of voices thund'rous ;
With the whisper of bearen's trees
And one another, in soft ease
Seated on Elysian lawns
Brows'd by none but Dian's fawns ;
Underneath large blue-bells tented,
Where the daisies are rose-scented,
And the rose herself has got
Perfume which on earth is not ;
Where the nightingale doth sing
Not a senseless, tranced thing,
But divine melodious truth ;
Philosophic numbers smooth ;
Tales and golden histories
Of heaven and its mysteries.

Thus ye live on high, and then
On the earth ye live again ;
And the souls ye left bebind you
Teach us, here, the way to find you,
Where your other souls are joying,
Never sisamber'd, never cloying.
Here, your earth-born souls still speak
To mortals, of their little week;

O GODDESS! hear these tuneless r.um.

bers, wrung By sweet enforcement and remem

brance dear, And pardon that thy secrets should be

sung Even into thine own soft-conched ear; Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see The winged Psyche with awaken'd

eyes? I wanderd in a forest thoughtlessly, And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,

(side Saw two fair creatures, couched side by In deepest grass, beneath the whis

p'ring roof Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where

there ran

A brooklet, scarce espied : 'Mid hush’d, cool-rooted flowers, fra

grant-eyed, Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian, They lay calm-breathing on the bedded

grass ; Their arms embraced, and their pin

ions too; Their lips touch'd not, but had not

bade adieu, As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber, And ready still past kisses to outnumber At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love:

The winged boy I knew ;
But who wast thou, o bappy, happy

His Psyche true!

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Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan

Upon the midnight hours ; No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense

sweet From chain-swung censer teeming; No shrine, po grove, no oracle, no heat

Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.

O brightest ! though too late for antique

VOWS, Too, too late for the fond believing

lyre, When "holy were the haunted forest

boughs, Holy the air, the water, and the fire ; Yet even in these days so far retird

From happy pieties, thy lucent fans, Fluttering among the faint Olymp

ians, I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired. So let me be thy choir, and make a moan

Upon the midnight hours ; Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy in

cense sweet From swinged censer teeming ; Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy

heat Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane

In some untrodden region of my mind, Where branched thoughts, new grown

with pleasant pain, Instead of pines shall murmar in the

wind : Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd

trees Fledge the wild-ridged mountains

steep by steep; And there by zephyrs, streams, and

birds, and bees, The moss-lain Dryads shall be lulld to

sleep; And in the midst of this wide quietness A rosy sanctuary will I dress With the wreath'd trellis of a working

brain, With buds, and bells, and stars with

out a name, With all the gardener Fancy e'er could

feign, Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same :

slight And there shall be for thee all soft de

That shadowy thouglit can win, A bright torch, and a casement ope at

night, To let the warm Love in !

April, 1819. 1820.

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of silence and slow

time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus ex.

press A flowery talo more sweetly than our

rhyme: What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about

thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both,

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady ? What men or gods are these? What

maidens loth ? What mad pursuit ? What struggle to

escape ? What pipes and timbrels? What

wild ecstasy? Heard melodies are sweet, but those un

heard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes,

play on ; Not to the sensual ear, but, more en

dear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone : Fair" youth, beneath the trees, thou

canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be

bare ; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou

kiss Though winning near the goal-yet, do

not grieve ; She cannot fade, though thou hast not

thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be

fair ! Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot

shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring

adieu ; And, happy melodist, unwearied,

For ever piping songs for ever new ; More happy love! more happy, happy

love! For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, For ever panting, and forever

young ; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and

cloy'd, A burning forehead, and a parching

tongue. Who are these coming to the sacrifice ? To what green altar, O mysterious


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