“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.”

      “Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul?

      A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing,

      Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll;

      Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening,

      Were never miss’d.” – Thus plaining, doth she bring

      A gentler speech from burning Porphyro;

      So woful, and of such deep sorrowing,

      That Angela gives promise she will do

      Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe.

      Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy,

      Even to Madeline’s chamber, and there hide

      Him in a closet, of such privacy

      That he might see her beauty unespied,

      And win perhaps that night a peerless bride,

      While legion’d fairies pac’d the coverlet,

      And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed.

      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 ring-dove 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,

      Paining with eloquence her balmy side;

      As though a tongueless nightingale should swell

      Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell.

      A casement high and triple-arch’d there was,

      All garlanded with carven imag’ries

      Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass,

      And diamonded with panes of quaint device,

      Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,

      As are the tiger-moth’s deep-damask’d wings;

      And in the midst, ‘mong thousand heraldries,

      And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings,

      A shielded scutcheon blush’d with blood of queens and kings.

      Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,

      And threw warm gules on Madeline’s fair breast,

      As down she knelt for heaven’s grace and boon;

      Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,

      And on her silver cross soft amethyst,

      And on her hair a glory, like a saint:

      She seem’d a splendid angel, newly drest,

      Save wings, for heaven: – Porphyro grew faint:

      She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.

      Anon his heart revives: her vespers done,

      Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;

      Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;

      Loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees

      Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees:

      Half-hidden, like a mermaid in seaweed,

      Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees,

      In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed,

      But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled.

      Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest,

      In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex’d she lay,

      Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress’d

      Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away;

      Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day;

      Blissfully haven’d both from joy and pain;

      Clasp’d like a missal where swart Paynims pray;

      Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,

      As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.

      Stol’n to this paradise, and so entranced,

      Porphyro gazed upon her empty