Then by the bedside, where the faded moon

      Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set

      A table, and, half anguish’d, threw thereon

      A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet: —

      O for some drowsy Morphean amulet!

      The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion,

      The kettledrum, and far-heard clarionet,

      Affray his ears, though but in dying tone: —

      The hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone.

      And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,

      In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender’d,

      While he from forth the closet brought a heap

      Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and 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 Lebanon.

      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.”

      Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm

      Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream

      By the dusk curtains:– ’twas a midnight charm

      Impossible to melt as iced 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 stedfast spell his lady’s eyes;

      So mus’d awhile, entoil’d in woofed phantasies.

      Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, —

      Tumultuous, – and, in chords that tenderest be,

      He play’d an ancient ditty, long since mute,

      In Provence call’d, “La belle dame sans mercy:”

      Close to her ear touching the melody; —

      Wherewith disturb’d, she utter’d a soft moan:

      He ceased – she panted quick – and suddenly

      Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone:

      Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured 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;

      While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep;

      Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye,

      Fearing to move or speak, she look’d so dreamingly.

      “Ah, Porphyro!” said she, “but even now

      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 complainings 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 odour with the violet, —

      Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows

      Like Love’s alarum pattering the sharp sleet

      Against the windowpanes; St. Agnes’ moon hath set.

      ’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 a deceived thing; —

      A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing.”

      “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 nest

      Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think’st well

      To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel.”

      “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.”

      She hurried at his words, beset with fears,

      For