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. XXVI. Anon his heart revives: her vespers done, But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. XXVII. 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. XXVIII. Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced, And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanced And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept, And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo!-how fast she slept! XXIX. Then by the bed-side, 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 kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet, Affray his ears, though but in dying tone:The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. 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 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. XXXI. These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand On golden dishes and in baskets bright Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand Filling the chilly room with perfume light.- XXXII. Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam; XXXIII. 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. XXXIV. Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, 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. XXXV. "Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go." XXXVI. 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 window-panes; St. Agnes' moon hath set. XXXVII. '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." XXXVIII. "My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride! Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest 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. XXXIX. "Hark! 'tis an elfin storm from faery land, Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed: Arise-arise! the morning is at hand;The bloated wassailers 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." XL. She hurried at his words, beset with fears, |