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."

XXXII.

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 steadfast spell his lady's eyes;
So mused awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies.

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,
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.

XXXV.

"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 changed 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."

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! Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest? Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped 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.

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,
For there were sleeping dragons all around,

At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears, Down 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.

XLI.

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.

XLII.

And they are gone: ay, ages long ago These lovers fled away into the storm. That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe, And all his warrior-guests with shade and form Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm, Were long be-nightmared. 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.

106

A FRAGMENT OF KEATS,

OF DOUBTFUL AUTHENTICITY.

The following poem was bought by me, in what appears to be Keats's autograph, at the same sale as that in which the Shelley Letters-afterwards discovered to be forged-were disposed of. If not authentic, it is a clever imitation; but I am inclined to believe, from other circumstances, that there were true and false pieces ingeniously mingled in that collection, and that it would be unjust to assume that they were all the production of literary fraud.- ED.

W

HAT sylph-like form before my eyes

Flits on the breeze and fans the skies, With more than youth's elastic grace, And more than virgin's heaven of face, On glittering pinions lightly borne, Transparent with the hues of morn,— With starlike eye and glance sublime, That far out-span the arch of Time,— And thoughts that breathe to mortal ears The speaking music of the spheres, That, floating on th' enamour'd gale, Awake the song of wood and dale?

Some creature, sure, with form endued

In Nature's more elastic mood,

When, wearied with her earthly toil,
She peopled some ethereal isle
With essences, that no alloy
Of perishable dust annoy:
Yet gave, awhile to flutter here,
A sample of that purer sphere