XLVIII That old nurse stood beside her wondering, And so she kneeled, with her locks all hoar, XLIX Ah! wherefore all this wormy circumstance? The simple plaining of a minstrel's song! L With duller steel than the Perséan sword They cut away no formless monster's head, But one, whose gentleness did well accord With death, as life. The ancient harps have said, Love never dies, but lives, immortal Lord: If Love impersonate was ever dead, Pale Isabella kiss'd it, and low moan'd. 'Twas love; cold,-dead indeed, but not dethroned. LI In anxious secrecy they took it home, LII Then in a silken scarf,-sweet with the dews LIII And she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun, And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze; LIV And so she ever fed it with thin tears, Whence thick, and green, and beautiful it grew, So that it smelt more balmy than its peers Of Basil-tufts in Florence; for it drew Nurture besides, and life, from human fears, From the fast mouldering head there shut from view : So that the jewel, safely casketed, Came forth, and in perfumed leafits spread. LV O Melancholy, linger here awhile! O Music, Music, breathe despondingly! O Echo, Echo, from some sombre isle, Unknown, Lethean, sigh to us-O sigh! Spirits in grief, lift up your heads, and smile; Lift up your heads, sweet Spirits, heavily, And make a pale light in your cypress glooms, Tinting with silver wan your marble tombs. LVI Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe, Among the dead: She withers, like a palm LVII O leave the palm to wither by itself; Her brethren, noted the continual shower LVIII And, furthermore, her brethren wonder'd much And why it flourish'd, as by magic touch; Greatly they wonder'd what the thing might mean: They could not surely give belief, that such A very nothing would have power to wean Her from her own fair youth, and pleasures gay, LIX Therefore they watch'd a time when they might sift This hidden whim; and long they watch'd in vain ; For seldom did she go to chapel-shrift, And seldom felt she any hunger-pain; And when she left, she hurried back, as swift LX Yet they contriv'd to steal the Basil-pot, And so left Florence in a moment's space, LXI O Melancholy, turn thine eyes away! O Music, Music, breathe despondingly! O Echo, Echo, on some other day, From isles Lethean, sigh to us-O sigh! Will die a death too lone and incomplete, LXII Piteous she look'd on dead and senseless things, To ask him where her Basil was; and why LXIII And so she pined, and so she died forlorn, No heart was there in Florence but did mourn In pity of her love, so overcast. And a sad ditty of this story born From mouth to mouth through all the country pass'd: Still is the burthen sung-"O cruelty, To steal my Basil-pot away from me!" THE EVE OF ST. AGNES I T. AGNES' Eve-Ah, bitter chill it was! ST The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told Like pious incense from a censer old, Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death, Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. II His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ; The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze, To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. III Northward he turneth through a little door, rung: But no already had his deathbell |