The Eve of St. Agnes 



11

       Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came,
       Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand,
       To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame,
       Behind a broad half-pillar, far beyond
       The sound of merriment and chorus bland:
       He startled her; but soon she knew his face,
       And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand,
       Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place;
They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race!

12

       "Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish Hildebrand;
       He had a fever late, and in the fit
       He cursed thee and thine, both house and land:
       Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit
       More tame for his gray hairs—Alas me! flit!
       Flit like a ghost away."—"Ah, Gossip dear,
       We're safe enough; here in this arm-chair sit,
       And tell me how"—"Good Saints! not here, not here;
Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier."

       15

       Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon,
       While Porphyro upon her face doth look,
       Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone
       Who keepeth clos'd a wond'rous riddle-book,
       As spectacled she sits in chimney nook.
       But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told
       His lady's purpose; and he scarce could brook
       Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold,
And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old.

16

       Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose,
       Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart
       Made purple riot: then doth he propose
       A stratagem, that makes the beldame start:
       "A cruel man and impious thou art:
       Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream
       Alone with her good angels, far apart
       From wicked men like thee. Go, go!—I deem
Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem."

17

       "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."

31

       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."

32

       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.

33

       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 ceas'd—she panted quick—and suddenly
       Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone:
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone.

34

       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.

35

       "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 thy diest, my Love, I know not where to go."

36

       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.

37

       '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."

38

       "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,—sav'd 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.

39

       "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."

40

       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.

41

       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 flaggon 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.

42

       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-nightmar'd. 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.

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