Part 5 (2/2)

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 As bird on wing to breast its eggs again; 470 And, patient, as a hen-bird, sat her there Beside her Basil, weeping through her hair.

LX.

Yet they contriv'd to steal the Basil-pot, And to examine it in secret place: The thing was vile with green and livid spot, And yet they knew it was Lorenzo's face: The guerdon of their murder they had got, And so left Florence in a moment's s.p.a.ce, Never to turn again.--Away they went, With blood upon their heads, to banishment. 480

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!

Spirits of grief, sing not your ”Well-a-way!”

For Isabel, sweet Isabel, will die; Will die a death too lone and incomplete, Now they have ta'en away her Basil sweet.

LXII.

Piteous she look'd on dead and senseless things, Asking for her lost Basil amorously; 490 And with melodious chuckle in the strings Of her lorn voice, she oftentimes would cry After the Pilgrim in his wanderings, To ask him where her Basil was; and why 'Twas hid from her: ”For cruel 'tis,” said she, ”To steal my Basil-pot away from me.”

LXIII.

And so she pined, and so she died forlorn, Imploring for her Basil to the last.

No heart was there in Florence but did mourn In pity of her love, so overcast. 500 And a sad ditty of this story born From mouth to mouth through all the country pa.s.s'd: Still is the burthen sung--”O cruelty, To steal my Basil-pot away from me!”

THE

EVE OF ST. AGNES.

I.

St. Agnes' Eve--Ah, bitter chill it was!

The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen gra.s.s, And silent was the flock in woolly fold: Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told His rosary, and while his frosted breath, 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; 10 Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees, And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan, Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees: The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze, Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails: Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries, He pa.s.seth by; and his weak spirit fails To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.

III.

Northward he turneth through a little door, And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue 20 Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor; But no--already had his deathbell rung; The joys of all his life were said and sung: His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve: Another way he went, and soon among Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve.

IV.

That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft; And so it chanc'd, for many a door was wide, From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, 30 The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide: The level chambers, ready with their pride, Were glowing to receive a thousand guests: The carved angels, ever eager-eyed, Star'd, where upon their heads the cornice rests, With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

V.

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