Part 7 (1/2)

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; 240 Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray; Blinded alike from suns.h.i.+ne and from rain, As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.

XXVIII.

Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced, Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanced To wake into a slumberous tenderness; Which when he heard, that minute did he bless, And breath'd himself: then from the closet crept, Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness, 250 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:-- 260 The hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone.

x.x.x.

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. 270

x.x.xI.

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.”

x.x.xII.

Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm 280 Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream By the dusk curtains:--'twas a midnight charm Impossible to melt as iced stream: The l.u.s.trous 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.

x.x.xIII.

Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,-- Tumultuous,--and, in chords that tenderest be, 290 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.

x.x.xIV.

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 300 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.

x.x.xV.

”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: 310 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 thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go.”

x.x.xVI.

Beyond a mortal man impa.s.sion'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 320 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.

x.x.xVII.

'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!