'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, For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee." XL. She hurried at his words, beset with fears, 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! 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, Some creature, sure, with form endued Where into perfect life are brought Yea, in that cheek's transparent hue, Tell me, thou airy, fleeting form, Whose agile step out-wings the storm, When did that volant foot of thine Revisit last the ocean brine? When, underneath the oozy bed, The sea-nymphs' cave of coral tread ? Or on the moon-beam lightly stray, Or stars that pave the milky way? And whither now, thou dainty sprite, Wing'st thou, and whence, thy airy flight? What star, what meteor, gave thee birth? And whence thy mission here on earth? "Whence I am, and where I go, Wondering mortal, wouldst thou know? To the Swan of Avon, I, Borne by a daughter of the sky: She who touch'd in elder time One blind old man with warmth sublime, And one more near; but gave my sire, To the distant bounds that lie |