Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,
As though a rose should shut and be a bud again.
Stolen 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 slumbrous tenderness;
Which when he heard, that minute did he bless,
And breathed himself; then from the closet crept
Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness,
And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept,
And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo! how fast she slept.
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 ;—
The hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone.
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 smoother than the creamy curd,
And lucent syrops tinct with cinnamon;
Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd
From Fez; and spicèd dainties, every one,
From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon.
These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand
On golden dishes and in baskets bright
Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand
In the retirèd 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."
Thus whispering, his warm, unnervèd arm
Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream
By the dusk curtains: 'twas a midnight charm
Impossible to melt as icèd 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 steadfast spell his lady's eyes;
So mused awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies.
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 ceased; she panted quick-and suddenly
Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone.
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 kneel'd, with joined hands and piteous eye,
Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly.
"Ah, Porphyro!” said she,—“ but even now
Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear,
Made tunable with every sweetest vow;
And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear:
How changed thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear !
Give me that voice again, my Porphyro!
Those looks immortal, those complainings dear!
O leave me not in this eternal woe,
For if thou diest, my Love! I know not where to go."
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.
'Tis dark quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet. "This is no dream, my bride! my Madeline ! " 'Tis dark the icèd 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 forsakèst a deceived thing, A dove forlorn and lost, with sick unprunèd wing."
"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.
"Hark! 'tis an elfin storm from faery land,
Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed : Arise! arise! the morning is at hand; The bloated wassailers 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."
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.
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 flagon 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 foot-worn stones; The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans;
And they are gone. Ay! ages long ago,
These lovers fled away into the storm.
That night the baron dream'd of many a woe;
And all his warrior guests with shade and form
Of witch and demon and large coffin-worm
Were long benightmared. Angela the old
Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform;
The Beadsman, after thousand Avès told,
For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold.
Rhaicos was born amid the hills wherefrom
Gnidos, the light of Caria, is discern'd :
And small are the white-crested that play near,
And smaller onward are the purple waves.
Thence festal choirs were visible, all crown'd
With rose and myrtle if they were in-born;
If from Pandion sprang they, on the coast
Where stern Athenè raised her citadel,
Then olive was entwined with violets
Cluster'd in bosses, regular and large.
For various men wore various coronals;
But one was their devotion: 'twas to her
Whose laws all follow, her whose smile withdraws
The sword from Arès, thunderbolt from Zeus,
And whom in his chill caves the mutable
Of mind, Poseidon the sea-king, reveres,
And whom his brother, stubborn Dis, hath pray'd
To turn in pity the averted cheek
Of her he bore away, with promises,
Nay! with loud oath before dread Styx itself,
To give her daily more and sweeter flowers
Than he made drop from her on Enna's dell.
Rhaicos was looking from his father's door
At the long trains that hasten'd to the town
From all the valleys, like bright rivulets
Gurgling with gladness, wave outrunning wave,
And thought it hard he might not also go
And offer up one prayer, and press one hand,
He knew not whose. The father call'd him in,
And said-" Son Rhaicos! those are idle games :
Long enough I have lived to find them so."
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