The maid and page renewed their strife;
The palace banged, and buzzed and clackt;
And all the long-pent stream of life
Dashed downward in a cataract.

And last of all the king awoke,

And in his chair himself upreared,

And yawned, and rubbed his face, and spoke: "By holy rood, a royal beard!

How say you? we have slept, my lords;

My beard has grown into my lap." The barons swore, with many words, 'T was but an after-dinner's nap.

"Pardy!" returned the king, "but still
My joints are something stiff or so.
My lord, and shall we pass the bill

I mentioned half an hour ago?"
The chancellor, sedate and vain,

In courteous words returned reply; But dallied with his golden chain, And, smiling, put the question by.

AND on her lover's arm she leant,

And round her waist she felt it fold; And far across the hills they went

In that new world which is the old. Across the hills, and far away

Beyond their utmost purple rim, And deep into the dying day, The happy princess followed him. "I'd sleep another hundred years, O love, for such another kiss!" "O wake forever, love," she hears,

"O love, 't was such as this and this." And o'er them many a sliding star,

And many a merry wind was borne, And, streamed through many a golden bar, The twilight melted into morn.

"O eyes long laid in happy sleep!"

"O happy sleep, that lightly fled!" "O happy kiss, that woke thy sleep!"

"O love, thy kiss would wake the dead!' And o'er them many a flowing range

Of vapor buoyed the crescent bark; And, rapt through many a rosy change, The twilight died into the dark.

A hundred summers! can it be? And whither goest thou, tell me where! "O, seek my father's court with me,

For there are greater wonders there."

They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve,
Young virgins might have visions of delight,
And soft adorings from their loves receive
Upon the honeyed middle of the night,
If ceremonies due they did aright;
As, supperless to bed they must retire,

His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
Like pious incense from a censer old,

Seemed taking flight for heaven without a death, Past the sweet virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith.

Whose very dogs would execrations howl Against his lineage; not one breast affords

Him any mercy, in that mansion foul,

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 fanged
than wolves and bears."

XVIII.

"Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul?
A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, church-yard thing,
Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll;
Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening,
Were never missed." Thus plaining, doth she
bring

A gentler speech from burning Porphyro;
So woful, and of such deep sorrowing,
That Angela gives promise she will do
Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe.

XIX.

Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy,
Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide
Him in a closet, of such privacy

That he might see her beauty unespied,
And win perhaps that night a peerless bride;
While legioned fairies paced the coverlet,
And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed.
Never on such a night have lovers met,
Since Merlin paid his demon all the monstrous
debt.

XX.

"It shall be as thou wishest," said the dame; "All cates and dainties shall be stored there Quickly on this feast-night; by the tambour

frame

Her own lute thou wilt see; no time to spare,
For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare
On such a catering trust my dizzy head.

Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,
And on her silver cross soft amethyst,
And on her hair a glory, like a saint;

O, leave me not in this eternal woe,
For if thou diest, my love, I know not where to go."

XXXVI.

Beyond a mortal man impassioned far
At these voluptuous accents, he arose,
Ethereal, flushed, and like a throbbing star
Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose;
Into her dream he melted, as the rose
Blendeth its odor 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.

XXXVII.

"T is dark; quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet; "This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!" 'T is 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.”