XLI. The Spirit mourn'd "Adieu!"-dissolved, and left And see the spangly gloom froth up and boil: XLII. Ha! ha!" said she, "I knew not this hard life, I thought some Fate with pleasure or with strife Sweet Spirit, thou hast school'd my infancy : XLIII. When the full morning came, she had devised While she the immost of the dream would try. XLIV. See, as they creep along the river-side How she doth whisper to that aged Dame, And they had found Lorenzo's earthy bed; XLV. Who hath not loiter'd in a green church-yard, XLVI.. She gazed into the fresh-thrown mould, as though, XLVII. Soon she turned up a soiled glove, whereon Those dainties made to still an infant's cries: Then 'gan she work again, nor stay'd her care, But to throw back at times her veiling hair. XLVIII. That old nurse stood beside her wondering, And so she kneeled, with her locks all hoar, And put her lean hands to the horrid thing: Three hours they labor'd at this travail sore; At last they felt the kernel of the grave, And Isabella did not stamp and rave. XLIX. Ah! wherefore all this wormy circumstance? Why linger at the yawning tomb so long? O for the gentleness of old Romance, The simple plaining of a minstrel's song! Fair reader, at the old tale take a glance, For here, in truth, it doth not well belong To speak :-O turn thee to the very tale, And taste the music of that vision pale. L. With duller steel than the Perséan sword If Love impersonate was ever dead, Pale Isabella kiss'd it, and low moan'd. "Twas love; cold,-dead indeed, but not dethroned. LI. In anxious secrecy they took it home, And then the prize was all for Isabel : She calm'd its wild hair with a golden comb, And all around each eye's sepulchral cell Pointed each fringed lash; the smeared loam With tears, as chilly as a dripping well, She drench'd away :-and still she comb'd, and kept Sighing all day-and still she kiss'd, and wept. LII. Then in a silken scarf,-sweet with the dews LIII. And she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun, And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze; LIV. And so she ever fed it with thin tears, Whence thick, and green, and beautiful it grew, So that it smelt more balmy than its peers Of Basil-tufts in Florence; for it drew Nature besides, and life, from human fears, From the fast-mouldering head there shut from view : So that the jewel, safely casketed, Came forth, and in perfumed leafits spread. LV. O Melancholy, linger here awhile! O Music, Music, breathe despondingly! O Echo, Echo, from some sombre isle, Unknown, Lethean, sigh to us-O sigh! Spirits in grief, lift up your heads, and smile; Lift up your heads, sweet Spirits, heavily, And make a pale light in your cypress glooms, Tinting with silver wan your marble tombs. LVI. Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe, From the deep throat of sad Melpomene! O leave the palm to wither by itself; Let not quick Winter chill its dying hour!— It may not be those Baâlites of pelf, Her brethren, noted the continual shower From her dead eyes; and many a curious elf, Among her kindred, wonder'd that such dower Of youth and beauty should be thrown aside By one mark'd out to be a Noble's bride. And when she left, she hurried back, as swift As bird on wing to breast its eggs again; And, patient as a hen-bird, sat her there Beside her Basil, weeping through her hair. LX. Yet they contrived to steal the Basil-pot, And so left Florence in a moment's space, Never to turn again.-Away they went, With blood upon their heads, to banishment. 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. The Eve of St. Agnes, L 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 grass, 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 ; Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees, And back returneth, meager, barefoot, wan, Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees: The sculptured dead, on each side, seem to freeze, 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 Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor; But no-already had his death-bell 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 chanced, for many a door was wide, From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, 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, Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests, With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts. V At length burst in the argent revelry, The brain, new stuff'd, in youth, with triumphs gay VI. They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, And couch supine their beauties, lily white; Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire. VII. Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline: The music, yearning like a God in pain, She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine, Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train Pass by-she heeded not at all: in vain Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, And back retired; not cool'd by high disdain. But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere: She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year. VIII. She danced along with vague, regardless eyes, Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short: The hallow'd hour was near at hand: she sighs Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort Of whisperers in anger, or in sport; 'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, Hoodwink'd with fairy fancy; all amort, Save to St. Agnes, and her lambs unshorn, And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. IX. So, purposing each moment to retire, She linger'd still. Meantime, across the moors, Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores All saints to give him sight of Madeline, But for one moment in the tedious hours, That he might gaze and worship all unseen; Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss-in sooth such things have been. "Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish Hildebrand; He had a fever late, and in the fit He cursed thee and thine, both house and land: Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier.' Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt. She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain. As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. XXVIII. Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced, Which when he heard, that minute did he bless, And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept, XXXIV. Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, And moan forth witless words with many a sigh; And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo!-how fast Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly. |