THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous | Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest After so many hours of toil and quest, eye, Fearing to move or speak, she looked so dream- A famished pilgrim,-saved by miracle. ingly. XXXV. '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! Oh 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 Like love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet Against the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon hath set. XXXVII. '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! Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine. Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring? 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? 225 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 fairy land, XL. 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-drooped lamp was flickering by each door; The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, Fluttered in the besieging wind's uproar; And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. XLI. They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall! But his sagacious eye an inmate owns; 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, I've heard you say on many a day, and sure 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-twitched, with meagre face de form; The beadsman, after thousand aves told, For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold. JOHN KEATS. THE BRIDAL OF ANDALLA. 'RISE up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the golden cushion down; Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town! From gay guitar and violin the silver notes are flowing, And the lovely lute doth speak between the trumpets' lordly blowing, And banners bright from lattice light are waving every where, And the tall, tall plume of our cousin's bridegroom floats proudly in the air. Rise up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the golden cushion down; Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town! you said the truth, Andalla rides without a peer among all Granada's youth: Without a peer he rideth, and yon milk-white horse doth go Beneath his stately master, with a stately step and slow : Then rise--Oh! rise, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down; Unseen here through the lattice, you may gaze with all the town!" cushion down "Arise, arise, Xarifa! I see Andalla's face--"Why rise ye not, Xarifa-nor lay your He bends him to the people with a calm and princely grace; Why gaze ye not, Xarifa―with all the gazing town? Hear, hear the trumpet how it swells, and how the people cry; He stops at Zara's palace-gate-why sit ye still-O, why?" -"At Zara's gate stops Zara's mate; in him shall I discover The dark-eyed youth pledged me his truth with tears, and was my lover? I will not rise, with weary eyes, nor lay my cushion down, To gaze on false Andalla with all the gazing town!" ANONYMOUS. (Spanish.) Translation of JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART. THE DAY-DREAM. THE SLEEPING PALACE. THE DAY-DREAM. THE varying year with blade and sheaf Clothes and re-clothes the happy plains; Ilere rests the sap within the leaf; Here stays the blood along the veins. Faint shadows, vapors lightly curled, Faint murmurs from the meadows come, Soft lustre bathes the range of urns Deep in the garden lake withdrawn. The parrot in his gilded wires. More like a picture seemeth all, Here sits the butler with a flask Between his knees, half-drained; and there The wrinkled steward at his task; The maid-of-honor blooming fair, The page has caught her hand in his; Her lips are severed as to speak; His own are pouted to a kiss; The blush is fixed upon her cheek. Till all the hundred summers pass, The beams, that through the oriel shine, Make prisms in every carven glass, And beaker brimmed with noble wine. Each baron at the banquet sleeps; Grave faces gathered in a ring. His state the king reposing keeps: He must have been a jolly king. All round a hedge upshoots, and shows At distance like a little wood; Thorns, ivies, woodbine, mistletoes, And grapes with bunches red as blood: All creeping plants, a wall of green Close-matted, burr and brake and briar And glimpsing over these, just seen, High up, the topmost palace-spire. When will the hundred summers die, And thought and time be born again, And newer knowledge, drawing nigh, Bring truth that sways the soul of men? Here all things in their place remain, As all were ordered, ages since. Come care and pleasure, hope and pain. And bring the fated fairy prince! THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. YEAR after year unto her feet, The maiden's jet-black hair has grown; On either side her tranced form Forth streaming from a braid of pearl; The slumb'rous light is rich and warm, And moves not on the rounded curl. The silk star-broidered coverlid Unto her limbs itself doth mould, Languidly ever; and, amid 227 Her full black ringlets, downward rolled Glows forth each softly-shadowed arm, With bracelets of the diamond bright. Her constant beauty doth inform Stillness with love, and day with light. She sleeps; her breathings are not heard In palace chambers far apart. The fragrant tresses are not stirred That lie upon her charmed heart. She sleeps; on either hand upswells The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest; She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells A perfect form in perfect rest. THE ARRIVAL ALL precious things, discovered late, His mantle glitters on the rocks- And lighter-footed than the fox. LOVE. ALL thoughts, all passions, all delights, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I Beside the ruined tower. The moonshine stealing o'er the scene, Had blended with the lights of eve; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve! She leaned against the armed man, The statue of the armed knight; She stood and listened to my lay, Amid the lingering light. Few sorrows hath she of her own, My hope! my joy! my Genevieve! She loves me best whene'er I sing The songs that make her grieve. I played a soft and doleful air; sang an old and moving story— An old, rude song, that suited well That ruin wild and hoary. She listened with a flitting blush, I told her of the knight that wore I told her how he pined-and ah! Interpreted my own. She listened with a flitting blush, Too fondly on her face! But when I told the cruel scorn And that he crossed the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night; That sometimes from the savage den, In green and sunny glade,— There came and looked him in the face This miserable knight! And that, unknowing what he did, And how she wept and clasped his knees; The scorn that crazed his brain;- His dying words-but when I reached All impulses of soul and sense And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, She wept with pity and delight- Her bosom heaved; she stepped aside- She half inclosed me with her arms; |