XXXI.

These delicates he heaped 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."

XXXII.

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 seemed he never, never could redeem
From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes;
So mused awhile, entoiled in woofèd phantasies.

XXXIII.

Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,
Tumultuous, — and, in chords that tenderest be,
He played an ancient ditty, long since mute,
In Provence called "La belle dame sans mercy :
Close to her ear touching the melody;
Wherewith disturbed she uttered a soft moan:
He ceased; she panted quick, and suddenly
Her blue affrayèd eyes wide open shone :

Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone.

XXXIV.

Her eyes were open, but she still beheld,
Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep:

There was a painful change, that nigh expelled

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 knelt, with joinèd hands and piteous eye,
Fearing to move or speak, she looked so dreamingly.

XXXV.

"Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now
Thy voice was a 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."

Madeline is half awake, and Porphyro re-assures her with living kind looks and an affectionate embrace.

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. Meanwhile the frost-wind blows
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 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 forsakest a deceived thing,

A dove, forlorn and lost, with sick unprunèd 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 famished 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."

With what a pretty wilful conceit the costume of the poem is kept up in the third line about the shield! The poet knew when to introduce apparent trifles forbidden to those who are void of real passion, and who, feeling nothing intensely, can intensify nothing.

XXXIX.

"Hark! 'tis an elfin-storm from Fairyland,
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,
Drowned 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."

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, rife with horseman, hawk, and hound,
Fluttered in the besieging wind's uproar;

And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.

This is a slip of the memory; for there were hardly carpets in those days. But the truth of the painting makes amends, as in the unchronological pictures of old masters.

XLI.

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 blood-hound 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 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-twitched, with meagre face deform;
The beadsman, after thousand aves told,

For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold.

Here endeth the young and divine poet, but not the delight and gratitude of his readers; for, as he sings elsewhere,

"A thing of beauty is a joy for ever."

67

A "NOW;"

Descriptive of a Cold Day.

"Now, all amid the rigors of the year." THOMSON.

FRIEND tells us, that having written

a

"Now," descriptive of a hot day (see "Indi

cator"), we ought to write another, descriptive of a cold one; and accordingly we do so. It happens that we are, at this minute, in a state at once fit and unfit for the task; being in the condition of the little boy at school, who, when asked the Latin for “cold,” said he had it "at his fingers' ends." But this helps us to set off with a right taste of our subject; and the fire, which is clicking in our ear, shall soon enable us to handle it comfortably in other respects.

Now, then, to commence. But, first, the reader who is good-natured enough to have a regard for these papers may choose to be told of the origin of the use of this word "Now," in case he is not already acquainted with it. It was suggested to us by the striking convenience it affords to descriptive writers, such as Thomson and others, who are fond of beginning their paragraphs with it, thereby saving themselves a world of trouble in bringing about a nicer conjunction of the various parts of their subject.