Through many a dusky gallery, they gain The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd and chaste ; Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain. His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain. XXII. Her faltering hand upon the balustrade, Old Angela was feeling for the stair, When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid, Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware: With silver taper's light, and pious care, She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led To a safe level matting. Now prepare, Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed; She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray'd and fled. XXIII. Out went the taper as she hurried in ; As though a tongueless nightingale should swell Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled in her dell. XXIV. A casement high and triple arch'd there was, Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings. XXV. Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast, As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon; Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, And on her silver cross soft amethyst, And on her hair a glory, like a saint : She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest, Save wings, for heaven: Porphyro grew faint: She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. XXVI. Anon his heart revives: her vespers done, But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. XXVII. Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay, Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away; Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day; Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain; Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray; Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. XXVIII. Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced, Which when he heard, that minute did he bless, 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. XXIX. 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. XXX. 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 soother than the creamy curd, And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon; Manna and dates, in argosy transferr❜d From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one, From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon XXXI. These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand 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." Open XXXII. Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam; XXXIII. Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, 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 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 knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye, Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly. XXXV. “Ah, Porphyro!" said she, “but even now Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, Made tuneable 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 impassion'd far Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet Against the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon hath set. |