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And on her silver cross soft amethyst, | And lucent syrope, tinct with cinnamon,
Thesc delicates he heap'd with glowing hand
On golden dishes and in baskets bright Anon his heart revives : her vespers done, in the retired quiet of the night,
Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;
frees; Filling the chilly room with perfume light. Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one,
“And now, my Love, my Seraph fair, awake! Loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees
Thou art my heaven, and I thine cremite: Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees :
Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake, Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed,
I or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees,
doth ache." In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, But dares not look behind, or all the charm
Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm
By the dusk curtains :-'twas a midnightSoon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest,
charm In kort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay,
"Y: Impossible to melt as iced stream: Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppressid Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away;
The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam;
Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies: Flown,like a thought, until the morrow-day; Blissfully heaven'd both from joy and pain;
| It seem'd he never, never could redeem
From such a stedfast spell his lady's eyes; Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims So mus'd awhile,entoil'd in woofed phantasies.
pray; Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, As though a rose should shut, and be a
bud again. Awakening, up he took her hollow lute,-Tumultuous,-and, in chords that tenderest
be, Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced, He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute, Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, In Provence callid: La belle dame sans And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanced
mercy:" To wake into a slumberous tenderness; Close to her ear touching the melody ;Which when he heard, that minute did he Wherewith disturbid,she utter'd a soft moan:
He ceased--she panted quick-and suddenly And breath'd himself: then from the closet Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone:
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smoothNoiseless as fear in a wide wilderness,
sculptured stone. And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept, And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo!
how fast she slept. Her eyes were open, but she still beheld,
Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep:
There was a painful change, that nigh Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon
expellid Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set The blisses of her dream so pure and deep; A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon At which fair Madeline began to weep, A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet: And monn forth witless words with many a O for some drowsy Morphean ainulet!
sigh; The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep, 'The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet, Who knelt, with joined bands and piteous eye, Allray his ears, though but in dying tone:- Fearing to move or speak, she look'd 80 The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise
dreamingly. is gone.
"Ah, Porphyro!-said she- but even now And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd,
ear, While he from forth the closet brought a Made tuneable with every sweetest vow;
And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear: Of candied apple, quince, and plum,and gourd; How chang'd thou art! how pallid, chill. With jellies soother than the creamy curd,
Give me that voice again, my Porphyro. A chajn-droop'd lamp was flickering by end Those looks immortal, those complainings
The arras, rich with horseman, hawk. Oh leave me not in this eternal woe,
hound, For if thou diest, my Love, I know not Flutter'd in the besieging wind's upruar, where to go." And the long carpets rose along the guy
Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far
The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shoek ka Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind
But his sagacious eye an inmate owus: Like love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet By one, and one, the bolts fall easy slide:Against the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon The chains lie silent on the footworn stones,
groans. 'Tis dark : quick pattereth the flaw-blown
And they are gone: ay, ages long ago -This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!" These lovers fled away into the storm. 'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat: That night the baron dreamt of many a ve
No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine! And all his warrior-guests, with shade and Porphyro will leave me here to fade and
or witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm, Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring? Were long be-nightmar'd. Angela the old I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine, Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre fact Though thou forsakest a deceived thing;
deform; A dove forlorn and lost with sick anpruned The beadsman, after thousand aves told,
My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride! Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest? Thy beauty's shield, heart-shap'd and ver
meil dyed? Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest
ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. After so many hours of toil and quest, A famish'd pilgrim,-saved by miracle.. My heart aches, and a drowsy number Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest
pains Saving of thy sweet self; if thou thinkst well My sense, as though of hemlock I had drusk. To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and lethe-wards had suni
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot. Hark! 'tis an elfin-storm from faery-land, But being too bappy in thine happiness Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed: That thou, light-winged dryad of the trai. Arise-arise! the morning is at hand;
In some melodious plot The bloated wassaillers will never heed:-- or becchen green, and shadows numberless Let us away, my Love, with happy speed; Singeat of summer in full-throated case. There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead: Awake! arise! my Love, and fearless be, 0, for a draught of vintage! that bath brea For o'er the southern inoors I have a home Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth.
Tasting of Flora and the country grert.
mirth! She hurried at bis words, beset with fears, o for a beaker full of the warm south. For there were sleeping dragons all around, Full of the true, the blashful Hippen At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready With beaded bubbles winking at the bram spears-
And purple-stained mouth: Down the wide stairs a darkling way they That I might drink, and leave the war found.
unsren. In all tbc house was heard not human sound. And with thee fade away into the forest da
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget! She stood in tears amid the alien corn; What thou among the leaves bast never The same that oft-times hath
Charin'd inagic casements, opening on the The wearinens, the fever, and the fret
foarn Ilere, where men sit and hear each other or perilous seas, in faery-lands forlorn.
groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray | Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, | Adieu! the Fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades And leaden-eyed despairs,
Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep Or new love pine at them beyond to-morrow. In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:-do I wake or sleep?
Pleasure never is at home:
| Like to bubbles when rain pelteth; Through verdurous glooms and winding | Then let winged Fancy wander
mossy ways. | Through the thought still spread beyond her:
Open wide the mind's cage-door,
She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.
| Blushing through the mist and dew,
The scar faggot blazes bright,
And the caked snow is shuffled
When the Night doth meet the Noon
With a mind self-overaw'd, To take into the air my quiet breath; Fancy, high-commission'd:-send her! Now more than ever seems it rich to die, She has vassals to attend her: To cease npon the midnight with no pain, She will bring, in spite of frost, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad | Beauties that the earth hath lost; In such an ecstasy!
She will bring thee, all together, Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in All delight of summer-wrather ;
All the buds and bells of May,
AU the heaped Autumn's wealth,
With a still, mysterious stealth : Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird! She will mix these pleasures up No hungry generations tread thee down; Like three fit wines in a cup, The voice I hear this passing night was And thou shalt quaff it :- thou shalt hear
Distant harvest-carols clear;
'Tis the early April-lark,
| Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now, And I will bind thee round my brow;
And as I twine the mournful wreath, I'll weave a melancholy gong; And sweet the strain shall be, and long,
The melody of death!
Or the rooks, with busy caw,
Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwell
A sweet decaying smell!
And we will sleep a pleasant sleep,
So peaceful and so deep.
And hark! the wind-god, as he flies,
Mysterious music dies.
The cold turf-altar of the dead: My grave shall be in yon lone spot, Where, as I lic by all forgot, A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my
Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose;
The Night's my friend, my mistress, and
my theme, And she shall aid me now to magnify The night of ages;--now when the pale rap Of star-light penetrates the studious gloom, And, at my window seated, while mankind Are lock'd in sleep, I feel the freshening
breeze Of stillness blow, while, in her saddest stole, Thought, like a wakeful vestnl at her shrine. Assumes her wonted sway. Behold! the world Rests, and her tired inhabitants have paused From trouble and turmoil. The widow now Has ceased to weep, and her twin-orphans for Lock'd in each arm, partakers of her rest The man of sorrow has forgot his woes: The outcast that his head is shelterless, His griefs unshared.--The mother tends na
more Her daughter's dying slumbers, but surprised With heaviness, and sunk upon her couch Dreams of her bridals. Even the hectic, luni On Death's lean arm to rest, in visions wrap Crowning with hope's bland wreath bin
shoddering nurse Poor victim! smiles. Silence and deep repe Reign o'er the nations; and the warning a of Nature utters audibly within | The general moral - tells us that repost
HENRY KIRKE WHITE.
TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.
SWEET-SCENTED flower! wont to bloom
To waft thy waste perfume!
Death-like as this, but of far longer span, Ten thousand thousand of his centuries
Too trivial for account.-0 it is strange, Shall soon taste lasting quiet, wrapt around 'Tis passing strange, to mark his fallacies: With grave-clothes; and their aching restless Behold him proudly view some pompous pile,
Whose high domeswells to emulate the skies, Mouldering in holes and corners unobserved, And smile and say: My name sball live with Till the last trump shall break their sullen
Till time shall be no more;- while at his feet,
Yea, at his very feet, the crumbling dust Who needs a teacher to admonish him Of the fall'n fabric of the other day, That flesh is grass ?—that earthly things Preaches the solemn lesson. - He should are mist?
know, What are our joys but dreams? and what That Time must conquer; that the loudest
our hopes But goodly shadows in the summer-cloud? | 'That ever fill'd renown's obstreperous trump, There's not a wind that blows, but bears Fades in the lapse of ages, and expires.
Who lies inhumed in the terrific gloom Some rainbow promise ,--not a moment flies of the gigantic pyramid ? or who But puts its sickle in the fields of life, Rear'd its high walls?-Oblivion laughs and And mows its thousands, with their joys
says: and cares.
The prey is mine.—They sleep, and never "Tis but as yesterday since on yon stars
more Which now I view, the Chaldee shepherd Their names shall strike upon the ear of man;
Their memory burst its fetters.--Where is In his mid-watch observant, and disposed
Rome? The twinkling hosts as fancy gave them She lives but in the tale of other times;
Her proud pavilions are the hermit's home; Yet in the interim what mighty shocks And her long colonnades, her public walks, Have buffeted mankind! whole nations Now faintly echo to the pilgrim's feet,
| Who comes to muse in solitude, and trace, Cities made desolate,- the polish d sunk Thro' the rank moss reveal'd, her honour'd To barbarism, and once barbaric states
dust. Swaying the wand of science and of arts; Illustrious deeds and memorable names Blotted from record, and upon the tongue of gray tradition volable no more.
TO CONTEMPLATION. Where are the heroes of the ages past? Where the brave chieftains, wliere the COME, peneive sage, who lov'st to dwell
In some retired Lapponian cell, Who flourish'd in the infancy of days?
Where, far from noise and riot rude, All to the grave gone down. On their fallin
Rerides seqnester'd Solitude. fame
Come, and o'er my longing soul Exultant, mocking at the pride of man, Throw thy dark and russet stole, Sits grim Forgetfulness. The warrior's arm And open to my duteous eyes Lies nerveless on the pillow of its shame;
The volume of thy mysteries. Hush'd is his stormy voice, and quench'd
I will meet thee on the hill,
Will sauntering sit, and listen