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While legion'd fairies pac'd the coverlet, And pale enchantment held her sleepyeyed.

Never on such a night have lovers met, Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt.

"It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame:

"All cates and dainties shall be stored there

Quickly on this feast-night: by the tambour frame

Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to spare,

For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare On such a catering trust my dizzy head. Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in prayer

The while: Ah! thou must needs the lady wed,

Or may I never leave my grave among the dead."

So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear. The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd;

The dame return'd, and whisper'd in his

ear

To follow her; with aged eyes aghast From fright of dim espial. Safe at last, Through many a dusky gallery, they gain

The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd, and chaste;

Where Porphyro took covert, pleas'd amain.

His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain.

Her falt'ring 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 ringdove fray'd and fled.

Out went the taper as she hurried in ; Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died :

She clos'd the door, she panted, all akin
To spirits of the air, and visions wide:
No uttered syllable, or, woe betide!
But to her heart, her heart was voluble,

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These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand

On golden dishes and in baskets bright Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand

In the retired 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."

Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved

arm

Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream

By the dusk curtains:-'twas a midnight charm

Impossible to melt as iced stream: The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam:

Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies: It seem'd he never, never could redeem From such a sted fast spell his lady's eyes; So mus'd awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies.

Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,Tumultuous, and, in chords that tenderest be,

He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute,

In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans mercy: "

Close to her ear touching the melody ;:Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft

moan:

He ceased-she panted quick-and suddenly

Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone: Upon his knees he sank, pale as smoothsculptured stone.

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; [keep; While still her gaze on Porphyro would Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye, [dreamingly. Fearing to move or speak, she look'd se

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Of witch, and demon, and large coffin

worm,

Were long be-nightmar'd. Angela the old

Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform;

The Beadsman, after thousand aves told, For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold.

January, 1819. 1820.

THE EVE OF SAINT MARK

A FRAGMENT 1

UPON a Sabbath-day it fell ;
Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell,
That call'd the folks to evening prayer;
The city streets were clean and fair
From wholesome drench of April rains;
And, on the western window panes,
The chilly sunset faintly told
Of unmatur'd green valleys cold,
Of the green thorny bloomless hedge,
Of rivers new with spring-tide sedge,
Of primroses by shelter'd rills,
And daisies on the aguish hills.
Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell:
The silent streets were crowded well
With staid and pious companies,
Warm from their fire-side orat`ries;
And moving, with demurest air,
To even-song, and vesper prayer.
Each arched porch, and entry low,
Was fill'd with patient folk and slow,
With whispers hush, and shuffling feet,
While play'd the organ loud and sweet.

The bells had ceas'd, the prayers begun,
And Bertha had not yet half done
A curious volume, patch'd and torn,
That all day long, from earliest morn,
Had taken captive her two eyes,
Among its golden broideries;
Perplex'd her with a thousand things.-
The stars of Heaven, and angels' wings,
Martyrs in a fiery blaze,

Azure saints and silver rays,
Moses' breastplate, and the seven
Candlesticks John saw in Heaven,
The winged Lion of St. Mark,
And the Covenantal Ark,
With its many mysteries,
Cherubim and golden mice.

Bertha was a maiden fair,

Dwelling in th' old Minster-square ; From her fire-side she could see, Sidelong, its rich antiquity,

Far as the Bishop's garden-wall ;
Where sycamores and elm-trees tali,
Full-leav'd, the forest had outstript,
By no sharp north-wind ever nipt,
So shelter'd by the mighty pile.
Bertha arose, and read awhile,
With forehead 'gainst the window-pane
Again she try'd, and then again,
Until the dusk eve left her dark
Upon the legend of St. Mark.
From plated lawn-frill, fine and thin,
She lifted up her soft warm chin.
With aching neck and swimming eyes,
And daz'd with saintly imageries.

All was gloom, and silent all,
Save now and then the still foot-fall
Of one returning homewards late,
Past the echoing minster-gate.
The clamorous daws, that all the day
Above tree-tops and towers play,
Pair by pair had gone to rest,
Each in its ancient belfry nest,
Where asleep they fall betimes,
To music and the drowsy chimes.

All was silent, all was gloom,
Abroad and in the homely room:
Down she sat, poor cheated soul;

And struck a lamp from the dismal coal;
Lean'd forward, with bright drooping

hair

And slant look, full against the glare.
Her shadow, in uneasy guise,
Hover'd about, a giant size,

On ceiling-beam and old oak chair,
The parrot's cage, and panel square;
And the warm angled winter-screen,
On which were many monsters seen,
Call'd doves of Siam, Lima mice,
And legless birds of Paradise,
Macaw, and tender Avadavat,
And silken-furr'd Angora cat.
Untir'd she read, her shadow still
Glower'd about, as it would fill

The room with wildest forms and shades,
As though some ghostly queen of spades
Had come to mock behind her back,
And dance, and ruffle her garments
black.

Untir'd she read the legend page,
Of holy Mark, from youth to age,
On land, on sea, in pagan chains,
Rejoicing for his many pains.
Sometimes the learned eremite,
With golden star, or dagger bright,
Referr'd to pious poesies

Written in smallest crow-quill size

Beneath the text: and thus the rhyme

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Men han before they wake in bliss, Whanne that hir friendes thinke him bound

In crimped shroude farre under grounde:
And how a litling childe mote be
A saint er its nativitie,

Gif that the modre (God her blesse !)
Kepen in solitarinesse,

And kissen devout the holy croce.
Of Goddes love, and Sathan's forcé,-
He writith; and thinges many mo
Of swiche thinges I may not show.
Bot I must tellen verilie

Somdel of Saintè Cicilie,

And chiefly what he auctorethe
Of Sainte Markis life and dethe:"

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