Sit thee by the ingle, when

The sere faggot blazes bright,

Spirit of a winters night;

When the soundless earth is muffled,

20

And the cakèd snow is shuffled

From the ploughboy’s heavy shoon;

When the Night doth meet the Noon

In a dark conspiracy

To banish Even from her sky.

Sit thee there, and send abroad,

With a mind self-overawed,

Fancy, high-commissioned – send her!

She has vassals to attend her:

She will bring, in spite of frost,

30

Beauties that the earth hath lost;

She will bring thee, all together,

All delights of summer weather;

All the buds and bells of May,

From dewy sward or thorny spray;

All the heapèd Autumn’s wealth,

With a still, mysterious stealth:

She will mix these pleasures up

Like three fit wines in a cup,

And thou shalt quaff it – thou shalt hear

40

Distant harvest-carols clear;

Rustle of the reapèd corn;

Sweet birds antheming the morn:

And, in the same moment – hark!

’Tis the early April lark,

Or the rooks, with busy caw,

Foraging for sticks and straw.

Thou shalt, at one glance, behold

The daisy and the marigold;

White-plumed lilies, and the first

50

Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst;

Shaded hyacinth, alway

Sapphire queen of the mid-May;

And every leaf, and every flower

Pearlèd with the self-same shower.

Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep

Meagre from its cellèd sleep;

And the snake all winter-thin

Cast on sunny bank its skin;

Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see

60

Hatching in the hawthorn-tree,

When the hen-bird’s wing doth rest

Quiet on her mossy nest;

Then the hurry and alarm

When the bee-hive casts its swarm;

Acorns ripe down-pattering,

While the autumn breezes sing.

O, sweet Fancy! let her loose;

Every thing is spoilt by use:

Where’s the cheek that doth not fade,

70

Too much gazed at? Where’s the maid

Whose lip mature is ever new?

Where’s the eye, however blue,

Doth not weary? Where’s the face

One would meet in every place?

Where’s the voice, however soft,

One would hear so very oft?

At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth

Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.

Let, then, winged Fancy find

80

Thee a mistress to thy mind:

Dulcet-eyed as Ceres’ daughter,

Ere the God of Torment taught her

How to frown and how to chide;

With a waist and with a side

White as Hebe’s, when her zone

Slipped its golden clasp, and down

Fell her kirtle to her feet,

While she held the goblet sweet,

And Jove grew languid. – Break the mesh

90

Of the Fancy’s silken leash;

Quickly break her prison-string

And such joys as these she’ll bring.

Let the wingèd Fancy roam,

Pleasure never is at home.

Bards of Passion and of Mirth,

Ye have left your souls on earth!

Have ye souls in heaven too,

Double-lived in regions new?

Yes, and those of heaven commune

With the spheres of sun and moon;

With the noise of fountains wondrous,

And the parle of voices thund’rous;

With the whisper of heaven’s trees

10

And one another, in soft ease

Seated on Elysian lawns

Browsed by none but Dian’s fawns;

Underneath large blue-bells tented,

Where the daisies are rose-scented,

And the rose herself has got

Perfume which on earth is not;

Where the nightingale doth sing

Not a senseless, trancèd thing,

But divine melodious truth;

20

Philosophic numbers smooth;

Tales and golden histories

Of heaven and its mysteries.

Thus ye live on high, and then

On the earth ye live again;

And the souls ye left behind you

Teach us, here, the way to find you,

Where your other souls are joying,

Never slumbered, never cloying.

Here, your earth-born souls still speak

30

To mortals, of their little week;

Of their sorrows and delights;

Of their passions and their spites;

Of their glory and their shame;

What doth strengthen and what maim.

Thus ye teach us, every day,

Wisdom, though fled far away.

Bards of Passion and of Mirth,

Ye have left your souls on earth!

Ye have souls in heaven too,

40

Double-lived in regions new!

I had a dove and the sweet dove died;

And I have thought it died of grieving.

O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied,

With a silken thread of my own hand’s weaving.

Sweet little red feet! why would you die –

Why would you leave me, sweet bird! why?

You lived alone on the forest-tree,

Why, pretty thing, could you not live with me?

I kissed you oft and gave you white peas;

10

Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?

I

Hush, hush! tread softly! hush, hush my dear!

All the house is asleep, but we know very well

That the jealous, the jealous old bald-pate may hear,

Though you’ve padded his night-cap – O sweet Isabel!

Though your feet are more light than a faery’s feet,

Who dances on bubbles where brooklets meet –

Hush, hush! tread softly! hush, hush my dear!

For less than a nothing the jealous can hear.

II

No leaf doth tremble, no ripple is there

10

On the river – all’s still, and the night’s sleepy eye

Closes up, and forgets all its Lethean care,

Charmed to death by the drone of the humming mayfly;

And the moon, whether prudish or complaisant,

Hath fled to her bower, well knowing I want

No light in the darkness, no torch in the gloom,

But my Isabel’s eyes, and her lips pulped with bloom.

III

Lift the latch! ah gently! ah tenderly – sweet!

We are dead if that latchet gives one little clink!

Well done – now those lips, and a flowery seat –

20

The old man may dream, and the planets may wink;

The shut rose may dream of our loves, and awake

Full-blown, and such warmth for the morning take,

The stock-dove shall hatch her soft brace and shall coo,

While I kiss to the melody, aching all through!

I

St Agnes’ Eve – Ah, bitter chill it was!

The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;

The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass,

And silent was the flock in woolly fold:

Numb were the Beadsman’s fingers, while he told

His rosary, and while his frosted breath,

Like pious incense from a censer old,

Seemed taking flight for heaven, without a death,

Past the sweet Virgin’s picture, while his prayer he saith.

II

10

His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man;

Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees,

And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,

Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees:

The sculptured dead, on each side, seem to freeze,

Emprisoned in black, purgatorial rails;

Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat’ries,

He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails

To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.

III

Northward he turneth through a little door,

20

And scarce three steps, ere Music’s golden tongue

Flattered to tears this aged man and poor;

But no – already had his deathbell rung:

The joys of all his life were said and sung:

His was harsh penance on St Agnes’ Eve.

Another way he went, and soon among

Rough ashes sat he for his soul’s reprieve,

And all night kept awake, for sinners’ sake to grieve.

IV

That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft;

And so it chanced, for many a door was wide,

30

From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft,

The silver, snarling trumpets ’gan to chide:

The level chambers, ready with their pride,

Were glowing to receive a thousand guests:

The carvèd angels, ever eager-eyed,

Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests,

With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts.

V

At length burst in the argent revelry,

With plume, tiara, and all rich array,

Numerous as shadows haunting faerily

40

The brain, new-stuffed, in youth, with triumphs gay

Of old romance. These let us wish away,

And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there,

Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day,

On love, and winged St Agnes’ saintly care,

As she had heard old dames full many times declare.

VI

They told her how, upon St Agnes’ Eve,

Young virgins might have visions of delight,

And soft adorings from their loves receive

Upon the honeyed middle of the night,

50

If ceremonies due they did aright;

As, supperless to bed they must retire,

And couch supine their beauties, lily white;

Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require

Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire.

VII

Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline:

The music, yearning like a God in pain,

She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine,

Fixed on the floor, saw many a sweeping train

Pass by – she heeded not at all: in vain

60

Came many a tip-toe, amorous cavalier,

And back retired – not cooled by high disdain,

But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere.

She sighed for Agnes’ dreams, the sweetest of the year.

VIII

She danced along with vague, regardless eyes,

Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short:

The hallowed hour was near at hand: she sighs

Amid the timbrels, and the thronged resort

Of whisperers in anger, or in sport;

‘Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn,

70

Hoodwinked with faery fancy – all amort,

Save to St Agnes and her lambs unshorn,

And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn.

IX

So, purposing each moment to retire,

She lingered still. Meantime, across the moors,

Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire

For Madeline. Beside the portal doors,

Buttressed from moonlight, stands he, and implores

All saints to give him sight of Madeline

But for one moment in the tedious hours,

80

That he might gaze and worship all unseen;

Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss – in sooth such things have been.

X

He ventures in – let no buzzed whisper tell,

All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords

Will storm his heart, Love’s fev’rous citadel:

For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes,

Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords,

Whose very dogs would execrations howl

Against his lineage: not one breast affords

Him any mercy, in that mansion foul,

90

Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul.

XI

Ah, happy chance! the agèd creature came,

Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand,

To where he stood, hid from the torch’s flame,

Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond

The sound of merriment and chorus bland:

He startled her; but soon she knew his face,

And grasped his fingers in her palsied hand,

Saying, ‘Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place:

They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race!

XII

100

‘Get hence! get hence! there’s dwarfish Hildebrand –

He had a fever late, and in the fit

He cursèd thee and thine, both house and land:

Then there’s that old Lord Maurice, not a whit

More tame for his grey hairs – Alas me! flit!

Flit like a ghost away.’ ‘Ah, gossip dear,

We’re safe enough; here in this arm-chair sit,

And tell me how – ’ ‘Good Saints! not here, not here;

Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier.’

XIII

He followed through a lowly arched way,

110

Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume,

And as she muttered, ‘Well-a – well-a-day!’

He found him in a little moonlight room,

Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb.

‘Now tell me where is Madeline,’ said he,

‘O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom

Which none but secret sisterhood may see,

When they St Agnes’ wool are weaving piously.’

XIV

‘St Agnes? Ah! it is St Agnes’ Eve –

Yet men will murder upon holy days:

120

Thou must hold water in a witch’s sieve,

And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays,

To venture so: it fills me with amaze

To see thee, Porphyro! – St Agnes’ Eve!

God’s help! my lady fair the conjuror plays

This very night. Good angels her deceive!

But let me laugh awhile, I’ve mickle time to grieve.’

XV

Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon,

While Porphyro upon her face doth look,

Like puzzled urchin on an agèd crone

130

Who keepeth closed a wondrous riddle-book,

As spectacled she sits in chimney nook.

But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told

His lady’s purpose; and he scarce could brook

Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold,

And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old.

XVI

Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose,

Flushing his brow, and in his painèd heart

Made purple riot; then doth he propose

A stratagem, that makes the beldame start:

140

‘A cruel man and impious thou art:

Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream

Alone with her good angels, far apart

From wicked men like thee. Go, go! – I deem

Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem.’

XVII

‘I will not harm her, by all saints I swear,’

Quoth Porphyro: ‘O may I ne’er find grace

When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer,

If one of her soft ringlets I displace,

Or look with ruffian passion in her face:

150

Good Angela, believe me by these tears,

Or I will, even in a moment’s space,

Awake, with horrid shout, my foeman’s ears,

And beard them, though they be more fanged than wolves and bears.’

XVIII

‘Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul?

A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing,

Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll;

Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening,

Were never missed.’ – Thus plaining, doth she bring

A gentler speech from burning Porphyro,

160

So woeful, and of such deep sorrowing,

That Angela gives promise she will do

Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe.

XIX

Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy,

Even to Madeline’s chamber, and there hide

Him in a closet, of such privacy

That he might see her beauty unespied,

And win perhaps that night a peerless bride,

While legioned faeries paced the coverlet,

And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed.

170

Never on such a night have lovers met,

Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt.

XX

‘It shall be as thou wishest,’ said the Dame:

‘All cates and dainties shall be storèd 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,

180

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

XXI

So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear.

The lover’s endless minutes slowly passed;

The dame returned, and whispered 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, hushed, and chaste;

Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain.

His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain.

XXII

190

Her faltering hand upon the balustrade,

Old Angela was feeling for the stair,

When Madeline, St Agnes’ charmèd maid,

Rose, like a missioned spirit, unaware:

With silver taper’s light, and pious care,

She turned, and down the agèd gossip led

To a safe level matting. Now prepare,

Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed –

She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove frayed and fled.

XXIII

Out went the taper as she hurried in;

200

Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died:

She closed 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,

Paining with eloquence her balmy side;

As though a tongueless nightingale should swell

Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stiflèd, in her dell.

XXIV

A casement high and triple-arched there was,

All garlanded with carven imag’ries

210

Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass,

And diamonded with panes of quaint device,

Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,

As are the tiger-moth’s deep-damasked wings;

And in the midst, ’mong thousand heraldries,

And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings,

A shielded scutcheon blushed 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;

220

Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together pressed,

And on her silver cross soft amethyst,

And on her hair a glory, like a saint:

She seemed a splendid angel, newly dressed,

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,

Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;

Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;

Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees

230

Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees:

Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed,

Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees,

In fancy, fair St Agnes in her bed,

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, perplexed she lay,

Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppressed

Her soothèd limbs, and soul fatigued away –

Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day;

240

Blissfully havened both from joy and pain;

Clasped 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,

Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress,

And listened to her breathing, if it chanced

To wake into a slumbrous tenderness;

Which when he heard, that minute did he bless,

And breathed himself: then from the closet crept,

250

Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness,

And over the hushed carpet, silent, stepped,

And ’tween the curtains peeped, 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 anguished, 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 clarinet,

260

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 lavendered,

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 syrups, tinct with cinnamon;

Manna and dates, in argosy transferred

From Fez; and spicèd dainties, every one,

270

From silken Samarkand to cedared Lebanon.

XXXI

These delicates he heaped with glowing hand

On golden dishes and in baskets bright

Of wreathèd 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.’

XXXII

280

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 iced 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 fantasies.

XXXIII

Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,

290

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 –

300

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 at sweet tremble in mine ear,

Made tuneable with every sweetest vow,

310

And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear:

How changed thou art! How pallid, chill, and drear 1

Give me that voice again, my Porphyro,

Those looks immortal, those complainings dear!

O 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

At these voluptuous accents, he arose,

Ethereal, flushed, and like a throbbing star

Seen mid the sapphire heaven’s deep repose;

320

Into her dream he melted, as the rose

Blendeth its odour with the violet –

Solution sweet. Meantime 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 iced gusts still rave and beat.

‘No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine!

Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine. –

330

Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring?

I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine,

Though thou forsakest a deceivèd 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 blessed?

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.

340

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 faery land,

Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed:

Arise – arise! the morning is at hand.

The bloated wassaillers 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;

350

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, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound,

Fluttered in the besieging wind’s uproar;

360

And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.

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 flaggon by his side:

The wakeful bloodhound 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

370

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.

Upon a Sabbath-day it fell;

Twice holy was the Sabbath bell,

That called the folk 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 unmatured green valleys cold,

Of the green thorny bloomless hedge,

10

Of rivers new with spring-tide sedge,

Of primroses by sheltered 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 fireside orat’ries,

And moving, with demurest air,

To even-song, and vesper prayer.

Each archèd porch, and entry low,

20

Was filled with patient folk and slow,

With whispers hush, and shuffling feet,

While played the organs loud and sweet.

The bells had ceased, the prayers begun,

And Bertha had not yet half done

A curious volume, patched and torn,

That all day long, from earliest morn,

Had taken captive her two eyes,

Among its golden broideries;

Perplexed her with a thousand things –

30

The stars of Heaven, and angels’ wings,

Martyrs in a fiery blaze,

Azure saints ’mid silver rays,

Aaron’s breastplate, and the seven

Candlesticks John saw in Heaven,

The wingèd Lion of Saint Mark,

And the Covenantal Ark,

With its many mysteries,

Cherubim and golden mice.

Bertha was a maiden fair,

40

Dwelling in the old Minster Square;

From her fireside she could see,

Sidelong, its rich antiquity,

Far as the Bishop’s garden wall,

Where sycamores and elm trees tall,

Full-leaved, the forest had outstripped,

By no sharp north-wind ever nipped,

So sheltered by the mighty pile.

Bertha arose, and read awhile,

With forehead ’gainst the window-pane.

50

Again she tried, and then again,

Until the dusk eve left her dark

Upon the legend of St Mark.

From pleated lawn-frill, fine and thin,

She lifted up her soft warm chin,

With aching neck and swimming eyes,

And dazed with saintly imageries.

All was gloom, and silent all,

Save now and then the still foot-fall

Of one returning townwards late,

60

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 of the drowsy chimes.

All was silent, all was gloom,

Abroad and in the homely room:

Down she sat, poor cheated soul!

70

And struck a lamp from the dismal coal,

Leaned forward, with bright drooping hair,

And slant book full against the glare.

Her shadow, in uneasy guise,

Hovered 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,

Called doves of Siam, Lima mice,

80

And legless birds of Paradise,

Macaw, and tender Av’davat,

And silken-furred Angora cat.

Untired she read, her shadow still

Glowered 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.

Untired she read the legend page,

90

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,

Referred to pious poesies

Written in smallest crow-quill size

Beneath the text; and thus the rhyme

Was parcelled out from time to time:

‘– Als writith he of swevenis

100

Men han beforne they wake in bliss,

Whanne that hir friendès thinke hem bound

In crimpid shroude farre under grounde;

And how a litling child mote be

A saint er its nativitie,

Gif that the modre (God her blesse!)

Kepen in solitarinesse,

And kissen devoute the holy croce.

Of Goddis love, and Sathan’s force,

He writith; and thinges many mo:

110

Of swichè thinges I may not show.

Bot I must tellen verilie

Somdel of Saintè Cicilie,

And chieflie what he auctorith

Of Saintè Markis life and death.’

At length her constant eyelids come

Upon the fervent martyrdom;

Then lastly to his holy shrine,

Exalt amid the tapers’ shine

At Venice….

Gif ye wol stonden hardie wight –

Amiddès of the blackè night –

Righte in the churchè porch, pardie,

Ye wol behold a companie

Approchen thee full dolourouse.

For sooth to sain, from everich house,

Be it in city or village,

Wol come the phantom and image

Of ilka gent and ilka carle,

10

Whom coldè Deathè hath in parle

And wol some day that very year,

Touchen with foulè venime spear

And sadly do them all to die:

Hem all shalt thou see verilie.

And everichon shall by thee pass,

All who must die that year, alas….

Why did I laugh tonight? No voice will tell:

No God, no Demon of severe response,

Deigns to reply from Heaven or from Hell.

Then to my human heart I turn at once –

Heart! thou and I are here sad and alone;

Say, wherefore did I laugh! O mortal pain!

O Darkness! Darkness! ever must I moan,

To question Heaven and Hell and Heart in vain.

Why did I laugh? I know this being’s lease –

10

My fancy to its utmost blisses spreads;

Yet could I on this very midnight cease,

And the world’s gaudy ensigns see in shreds.

Verse, Fame, and Beauty are intense indeed,

But Death intenser – Death is Life’s high meed.

Shed no tear – O, shed no tear!

The flower will bloom another year.

Weep no more! O! weep no more!

Young buds sleep in the root’s white core.

Dry your eyes! O! dry your eyes,

For I was taught in Paradise

To ease my breast of melodies –

Shed no tear.

Overhead! look overhead!

10

’Mong the blossoms white and red –

Look up, look up. I flutter now

On this flush pomegranate bough.

See me! ’tis this silvery bill

Ever cures the good man’s ill.

Shed no tear! O shed no tear!

The flower will bloom another year.

Adieu, adieu – I fly, adieu,

I vanish in the heaven’s blue –

Adieu, adieu!

Ah! woe is me! poor silver-wing!

That I must chant thy lady’s dirge,

And death to this fair haunt of spring,

Of melody, and streams of flowery verge –

Poor silver-wing! ah! woe is me!

That I must see

These blossoms snow upon thy lady’s pall!

Go, pretty page! and in her ear

Whisper that the hour is near!

10

Softly tell her not to fear

Such calm Favonian burial!

Go, pretty page! and soothly tell –

The blossoms hang by a melting spell,

And fall they must, ere a star wink thrice

Upon her closèd eyes,

That now in vain are weeping their last tears,

At sweet life leaving, and these arbours green –

Rich dowry from the Spirit of the Spheres.

Alas! poor Queen!

When they were come unto the Faery’s Court

They rang – no one at home; all gone to sport

And dance and kiss and love as faeries do,

For faeries be, as humans, lovers true.

Amid the woods they were, so lone and wild,

Where even the robin feels himself exiled,

And where the very brooks as if afraid

Hurry along to some less magic shade.

‘No one at home!’ the fretful princess cried,

10

‘And all for nothing such a dreary ride,

And all for nothing my new diamond cross,

No one to see my Persian feathers toss,

No one to see my Ape, my Dwarf, my Fool,

Or how I pace my Otaheitan mule.

Ape, Dwarf and Fool, why stand you gaping there?

Burst the door open, quick – or I declare

I’ll switch you soundly and in pieces tear.’

The Dwarf began to tremble and the Ape

Stared at the Fool, the Fool was all agape.

20

The Princess grasped her switch, but just in time

The Dwarf with piteous face began to rhyme.

‘O mighty Princess, did you ne’er hear tell

What your poor servants know but too, too well?

Know you the three ‘great crimes’ in faery land?

The first – alas! poor Dwarf – I understand:

I made a whipstock of a faery’s wand.

The next is snoring in their company.

The next, the last, the direst of the three,

Is making free when they are not at home.

30

I was a Prince, a baby prince – my doom

You see – I made a whipstock of a wand.

My top has henceforth slept in faery land.

He was a Prince, the Fool, a grown-up Prince,

But he has never been a King’s son since

He fell a-snoring at a faery Ball.

Your poor Ape was a Prince, and he, poor thing,

Picklocked a faery’s boudoir – now no king,

But ape – so pray your highness stay awhile;

’Tis sooth indeed, we know it to our sorrow –

40

Persist and you may be an ape tomorrow.’

While the Dwarf spake the Princess all for spite

Peeled the brown hazel twig to lily white,

Clenched her small teeth, and held her lips apart,

Tried to look unconcerned with beating heart.

They saw her Highness had made up her mind,

A-quavering like three reeds before the wind –

And they had had it, but – O happy chance! –

The Ape for very fear began to dance

And grinned as all his ugliness did ache –

50

She stayed her vixen fingers for his sake,

He was so very ugly: then she took

Her pocket mirror and began to look

First at herself and then at him and then

She smiled at her own beauteous face again.

Yet for all this – for all her pretty face –

She took it in her head to see the place.

Women gain little from experience

Either in lovers, husbands or expense.

‘The more the beauty, the more fortune too:

60

Beauty before the wide world never knew –’

So each Fair reasons, though it oft miscarries.

She thought her pretty face would please the faeries.

‘My darling Ape, I won’t whip you today –

Give me the picklock, sirrah, and go play.’

They all three wept – but counsel was as vain

As crying ‘C’up, biddy’ to drops of rain.

Yet lingeringly did the sad Ape forth draw

The picklock from the pocket in his jaw.

The Princess took it and, dismounting straight,

70

Tripped in blue silvered slippers to the gate

And touched the wards; the door full courteously

Opened – she entered with her servants three.

Again it closed, and there was nothing seen

But the Mule grazing on the herbage green.

End of Canto xii

Canto the xiii

The Mule no sooner saw himself alone

Than he pricked up his ears – and said, ‘Well done!

At least, unhappy Prince, I may be free –

No more a Princess shall side-saddle me.

O King of Otahietè – though as Mule,

80

“Ay, every inch a King”, though “Fortune’s fool” –

Well done – for by what Mr Dwarfy said

I would not give a sixpence for her head.’

Even as he spake he trotted in high glee

To the knotty side of an old pollard tree

And rubbed his sides against the mossèd bark

Till his girths burst and left him naked stark

Except his bridle – how get rid of that,

Buckled and tied with many a twist and plait?

At last it struck him to pretend to sleep

90

And then the thievish Monkeys down would creep

And filch the unpleasant trammels quite away.

No sooner thought of than adown he lay,

Shammed a good snore – the Monkey-men descended

And whom they thought to injure, they befriended.

They hung his bridle on a topmost bough,

And off he went, run, trot, or anyhow.…

The House of Mourning written by Mr Scott,

A sermon at the Magdalen, a tear

Dropped on a greasy novel, want of cheer

After a walk uphill to a friend’s cot,

Tea with a maiden lady, a cursed lot

Of worthy poems with the author near,

A patron lord, a drunkenness from beer,

Haydon’s great picture, a cold coffee pot

At midnight when the Muse is ripe for labour,

10

The voice of Mr Coleridge, a French bonnet

Before you in the pit, a pipe and tabour,

A damned inseparable flute and neighbour –

All these are vile, but viler Wordsworth’s sonnet

On Dover. Dover! – who could write upon it?

I

He is to weet a melancholy carle:

Thin in the waist, with bushy head of hair,

As hath the seeded thistle when in parle

It holds the Zephyr, ere it sendeth fair

Its light balloons into the summer air;

Thereto his beard had not begun to bloom,

No brush had touched his chin or razor sheer;

No care had touched his cheek with mortal doom,

But new he was and bright as scarf from Persian loom.

II

10

Ne cared he for wine, or half-and-half,

Ne cared he for fish or flesh or fowl,

And sauces held he worthless as the chaff;

He ’sdained the swine-herd at the wassail-bowl,

Ne with lewd ribbalds sat he cheek by jowl,

Ne with sly Lemans in the scorner’s chair,

But after water-brooks this Pilgrims soul

Panted, and all his food was woodland air

Though he would oft-times feast on gillyflowers rare.

III

The slang of cities in no wise he knew,

20

Tipping the wink to him was heathen Greek.

He sipped no olden Tom or ruin blue,

Or Nantz or cheery-brandy drank full meek

By many a damsel hoarse and rouge of cheek.

Nor did he know each agèd watchman’s beat,

Nor in obscurèd purlieus would he seek

For curlèd Jewesses, with ankles neat,

Who as they walk abroad make tinkling with their feet.

As Hermes once took to his feathers light,

When lullèd Argus, baffled, swooned and slept,

So on a Delphic reed, my idle spright

So played, so charmed, so conquered, so bereft

The dragon-world of all its hundred eyes;

And, seeing it asleep, so fled away –

Not to pure Ida with its snow-cold skies,

Nor unto Tempe where Jove grieved that day;

But to that second circle of sad hell,

10

Where in the gust, the whirlwind, and the flaw

Of rain and hail-stones, lovers need not tell

Their sorrows. Pale were the sweet lips I saw,

Pale were the lips I kissed, and fair the form

I floated with, about that melancholy storm.

I

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge has withered from the lake,

And no birds sing.

II

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

So haggard and so woe-begone?

The squirrel’s granary is full,

And the harvest’s done.

III

I see a lily on thy brow,

10

With anguish moist and fever-dew,

And on thy cheeks a fading rose

Fast withereth too.

IV

I met a lady in the meads,

Full beautiful – a faery’s child,

Her hair was long, her foot was light,

And her eyes were wild.

V

I made a garland for her head,

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;

She looked at me as she did love,

20

And made sweet moan.

VI

I set her on my pacing steed,

And nothing else saw all day long,

For sidelong would she bend, and sing

A faery’s song.

VII

She found me roots of relish sweet,

And honey wild, and manna-dew,

And sure in language strange she said –

‘I love thee true’.

VIII

She took me to her elfin grot,

30

And there she wept and sighed full sore,

And there I shut her wild wild eyes

With kisses four.

IX

And there she lulled me asleep

And there I dreamed – Ah! woe betide! –

The latest dream I ever dreamt

On the cold hill side.

X

I saw pale kings and princes too,

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;

They cried – ‘La Belle Dame sans Merci

40

Thee hath in thrall!’

XI

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,

With horrid warning gapèd wide,

And I awoke and found me here,

On the cold hill’s side.

XII

And this is why I sojourn here

Alone and palely loitering,

Though the sedge is withered from the lake,

And no birds sing.

SALAMANDER

Happy, happy glowing fire!

ZEPHYR

Fragrant air! delicious light!

DUSKETHA

Let me to my glooms retire!

BREAMA

I to green-weed rivers bright!

SALAMANDER

ZEPHYR

BREAMA

ZEPHYR

SALAMANDER

DUSKETHA

SALAMANDER

DUSKETHA

90

Breathe upon them, fiery Sprite!

ZEPHYR AND BREAMA

Away! away to our delight!

SALAMANDER

DUSKETHA

BREAMA

Me to the blooms,

O soft embalmer of the still midnight,

Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,

Our gloom-pleased eyes, embowered from the light,

Enshaded in forgetfulness divine:

O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close

In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes,

Or wait the ‘Amen’, ere thy poppy throws

Around my bed its lulling charities.

Then save me, or the passed day will shine

10

Upon my pillow, breeding many woes;

Save me from curious conscience, that still hoards

Its strength for darkness, burrowing like the mole;

Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,

And seal the hushed casket of my soul.

If by dull rhymes our English must be chained,

And, like Andromeda, the Sonnet sweet

Fettered, in spite of pained loveliness,

Let us find out, if we must be constrained,

Sandals more interwoven and complete

To fit the naked foot of Poesy:

Let us inspect the lyre, and weigh the stress

Of every chord, and see what may be gained

By ear industrious, and attention meet;

10

Misers of sound and syllable, no less

Than Midas of his coinage, let us be

Jealous of dead leaves in the bay wreath crown;

So, if we may not let the Muse be free,

She will be bound with garlands of her own.

O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung

By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,

And pardon that thy secrets should be sung

Even into thine own soft-conchèd ear:

Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see

The winged Psyche with awakened eyes?

I wandered in a forest thoughtlessly,

And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,

Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side

10

In deepest grass, beneath the whispering roof

Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran

A brooklet, scarce espied:

‘Mid hushed, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed,

Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian,

They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass;

Their arms embraced, and their pinions too;

Their lips touched not, but had not bade adieu,

As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber,

And ready still past kisses to outnumber

20

At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love:

The winged boy I knew;

But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?

His Psyche true!

O latest born and loveliest vision far

Of all Olympus’ faded hierarchy!

Fairer than Phoebe’s sapphire-regioned star,

Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky;

Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,

Nor altar heaped with flowers;

30

Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan

Upon the midnight hours;

No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet

From chain-swung censer teeming;

No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat

Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming.

O brightest! though too late for antique vows,

Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,

When holy were the haunted forest boughs,

Holy the air, the water, and the fire;

40

Yet even in these days so far retired

From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,

Fluttering among the faint Olympians,

I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired.

So let me be thy choir, and make a moan

Upon the midnight hours;

Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet

From swingèd censer teeming –

Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat

Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming.

50

Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane

In some untrodden region of my mind,

Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,

Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:

Far, far around shall those dark-clustered trees

Fledge the wild-ridgèd mountains steep by steep;

And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,

The moss-lain Dryads shall be lulled to sleep;

And in the midst of this wide quietness

A rosy sanctuary will I dress

60

With the wreathed trellis of a working brain,

With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,

With all the gardener Fancy e’er could feign,

Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same:

And there shall be for thee all soft delight

That shadowy thought can win,

A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,

To let the warm Love in!

Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy

To those who woo her with too slavish knees,

But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy,

And dotes the more upon a heart at ease;

She is gipsy, will not speak to those

Who have not learnt to be content without her;

A jilt, whose ear was never whispered close,

Who thinks they scandal her who talk about her –

A very gipsy is she, Nilus-born,

10

Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar.

Ye love-sick bards! repay her scorn for scorn;

Ye artists lovelorn! madmen that ye are,

Make your best bow to her and bid adieu –

Then, if she likes it, she will follow you.

How fevered is the man who cannot look

Upon his mortal days with temperate blood,

Who vexes all the leaves of his lifes book,

And robs his fair name of its maidenhood;

It is as if the rose should pluck herself,

Or the ripe plum finger its misty bloom,

As if a Naiad, like a meddling elf,

Should darken her pure grot with muddy gloom:

But the rose leaves herself upon the briar,

10

For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed,

And the ripe plum still wears its dim attire,

The undisturbèd lake has crystal space;

Why then should man, teasing the world for grace,

Spoil his salvation for a fierce miscreed?

Two or three posies

With two or three simples –

Two or three noses

With two or three pimples –

Two or three wise men

And two or three ninnies –

Two or three purses

And two or three guineas –

Two or three raps

10

At two or three doors –

Two or three naps

Of two or three hours –

Two or three cats

And two or three mice –

Two or three sprats

At a very great price –

Two or three sandies

And two or three tabbies –

Two or three dandies

20

And two Mrs – mum!

Two or three smiles

And two or three frowns –

Two or three miles

To two or three towns –

Two or three pegs

For two or three bonnets –

Two or three dove’s eggs

To hatch into sonnets.

I

Thou still unravished bride of quietness,

Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,

Sylvan historian, who canst thus express

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:

What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape

Of deities or mortals, or of both,

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?

What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?

What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?

10

What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

II

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard

Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;

Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:

Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave

Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;

Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,

Though winning near the goal – yet, do not grieve:

She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,

20

For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

III

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed

Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;

And, happy melodist, unwearied,

For ever piping songs for ever new;

More happy love! more happy, happy love!

For ever warm and still to be enjoyed,

For ever panting, and for ever young –

All breathing human passion far above,

That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,

30

A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

IV

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?

To what green altar, O mysterious priest,

Leadst thou that heifer lowing at the skies,

And all her silken flanks with garlands dressed?

What little town by river or sea shore,

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,

Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?

nd, little town, thy streets for evermore

Will silent be; and not a soul to tell

40

Why thou art desolate, can eer return.

V

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede

Of marble men and maidens overwrought,

With forest branches and the trodden weed;

Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought

As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!

hen old age shall this generation waste,

Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe

Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,

‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty, – that is all

50

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.’

I

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,

Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:

’Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,

But being too happy in thine happiness –

That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees,

In some melodious plot

Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,

10

Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

II

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been

Cooled a long age in the deep-delvèd earth,

Tasting of Flora and the country green,

Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!

O for a beaker full of the warm South,

Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,

With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,

And purple-stainèd mouth,

That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,

20

And with thee fade away into the forest dim –

III

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget

What thou among the leaves hast never known,

The weariness, the fever, and the fret

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;

Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs,

Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;

Where but to think is to be full of sorrow

And leaden-eyed despairs;

Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,

30

Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

IV

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,

But on the viewless wings of Poesy,

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards.

Already with thee! tender is the night,

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,

Clustered around by all her starry Fays;

But here there is no light,

Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown

40

Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

V

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,

But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet

Wherewith the seasonable month endows

The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild –

White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;

Fast fading violets covered up in leaves;

And mid-May’s eldest child,

The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,

50

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

VI

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time

I have been half in love with easeful Death,

Called him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,

To take into the air my quiet breath;

Now more than ever seems it rich to die,

To cease upon the midnight with no pain,

While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad

In such an ecstasy!

Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain –

60

To thy high requiem become a sod.

VII

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!

No hungry generations tread thee down;

The voice I hear this passing night was heard

In ancient days by emperor and clown:

Perhaps the self-same song that found a path

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,

She stood in tears amid the alien corn;

The same that oft-times hath

Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam

70

Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

VIII

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell

To toll me back from thee to my sole self!

Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well

As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades

Past the near meadows, over the still stream,

Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deep

In the next valley-glades:

Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

80

Fled is that music – Do I wake or sleep?

I

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist

Wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine:

Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed

By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;

Make not your rosary of yew-berries,

Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be

Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl

A partner in your sorrow’s mysteries;

For shade to shade will come too drowsily,

10

And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

II

But when the melancholy fit shall fall

Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,

That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,

And hides the green hill in an April shroud;

Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,

Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,

Or on the wealth of globèd peonies;

Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,

Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,

20

And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

III

She dwells with Beauty – Beauty that must die;

And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips

Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,

Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:

Ay, in the very temple of Delight

Veiled Melancholy has her sovran shrine,

Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue

Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine;

His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,

30

And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

I

One morn before me were three figures seen,

With bowèd necks, and joinèd hands, side-faced;

And one behind the other stepped serene,

In placid sandals, and in white robes graced;

They passed, like figures on a marble urn,

When shifted round to see the other side;

They came again; as when the urn once more

Is shifted round, the first seen shades return;

And they were strange to me, as may betide

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With vases, to one deep in Phidian lore.

II

How is it, Shadows! that I knew ye not?

How came ye muffled in so hush a masque?

Was it a silent deep-disguisèd plot

To steal away, and leave without a task

My idle days? Ripe was the drowsy hour;

The blissful cloud of summer-indolence

Benumbed my eyes; my pulse grew less and less;

Pain had no sting, and pleasure’s wreath no flower:

O, why did ye not melt, and leave my sense

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Unhaunted quite of all but – nothingness?

III

A third time passed they by, and, passing, turned

Each one the face a moment whiles to me;

Then faded, and to follow them I burned

And ached for wings because I knew the three;

The first was a fair Maid, and Love her name;

The second was Ambition, pale of cheek,

And ever watchful with fatiguèd eye;

The last, whom I love more, the more of blame

Is heaped upon her, maiden most unmeek –

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I knew to be my demon Poesy.

IV

They faded, and, forsooth! I wanted wings.

O folly! What is love! and where is it?

And, for that poor Ambition – it springs

From a man’s little heart’s short fever-fit.

For Poesy! – no, she has not a joy –

At least for me – so sweet as drowsy noons,

And evenings steeped in honeyed indolence.

O, for an age so sheltered from annoy,

That I may never know how change the moons,

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Or hear the voice of busy common-sense!

V

A third time came they by – alas! wherefore?

My sleep had been embroidered with dim dreams;

My soul had been a lawn besprinkled o’er

With flowers, and stirring shades, and baffled beams:

The morn was clouded, but no shower fell,

Though in her lids hung the sweet tears of May;

The open casement pressed a new-leaved vine,

Let in the budding warmth and throstles lay;

O Shadows! twas a time to bid farewell!

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Upon your skirts had fallen no tears of mine.

VI

So, ye three Ghosts, adieu! Ye cannot raise

My head cool-bedded in the flowery grass;

For I would not be dieted with praise,

A pet-lamb in a sentimental farce!

Fade softly from my eyes, and be once more

In masque-like figures on the dreamy urn.

Farewell! I yet have visions for the night,

And for the day faint visions there is store.

Vanish, ye Phantoms! from my idle sprite,

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Into the clouds, and never more return!

CONRAD So, I am safe emergèd from these broils!

Amid the wreck of thousands I am whole;

For every crime I have a laurel-wreath,

For every lie a lordship. Nor yet has

My ship of fortune furled her silken sails –

Let her glide on! This dangered neck is saved,

By dexterous policy, from the rebel’s axe;

And of my ducal palace not one stone

Is bruised by the Hungarian petards.

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Toil hard, ye slaves, and from the miser-earth

Bring forth once more my bullion, treasured deep,

With all my jewelled salvers, silver and gold,

And precious goblets that make rich the wine.

But why do I stand babbling to myself?

Where is Auranthe? I have news for her

Shall –

[Enter AURANTHE]

AURANTHE Conrad! what tidings? Good, if I may guess

From your alert eyes and high-lifted brows.

What tidings of the battle? Albert? Ludolph?

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Otho?

CONRAD You guess aright. And, sister, slurring o’er

Our by-gone quarrels, I confess my heart

Is beating with a child’s anxiety,

To make our golden fortune known to you.

AURANTHE So serious?

CONRAD Yes, so serious, that before

I utter even the shadow of a hint

Concerning what will make that sin-worn cheek

Blush joyous blood through every lineament,

You must make here a solemn vow to me.

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AURANTHE I prithee, Conrad, do not overact

The hypocrite. What vow would you impose?

CONRAD Trust me for once. That you may be assured

’Tis not confiding in a broken reed,

A poor court-bankrupt, outwitted and lost,

Revolve these facts in your acutest mood,

In such a mood as now you listen to me.

A few days since, I was an open rebel –

Against the Emperor, had suborned his son –

Drawn off his nobles to revolt, and shown

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Contented fools causes for discontent,

Fresh hatched in my ambition’s eagle nest.

So thrived I as a rebel, and, behold –

Now I am Otho’s favourite, his dear friend,

His right hand, his brave Conrad!

AURANTHE I confess

You have intrigued with these unsteady times

To admiration. But to be a favourite –

CONRAD I saw my moment. The Hungarians,

Collected silently in holes and corners,

Appeared, a sudden host, in the open day.

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I should have perished in our empire’s wreck,

But, calling interest loyalty, swore faith

To most believing Otho; and so helped

His blood-stained ensigns to the victory

In yesterday’s hard fight, that it has turned

The edge of his sharp wrath to eager kindness.

AURANTHE So far yourself. But what is this to me

More than that I am glad? I gratulate you.

CONRAD Yes, sister, but it does regard you greatly,

Nearly, momentously – ay, painfully!

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Make me this vow –

AURANTHE Concerning whom or what?

CONRAD Albert!

AURANTHE I would inquire somewhat of him:

You had a letter from me touching him?

No treason ’gainst his head in deed or word!

Surely you spared him at my earnest prayer?

Give me the letter – it should not exist!

CONRAD At one pernicious charge of the enemy,

I, for a moment-whiles, was prisoner ta’en

And rifled – stuff! the horses’ hoofs have minced it!

AURANTHE He is alive?

CONRAD He is! but here make oath

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To alienate him from your scheming brain,

Divorce him from your solitary thoughts,

And cloud him in such utter banishment,

That when his person meets again your eye,

Your vision shall quite lose its memory,

And wander past him as through vacancy.

AURANTHE I’ll not be perjured.

CONRADNo, nor great, nor mighty;

You would not wear a crown, or rule a kingdom.

To you it is indifferent.

AURANTHE What means this?

CONRAD You’ll not be perjured! Go to Albert then,

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That camp-mushroom – dishonour of our house.

Go, page his dusty heels upon a march,

Furbish his jingling baldric while he sleeps,

And share his mouldy ratio in a siege.

Yet stay – perhaps a charm may call you back,

And make the widening circlets of your eyes

Sparkle with healthy fevers. The Emperor

Hath given consent that you should marry Ludolph!

AURANTHE Can it be, brother? For a golden crown

With a queen’s awful lips I doubly thank you!

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This is to wake in Paradise! Farewell

Thou clod of yesterday – ’twas not myself!

Not till this moment did I ever feel

My spirit’s faculties! I’ll flatter you

For this, and be you ever proud of it;

Thou, Jove-like, struckd’st thy forehead,

And from the teeming marrow of thy brain

I spring complete Minerva! But the prince –

His highness Ludolph – where is he?

CONRAD I know not:

When, lackeying my counsel at a beck,

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The rebel lords, on bended knees, received

The Emperor’s pardon, Ludolph kept aloof,

Sole, in a stiff, fool-hardy, sulky pride;

Yet, for all this, I never saw a father

In such a sickly longing for his son.

We shall soon see him, for the Emperor

He will be here this morning.

AURANTHE That I heard

Among the midnight rumours from the camp.

CONRAD You give up Albert to me?

AURANTHE Harm him not!

E’en for his highness Ludolph’s sceptry hand,

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I would not Albert suffer any wrong.

CONRAD Have I not laboured, plotted – ?

AURANTHE See you spare him:

Nor be pathetic, my kind benefactor,

On all the many bounties of your hand –

’Twas for yourself you laboured – not for me!

Do you not count, when I am queen, to take

Advantage of your chance discoveries

Of my poor secrets, and so hold a rod

Over my life?

CONRAD Let not this slave – this villain –

Be cause of feud between us.