r .•^'.. -.os^^ : ♦ *7 ^A • • .^^-^.5. V*^^ .c.^^^. aV^^ O^ *'7VT* v^ ROSES OF ROMANCE JOHN KEATS ISABELLA. ROSESOFROMANCE FRQAVTHE^pOEnSOF JOHNteATS SELECTED-AN01LLU5TRATEDBY E.D/^UNJ DM GARRETT ROBERTS BROThERS BOSTON /A D CCCLXXXXI A\\ 3 1^ c^-^- Copyright. iSqi, By liDMUND H GARRErr itntfafrsitg ^prtss : JOHN Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S. A Till thefuture dares Forget the pastjiisjateandjams shall be /in echo and a light: unto e tern it v " irom Adonais an eledy on the death oj JOHN KEAT5 by Percy B/ssKe Shelley M^ _ _ •li/Tm; '^-'^^^^ "/VUC PAGE La Belle Dame Sans Merci 13 Isabella 21 The Eve of St. Agnes 51 Lamia 77 PAGE "Her Hair was Long, her Foot was Light". 15 "i set her on my pacing steed " . . 17 " Resolved, she took with her an Aged Nurse" - . . . 39 " Came many a Tiptoe, Amorous Cava- lier" 55 "Awakening up, he took her Hollow Lute" 69 " At Venus' Temple Porch 'mid Baskets heap'd" 93 "Came a Thrill of Trumpets. Lycius STARTED; THE SOUNDS FLED " ... 99 "Till, checking his Love-Trance, he TOOK A Cup, FULL BRIMM'D" ... 109 A H, what can ail thee, wretched wight, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing. 13 ila Belle JBame sans iKem. II. Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, 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. With anguish moist and fever dew; And on thy cheek 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 set her on my pacing steed, And nothing else saw all day long; For sideways would she lean, and sing A faery's song. 14 i^:- »^ fv "her haik was long, her foot was light." ILa Belk ©ame sans M^xcu VI. I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She look'd at me as she did love, And made sweet moan. 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, And there she gaz'd and sighed deep, And there I shut her wild sad eyes So kiss'd to sleep. IX. And there we slumber'd on the moss, And there I dream' d, ah, woe betide, The latest dream I ever dream' d On the cold hill side.^ 16 " I SET HER ON MY PACING STEED." Ha Belle ©ante sans IBercu X. I saw pale kings, and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; Who cry'd — "La Belle Dame sans merci Hath thee in thrall ! " XI. I saw their starv'd lips in the gloom With horrid warning gaped wide, And I awoke, and found me here On the cold hill side. XII. And this is why I sojourn here Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is wither' d from the lake, And no birds sing. 18 '^S\ 5vkU ^ i lw\ OR, THE POT OF BASIL. A STORY, FROM BOCCACCIO. I. CAIR Isabel, poor simple Isabel! Lorenzo, a young" palmer in Love's eye ! They could not in the self-same mansion dwell Without some stir of heart, some malady; 21 Isabella ; or, tfje Pot of Basil. They could not sit at meals but feel how well It soothed each to be the other by; They could not, sure, beneath the same roof sleep But to each other dream, and nightly weep. II. With every morn their love grew tenderer, With every eve deeper and tenderer still; He might not in house, field, or garden stir, But her full shape would all his seeing fill; And his continual voice was pleasanter To her than noise of trees or hidden rill; Her lute-string gave an echo of his name. She spoilt her half-done broidery with the same. III. He knew whose gentle hand was at the latch. Before the door had given her to his eyes; And from her chamber-window he would catch Her beauty farther than the falcon spies; And constant as her vespers would he watch, Because her face was turn'd to the same skies; And with sick longing all the night outwear. To hear her morning-step upon the stair. ^Isabella ; or, tfte Pot of Basil. IV. A whole long- month of May in this sad plight Made their cheeks paler by the break of June.- "To-morrow will I bow to my delight, To-morrow will I ask my lady's boon." — "O may I never see another night, Lorenzo, if thy lips breathe not love's tune." — So spake they to their pillows; but, alas, Moneyless days and days did he let pass; V. Until sweet Isabella's untouch'd cheek Fell sick within the rose's just domain. Fell thin as a young mother's, who doth seek By every lull to cool her infant's pain: " How ill she is," said he, " I may not speak, And yet I will, and tell my love all plain: If looks speak love-laws, I will drink her tears, And at the least 'twill startle off her cares." VI. So said he one fair morning, and all day His heart beat awfully against his side; And to his heart he inwardly did pray For power to speak ; but still the ruddy tide 23 Isabella ; or, tfje ^ot of Basil. Stifled his voice, and puls'd resolve away — Fever'd his high conceit of such a bride, Yet brought him to the meekness of a child: Alas ! when passion is both meek and wild ! VII. So once more he had wak'd and anguished A dreary night of love and misery. If Isabel's quick eye had not been wed To every symbol on his forehead high; She saw it waxing very pale and dead. And straight all flush'd; so, lisped tenderly, "Lorenzo!" — here she ceas'd her timid quest. But in her tone and look he read the rest. VIII. " Isabella, 1 can half perceive That 1 may speak my grief into thine ear; If thou didst ever anything believe. Believe how I love thee, believe how near My soul is to its doom : I would not grieve Thy hand by unwelcome pressing, would not fear Thine eyes by gazing; but I cannot live Another night, and n( »t my jiassion shrive. 04 Jlgabella; or, tje Pot of Basil IX. " Love, thou art leading" me from wintry cold ! Lady, thou leadest me to summer clime ! And I must taste the blossoms that unfold In its ripe warmth this gracious morning time." So said, his erewhile timid lips grew bold, And poesied with hers in dewy rhyme. Great bliss was with them, and great happiness Grew like a lusty flower in June's caress. X. Parting they seem'd to tread upon the air. Twin roses by the zephyr blo\vn apart Only to meet again more close, and share The mward fragrance of each other's heart. She, to her chamber gone, a ditty fair Sang, of delicious love and honey'd dart; He with light steps went up a western hill, And bade the sun farewell, and joy'd his fill. XI. All close they met again, before the dusk Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil, All close they met, all eves, before the dusk Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil, Esabella; or, t^e Pot of Basil. Close in a bower of hyacinth and musk, Unknown of any, free from whispering tale. Ah, better had it been forever so, Than idle ears should pleasure in their woe ! XII. Were they unhappy then? It cannot be — Too many tears for lovers have been shed. Too many sighs give we to them in fee. Too much of pity after they are dead, Too many doleful stories do we see. Whose matter in bright gold were best be read ; Except in such a page where Theseus' spouse Over the pathless waves towards him bows. XIII. But, for the general award of love. The little sweet doth kill much bitterness; Though Dido silent is in under-grove. And Isabella's was a great distress. Though young Lorenzo in warm Indian clove Was not embalm'd, this truth is not the less — Even bees, the little almsmen of spring-bowers Know there is richest juice m poison-flowers. 26 Usabella ; or, t^e Pat of iSasiL XIV. With her two brothers this fair lady dwelt, Enriched from ancestral merchandise, And for them many a weary hand did swelt In torched mines and noisy factories, And many once proud-quiver'd loins did melt In blood from stinging whip ; with hollow eyes Many all day in dazzling river stood, To take the rich-or'd driftings of the flood. ^ XV. For them the Ceylon diver held his breath. And went all naked to the hungry shark; For them his ears gush'd blood ; for them in death The seal on the cold ice with piteous bark Lay full of darts; for them alone did seethe A thousand men in troubles wide and dark: Half-ignorant, they turn'd an easy wheel, That set sharp racks at work, to pinch and peel. XVI. Why were they proud? Because their marble founts Gush'd with more pride than do a wretch's tears ? — 27 Igabella ; or, tfte ^ot of ISasil. Why were they proud? Because fair orange - mounts Were of more soft ascent than lazar stairs? — Why were they proud ? Because red-hn'd accounts Were richer than the songs of Grecian years ? — Why were they proud, again we ask aloud, Wliy in the name of Glory were they proud? XVII. Yet were these Florentines as self-retir'd In hungry pride and gainful cowardice, As two close Hebrews in that land inspir'd, Pal'd in and vineyarded from beggar-spies ; The hawks of ship-mast forests — the untir'd And pannier'd mules for ducats and old lies — Quick cat's-paws on the generous stray-away, — Great wits in Spanish, Tuscan, and Malay. XVIII. How was it these same ledger-men could spy Fair Isabella in her downy nest ? How could they find out in Lorenzo's eye A straying from his toil? Hot Egypt's pest Into their vision covetous and sly ! How could these money-bags see east and west ? 28 Isabella; or, tfje Pot of Basil. Yet so they did — and every dealer fair Must see behind, as doth the hunted hare. XIX. O eloquent and fam'd Boccaccio ! Of thee we now should ask forgiving boon, And of thy spicy myrtles as they blow, And of thy roses amorous of the moon, And of thy lilies, that do paler grow Now they can no more hear thy ghittern's tune. For venturing syllables that ill beseem The quiet glooms of such a piteous theme. XX. Grant thou a pardon here, and then the tale Shall move on soberly, as it is meet , There is no other crime, no mad assail To make old prose in modern rhyme more sweet : But it IS done — succeed the verse or fail — To honor thee, and thy gone spirit greet. To stead thee as a verse in English tongue. An echo of thee in the north-wind sung. 29 Isabella; or, tlje Pot of ISasfl. XXI. These brethren having found by many signs What love Lorenzo for their sister had, And how she lov'd him too, each unconfines His bitter thoughts to other, well nigh mad That he, the servant of their trade designs, Should in their sister's love be blithe and glad, When 'twas their plan to coax her by degrees To some high noble and his olive-trees. XXII. And many a jealous conference had they, And many times they bit their lips alone, Before they fix'd upon a surest way To make the youngster for his crime atone; And at the last, these men of cruel clay Cut Mercy with a sharp knife to the bone; For they resolved in some forest dim To kill Lorenzo, and there bury him. XXIII. So on a pleasant morning, as he leant Into the sun-rise, o'er the balustrade Of the garden-terrace, towards him they bent Their footing through the dews; and to him said, 30 3l0abella; or, tfje ^ot of Basil " You seem there in the quiet of content, Lorenzo, and we are most loth to invade Cahn speculation; but if you are wise, Bestride your steed while cold is in the skies. XXIV. " To-day we purpose, aye, this hour we mount To spur three leagues towards the Apennine ; Come down, we pray thee, ere the hot sun count His dewy rosary on the eglantine." Lorenzo, courteously as he was wont, Bow'd a fair greeting to these serpents' whine ; And went in haste, to get in readiness. With belt and spur and bracing huntsman's dress. XXV. And as he to the court-yard pass'd along. Each third step did he pause, and listen'd oft If he could hear his lady's matin-song, Or the light whisper of her footstep soft; And as he thus over his passion hung. He heard a laugh full musical aloft; When, looking up, he saw her features bright Smile through an m-door lattice, all delight. 31 Isabdla; or, i\}z Pot of Basil. XXVI. " Love, Isabel ! " said he, " I v^as in pain Lest I should miss to bid thee a good morrow : Ah, what if I should lose thee, when so fain I am to stifle all the heavy sorrow Of a poor three hours' absence ? But we 'II gain Out of the amorous dark what day doth borrow. Good-by ! I '11 soon be back." — '' Good-by ! " said she : — And as he went she chanted merrily. XXVII. So the two brothers and their murder' d man Rode past fair Florence, to where Arno's stream Gurgles through straiten'd banks, and still doth fan Itself with dancing bulrush, and the bream Keeps head against the freshets. Sick and wan The brothers' faces in the ford did seem, Lorenzo's flush with love. They pass'd the water Into a forest quiet for the slaughter. 32 Usabella ; or, t^e Pot of Basil. XXVIII. There was Lorenzo slain and buried in, There in that forest did his great love cease ; Ah, when a soul doth thus its freedom win, It aches in loneliness — is ill at peace As the break-covert blood-hounds of such sin ! They dipp'd their swords in the water, and did tease Their horses homeward, with convulsed spur, Each richer by his being a murderer. XXIX. They told their sister how, with sudden speed, Lorenzo had ta'en ship for foreign lands, Because of some great urgency and need In their atTairs, requiring trusty hands. Poor girl, put on thy stifling widow's weed, And 'scape at once from Hope's accursed bands ; To-day thou wilt not see him, nor to-morrow, And the next day will be a day of sorrow ! XXX. She weeps alone for pleasures not to be; Sorely she wept until the night came on, 33 Esatiella; or, t^e Pot ot ISasil. And then, instead of love, O misery ! She brooded o'er the luxury alone His image in the dusk she seem'd to see, And to the silence made a gentle moan, Spreading her perfect arms upon the air, And on her couch low murmuring, " Where ? O where?" XXXI. But Selfishness, Love's cousin, held not long Its fiery vigil in her single breast ; She fretted for the golden hour, and hung Upon the time with feverish unrest. Not long, for soon into her heart a throng Of higher occupants, a richer zest, Came tragic; passion not to be subdu'd. And sorrow for her love in travels rude. xxxii. In the mid days of autumn, on their eves The breath of Winter comes from far away, And the sick west continually bereaves Of some gold tinge, and plays a roundelay Of death among the bushes and the leaves. To make all bare before he dares to stray 34 ^Isabella; or, tf)e Pot of Basil From his north cavern. So sweet Isabel By gradual decay from beauty fell, XXXIII. Because Lorenzo came not. Oftentimes She ask'd her brothers, with an eye all pale. Striving- to be itself, what dungeon climes Could keep him off so long ? They spake a tale Time after time, to quiet her. Their crimes Came on them, like a smoke from Hinnom's vale ; And every night in dreams they groan'd aloud, To see their sister in her snowy shroud, xxxiv. And she had died in drowsy ignorance. But for a thing more deadly dark than all; It came like a fierce potion, drunk by chance, Which saves a sick man from the feather'd pall For some few gasping moments; like a lance. Waking an Indian from his cloudy hall With cruel pierce, and bringing him again Sense of the gnawing fire at heart and brain. 35 Isabella ; or, tlje Pot of Basil. XXXV. It was a vision. In the drowsy gloom, The dull of midnight, at her couch's foot Lorenzo stood, and wept: the forest tomb Had marr'd his glossy hair which once could shoot Lustre into the sun, and put cold doom Upon his lips, and taken the soft lute From his lorn voice, and past his loamed ears Had made a miry channel for his tears. XXXVI. Strange sound it was, when the pale shadow spake ; For there was striving, in its piteous tongue. To speak as when on earth it was awake, And Isabella on its music hung: Languor there was in it, and tremulous shake, As in a palsied Druid's harp unstrung; And though it moaned a ghostly under-song. Like hoarse night-gusts sepulchral briers among. xxxvir. Its eyes, though wild, were still all dewy bright With love, and kept all-phantom fear aloof 36 Usabella ; or, tfje pot of BasiL From the poor girl by magic of their light, The while it did unthread the horrid woof Of the late darkn'd time,— the murderous spite Of pride and avarice, the dark pine roof In the forest, and the sodden turfed dell. Where, without any word, from stabs he fell. XXXVIII. Saying- moreover, "Isabel, my sweet, Red whortle-berries droop above my head, And a large flint-stone weighs upon my feet; Around me beeches and high chestnuts shed Their leaves and prickly nuts; a sheep-fold bleat Comes from beyond the river to my bed. Go, shed one tear upon my lieather-bloom, And it shall comfort me within the tomb. XXXIX. " I am a shadow now, alas ! alas ! Upon the skirts of human nature dwelling- Alone: I chant alone the holy Mass, While little sounds of life are round me knelling. And glossy bees at noon do fieldvvard pass. And many a chapel bell the hour is telling-, 37 Isabella; or, tje ^^ot of BagfL Paining me through : those sounds grow strange to me, And thou art distant in Humanity. XL. "I know what was, I feel full well what is, And I should rage, if spirits could go mad, Though I forget the taste of earthly bliss, That paleness warms my grave, as though I had A Seraph chosen from the bright abyss To be my spouse : thy paleness makes me glad ; Thy beauty grows upon me and I feel A greater love through all my essence steal." XLI. The Spirit mourn'd, "Adieu!" — dissolv'd, and left The atom darkness in a slow turmoil. As when of healthful midnight sleep bereft. Thinking on rugged hours and fruitless toil, We put our eyes into a pillowy cleft, And see the spangly gloom froth up and boil. It made sad Isabella's eyelids ache, And in the dawn she started up awake. 3fi "RESOLVED, SHE TOOK WITH HER AN AGED NURSE." Isabella; or, tj)e Pot ot Basil. XLII. " Ha ! ha ! " said she, " I knew not this hard Hfe; I thought the worst was simple misery ; I thought some Fate with pleasure or with strife Portion'd us — happy days, or else to die, But there is crime — a brother's bloody knife ! Sweet Spirit, thou hast school'd my infancy : I '11 visit thee for this, and kiss thine eyes, And greet thee morn and even m the skies." XLII I. When the full morning came, she had devised How she might secret to the forest hie; How she might find the clay, so dearly prized. And sing to it one latest lullaby; How her short absence might be unsurmised, While she the inmost of the dream would try. Resolved, she took with her an aged nurse, And went into that dismal forest-hearse. XLIV. See, as they creep along the river side, How she doth whisper to that aged Dame, And, after looking round the champaign wide. Shows her a knife. — " What feverous hectic flame 40 KsabcUa ; or, tljc Pot of Basil. Burns in thee, child ? — what good can thee betide, That thou should'st smile again ? " The evening came, And they had found Lorenzo's earthy bed; The flint was there, the berries at his head. XLV. Who hath not loiter'd in a green church-yard. And let his spirit, like a demon mole. Work through the clayey soil and gravel hard, To see skull, cofhn'd bones, and funeral stole ; Pitying each form that hungry Death hath marr'd, And filling it once more with human soul ? Ah, this is holiday to what was felt When Isabella by Lorenzo knelt ! XLVI. She gazed into the fresh-thrown mould, as though One glance did fully all its secrets tell; Clearly she saw, as other eyes would know Pale limbs at bottom of a crystal well; Upon the murderous spot she seem'd to grow, Like to a native lily of the dell: Then with her knife, all sudden she began To dig more fervently than misers can. 41 Isabella; or, tje Pot of Basil. XLVII. Soon she turn'd up a soiled glove, whereon Her silk had play'd in purple fantasies; She kiss'd it with a lip more chill than stone, And put it in her bosom, where it dries And freezes utterly unto the bone Those dainties made to still an infant's cries ; Then 'gan she work again ; nor stay'd her care, But to throw back at times her veiling hair. xLvrir. That old nurse stood beside her wondering, Until her heart felt pity to the core At sight of such a dismal laboring, And so she kneeled, with her locks all hoar, And put her kan hands to the horrid thing. Three hours they labor'd at this travail sore ; At last they felt the kernel of the grave, And Isabella did not stamp and rave. XLIX. Ah, wherefore all this wormy circumstance ? Why linger at the yawning tomb so long ? O for the gentleness of old Romance, The simple plaining of a minstrel's song ! 42 Usabella; or, tje Pot of Basil. Fair reader, at the old tale take a glance, For here, in truth, it doth not well belong To speak : — O turn thee to the very tale, And taste the music of that vision pale. L. With duller steel than the Persean sword They cut away no formless monster's head, But one, whose gentleness did well accord With death, as life. The ancient harps have said, Love never dies, but lives, immortal Lord. If Love impersonate v/as ever dead, Pale Isabella kiss'd it, and low moan'd. 'T was love ; cold, — dead indeed, but not de- thron'd. LT. In anxious secrecy they took it home, And then the prize was all for Isabel. She calm'd its wild hair with a golden comb, And all around each eye's sepulchral cell Pointed each fringed lash; the smeared loam With tears, as chilly as a dripping well. She drench'd away : — and still she comb'd and kept Sighing all day ; and still she kiss'd, and wept. 43 Jlsatjella ; or, ttie Pot of Basil. LII. Then in a silken scarf, — sweet with the dews Of precious flowers piuck'd in Arahy, And divine Uquids come with odorous ooze Through the cold serpent-pipe refreshfully, — She wrapp'd it up ; and for its tomb did choose A garden-pot, wherein she laid it by, And cover'd it with mould, and o'er it set Sweet Basil, which her tears kept ever wet. LUI. And she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun, And she forgot the blue above the trees. And she forgot the dells where waters run. And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze; She had no knowledge when the day was done. And the new morn she saw not : but in peace Hung over her sweet Basil evermore, And moisten'd it with tears unto the core. LIV. And so she ever fed it with thin tears. Whence thick and green and beautiful it grew. So that it smelt more balmy than its peers Of Basil-tufts in Florence; for it drew l^mMla ; or, tije Pot of Basil Nurture besides, and life, from human fears, From the fast mouldering head there shut from view: So that the jewel, safely casketed, Came forth, and m perfumed leaflets spread. LV, O Melancholy, linger here awhile ! O Music, Music, breathe despondingly ! O Echo, Echo, from some sombre isle, Unknown, Lethean, sigh to us — O sigh ! Spirits m grief, lift up your heads, and smile; Lift up your heads, sweet Spirits, heavily, And make a pale light in your cypress glooms, Tinting with silver wan your marble tombs. LVI. Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe. From the deep throat of sad Melpomene ! Through bronzed lyre in tragic order go, And touch the strings into a mystery; Sound mournfully upon the winds and low; For simple Isabel is soon to be 45 Isabella ; or, tfje Pot of iSasiI. Among the dead: She withers, Hke a pahn, Cut by an Indian for its juicy bahn, LVII. O leave the pahn to wither by itself; Let not quick Winter chill its dying hour ! It may not be — those Baalites of pelf, Her brethren, noted the continual shower From her dead eyes; and many a curious elf. Among her kindred, wonder'd that such dower Of youth and beauty should be thrown aside By one mark'd out to be a Noble's bride. LVIIT. And, furthermore, her brethren wonder'd much Why she sat drooping by the Basil green, And why it flourish'd, as by magic touch; Greatly they wonder'd what the thing might mean. They could not surely give belief that such A very nothing would have power to wean Her from her own fair youth, and pleasures And even remembrance of her love's delay. 46 Isabella ; or, t\}z Pot of Basil. LIX. Therefore they watch'd a time when they might sift This hidden whim ; and longihey watch'd in vain ; For seldom did she go to chapel-shrift, And seldom felt she any hunger-pain ; And when she left, she hurried back, as swift As bird on wing to breast its eggs again; And, patient as a hen-bird, sat her there Besides her Basil, weeping through her hair. LX. Yet they contriv'd to steal the Basil-pot, And to examine it in secret place. The thing was vile with green and livid spot, And yet they knew it was Lorenzo's face: The guerdon of their murder they had got. And so left Florence in a moment's space, Never to turn again. Away they went, With blood upon their heads, to banishment. LXI. O Melancholy, turn thine eyes away ! Music, Music, breathe despondingly ! O Echo, Echo, on some other day, From isles Lethean, sigh to us — O sigh! 47 Esabdla ; or, tijc Pot of Basil. Spirits of grief, sing not your " Well-a-way ! " For Isabel, sweet Isabel, will die; Will die a death too lone and incomplete, Now they have ta'en away her Basil sweet. LXII. Piteous she look'd on dead and senseless things, Asking for her lost Basil amorously ; And with melodious chuckle in the strings Of her lorn voice, she oftentimes would cry After the Pilgrim in his wanderings. To ask him where her Basil was; and why 'Twas hid from her: "For cruel 'tis," said she, "To steal my Basil-pot away from me." LXII I. And so she pin'd, and so she died forlorn. Imploring for her Basil to the last. No heart was there in Florence but did mourn In pity of her love, so overcast. And a sad ditty of this story born From mouth to mouth through all the country pass'd ; Still is the burthen sung — " cruelty, To steal my Basil-pot away ^ from me!" 48 gAINT AGNES' EVE — ah, bitter chill it was ! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ; The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass ; And silent was the flock in woolly fold. Numb was the Beadsman's fingers while he told His rosary, and while his frosted breath. Like pious incense from a censer old, Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death. Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. 51 E\)z lEbe of 5aint ^gncs. II. 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 sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze, Emprison'd 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 ni icy hoods and mails. HI. Northward he turneth through a little door, And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor; But no — already had his death-bell rung; The joys of all his life were said and sung: His was harsh penance on Saint 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. 52 2Ef)e lEtue of ^amt ^gnes. IV. That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft ; And so it chanc'd, for many a door was wide 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 carved angels, ever eager-ey'd, Star'd, where upon their heads the cornice rests, With hair blown black, 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 The brain, new-stuff'd, in youth, with triumphs g'ay 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 wing'd Saint Agnes' saintly care. As she had heard old dames full many times declare. 53 E\}c 5Ebe of Saint xltjncs. VI. They told her how, upon Saint Agnes' Eve, Young virgins might have visions of dehght, And soft adorings from their loves receive Upon the honey'd middle of the night, 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. VIT. Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline. The music yearning like a God in pain, She scarcely heard; her maiden eyes divine, Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train Pass by — she heeded not at all. hi vain Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier. And back retir'd, not cool'd by high disdain ; But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere; She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year. 54 CAME MANY A TIPTOE, AMOKOUS CAVALIER." E\)t l£b£ of ^amt ^gnes. VIII. She danced along; with vague, regardless eyes, Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short ; The hallow'd hour was near at hand. She sighs Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort Of whisperers in anger, or in sport; 'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, Hoodwink'd with faery fancy; all amort. Save to Saint Agnes and her lambs unshorn, And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. IX. So, purposing each moment to retire. She Hnger'd still. Meantime, across the moors, Had come young Porphyro, with heart on tire For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, Buttress' d from moonlight, stands he, and implores All saints to give him sight of Madeline, But for one moment in the tedious hours. That he might gaze and worship all unseen ; Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in sooth such things have been. 56 Ei}z lEhz of 5aint ^gnes. He ventures in: let no buzz'd 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 atTords Him any mercy, in that mansion foul, Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. XI. Ah, happy chance ! The aged 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 grasp'd his lingers in her palsied hand, Saying, " Mercy, Porphyro, hie thee from this place ; They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race ! 57 E\}z 3Eiie of ^afnt ^sneg. XII. " Get hence ! get hence ! there's dwarfish Hilde- brand ; He had a fever late, and in the fit He cursed thee and thine, both house and land. Then there 's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit More tame for his gray 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 follow'd through a lowly arched way. Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume; And as she mutter 'd, " Well-a-well-a-day ! " He found him in a little moonlight room, Pale, lattic'd, chill, and silent as a tomb. " Now tell me where is Madeline," said he, "0 tell me, Angela, by the holy loom Which none but secret sisterhood may see, When they Saint Agnes' wool are weaving piously. ' ' 58 E\)c lEbe of ^atnt ^gnes. XIV. "Saint Agnes! Ah, it is Saint Agnes' Eve — Yet men will murder upon holy days: 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 ! Saint 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 aged crone Who keepeth clos'd a wond'rous 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. 59 E\)z lEbe of ^aint ^gnes. XVI. Sudden a thought came Hke a full-blown rose, Flushing Lis brow, and in his pained heart Made purple riot ; then doth he propose A stratagem, that makes the beldame start. " 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 luid 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. Good Angela, believe me by these tears; Or I will, even in a moment's space. Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears, And beard them, though they be more fang'd than wolves and bears." 60 E^z ISbe of Saint ^gius. 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 miss'd." Thus plaining, doth she bring A gentler speech from burning Porphyro; So woful, 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 unespy'd. And win perhaps that night a peerless bride, While legion'd faeries pac'd the coverlet. And pale enchantment held her sleepy-ey'd. Never on such a night have lovers met. Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt. 61 Cije Eiiz at ^aint agues. XX. " 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 liead. 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 ! " xxr. 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. 63 E\)z lEbe of Saint ^gncs. XXII. Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade, Old Angela was feeling for the stair, When Madeline, Saint 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; 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 utter'd 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-stifled, in her dell. 63 2rf)e l£be cf Saint ^gnes. XXIV. A casement high and triple-arch' d there was, All garlanded with carven imag'ries 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-damask'd wings; And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries 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. 64 E\)z lEbe of Samt ^gufs. 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 boddice; by degrees Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees. Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed, Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees, hi fancy, fair Saint Agnes in her bed. But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. XXVII. Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, hi 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. 65 3rf)e i£be of ^amt *lgiu0. xxvni. Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced, Porpliyro gaz'd upon her empty dress, And listen' d to her breathing, if it chanced To wake into a slumberous tenderness; Which when he heard, that minute did he bless, And breath'd himself: then from the closet crept, Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness, And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept. And 'tween the curtaifis 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. 66 Ei)c 35be of ^aint ^gnes. 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 syrups, tinct with cinnamon; Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one, From silken Samarcand to cedar' d Lebanon. xxxr. 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 Saint Agnes' sake. Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache." 67 ^\)z 3£b£ of ^ai'nt ^Qm&, XXXII. Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream By the dusk curtains, — 't was 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 steadfast spell his lady's eyes, So mused awhile, entoil'd in woofed fantasies. XXXIII. 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 ceas'd, she panted quick, and suddenly Her blue atTrayed eyes wide open shone; Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculp- tured stone. 68 "AWAKENING UP, HE TOOK HER HOLLOW LUTE." STfje lEbe of Saint ^gius. 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 v/ould keep, Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye, Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dream- ingly. XXXV. "Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now Thy voice was at sweet tremble m 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 ! " 70 Cfje 3Eije oi Baint ^gneg^ XXXVI. Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far At these voluptuous accents, he arose, Ethereal, flush' d, 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. Meantime the frost-wind blows Like Love's alarum, pattering the sharp sleet Against the window-panes; Saint Agnes' moon hath set. XXXVII. 'T is 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. 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 unpruned wing." 71 Cfte 3£ij£ at &aini ^gnea. XXXVIIT. " My Madeline, sweet dreamer, lovely bride ! Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest ; Thy beauty's shield, heart-shap'd and vermeil dy'd? Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest After so many hours of toil and quest, A famish'd 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 Madehne, to no rude intldel. XXXIX. " Hark ! 'tis an elfin storm from faery land. Of hagg'ard 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, — Drown'd 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." 72 CJe iEije of ^aint ^gnes. 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-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door; The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar; 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 flagon 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. 73 E\)Z 2£ije of ^amt ^gnes. 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 coftln-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. 74 \/\ ^gi»y*mA PART I. I TPON a time, before the faery broods Drove Nymph and Satyr from the pros- perous woods, Before King- Oberon's bright diadem, Sceptre, and mantle, clasp' d with dewy gem. Frighted away the Dryads and the Fauns From rushes green and brakes and cowslip'd lawns, 77 5Lamia, The ever-smitten Hermes empty left His golden throne, bent warm on amorous theft : From high Olympus had he stolen light, On this side of Jove's clouds, to escape the sight Of his great summoner, and made retreat Into a forest on the shores of Crete. For somewhere in that sacred island dwelt A nymph to whom all hoofed Satyrs knelt, At whose white feet the languid Tritons poured Pearls, while on land they wither'd and adored. Fast by the springs where she to bathe was wont. And in those meads where sometimes she might haunt, Were strewn rich gifts, unknown to any Muse, Though Fancy's casket were unlock'd to choose. Ah, what a world of love was at her feet ! So Hermes thought, and a celestial heat Burnt from his winged heels to either ear, That from a whiteness as the lily clear Blush'd into roses 'mid his golden hair, Fallen in jealous curls about his shoulders bare. From vale to vale, from wood to wood, he flew. Breathing upon the flowers his passion new, Hamfa. And wound with many a river to its head, To tnid where this sweet nymph prepar'd her secret bed. hi vain ; the sweet nymph might nowhere be found ; And so he rested on the lonely ground, Pensive, and full of painful jealousies Of the Wood-Gods, and even the very trees. There as he stood he heard a mournful voice, Such as, once heard, in gentle heart destroys All pain but pity. Thus the lone voice spake : " When from this v/reathed tomb shall I awake ? When move in a sweet body lit for life. And love and pleasure and the ruddy strife Of hearts and lips.^ Ah, miserable me!" The God, dove-footed, glided silently Round bush and tree, soft-brushing, in his speed, The taller grasses and full-flowering weed, Until he found a palpitating snake, Bright and cirque-couchant in a dusky brake. She was a Gordian shape of dazzling hue. Vermilion-spotted, golden, green, and blue; 79 Hamfa. Strip'd like a zebra, freckled like a pard, Ey'd like a peacock, and all crimson barr'd; And full of silver moons, that, as she breathed. Dissolved or brighter shone or interwreathed Their lustres with the gloomier tapestries, — So rainbow-sided, touch'd with miseries. She seem'd at once, some penanc'd lady elf. Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self. Upon her crest she v/ore a wannish lire Sprinkled with stars, like Ariadne's tiar; Her head was serpent, but ah, bitter-sweet ! She had a woman's mouth with all its pearls complete ; And for her eyes: what could such eyes do there But weep, and weep, that they were born so fair ? As Proserpine still weeps for her Sicilian air. Her throat was serpent, but the words she spake Came, as through bubbling honey, for Love's sake ; And thus, while Hermes on his pinions lay. Like a stoop' d falcon ere he takes his prey. " Fair Hermes crown'd with feathers, flutter- ing light, 1 had a splendid dream of thee last night : 80 I saw thee sitting', on a throne of gold, Among the Gods, upon Olympus old. The only sad one; for thou didst not hear The soft, lute-finger'd Muses chanting clear, Nor even Apollo when he sang alone, Deaf to his throbbing throat's long, long melo- dious moan. I dreamt I saw thee, rob'd in purple flakes. Break amorous through the clouds, as morning breaks. And, swiftly as a bright Phoebean dart. Strike for the Cretan isle ; and here thou art ! Too gentle Hermes, hast thou found the maidr" Whereat the star of Lethe not delay'd His rosy eloquence, and thus inquired: " Thou smooth-lipp'd serpent, surely high-in- spired ! Thou beauteous wreath, with melancholy eyes. Possess whatever bliss thou canst devise. Telling me only where my nymph is fled, — , Where she doth breathe ! " " Bright planet, thou hast said," Return'dthe snake, " but seal with oaths, fair God !" "I swear," said Hermes, "by my serpent rod, 81 ILami'a. And by thine eyes, and by thy starry crown !" Light flew his earnest words, among the blossoms blown. Then thus again the brilliance feminine: " Too frail of heart ! for this lost nymph of thine, Free as the air, invisably she strays About these thornless wilds ; her pleasant days She tastes unseen; unseen her nimble feet Leave traces in the grass and flowers sweet; From weary tendrils, and bow'd branches green. She plucks the fruit unseen, she bathes unseen : And by my power is her beauty veil'd To keep it unaffronted, unassail'd By the love-glances of unlovely eyes Of Satyrs, Fauns, and blear'd Silenus' sighs. Pale grew her immortality, for woe Of all these lovers, and she grieved so I took compassion on her, bade her steep Her hair in weird syrups, that would keep Her loveliness invisible, yet free To wander as she loves, in liberty. Thou shalt behold her, Hermes, thou alone, If thou wilt, as thou swearest, grant my boon ! " 82 ILamia. Then, once again, the charmed God began An oath, and through the serpent's ears it ran Warm, tremulous, devout, psalterian, Ravish'd she Hfted her Circean head, Blush'd a hve damask, and swift-Hsping said, " I was a woman, let me have once more A woman's shape, and charming as before. I love a youth of Corinth — O the bliss ! Give me my woman's form, and place me where he is. Stoop, Hermes, let me breathe upon thy brow, And thou shalt see thy sweet nymph even now." The God on half-shut feathers sank serene. She breath' d upon his eyes, and swift was seen Of both the guarded nymph near-smiling on the green. It was no dream ; or say a dream it was, Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream. One warm, flush'd moment, hovering, it might seem Dash'd by the wood-nymph's beauty, so he burn'd; Then, lighting on the printless verdure, turn'd 83 Hamia, To the swoon'd serpent, and with languid arm, Dehcate, put to proof the lythe Caducean charm. So done, upon the nymph his eyes he bent Full of adoring tears and blandishment, And towards her stept. She, like a moon in wane, Faded before him, cower'd, nor could restrain Her fearful sobs, self-folding- like a flower That faints into itself at evening hour: But the God fostering her chilled hand. She felt the warmth, her eyelids open'd bland. And, like new flowers at morning song of bees, Bloom'd, and gave up her honey to the lees. Into the green-recessed woods they flew; Nor grew they pale, as mortal lovers do. Left to herself, the serpent now began To change; her elfin blood in madness ran. Her mouth foam'd, and the grass, therewith besprent, Wither'd at dew so sweet and virulent; Her eyes in torture fix'd, and anguish drear, Hot, glaz'd, and wide, with lid-lashes all sear, Flash'd phosphor and sharp sparks, without one cooling tear. 84 The colors all inflam'd throughout her train, She writhed about, convulsed with scarlet pain ; A deep volcanian yellow took the place Of all her milder-mooned body's grace; And as the lava ravishes the mead, Spoilt all her silver mail, and golden brede; Made gloom of all her f recklings, streaks, and bars, Eclips'd her crescents, and lick'd up her stars : So that, in moments few, she was undrest Of all her sapphires, greens, and amethyst, And rubious-argent, — of all these bereft, Nothing but pain and ugliness were left. Still shone her crown ; that vanish' d, also she Melted and disappear'd as suddenly; And in the air, her new voice luting soft, Cry'd, " Lycius, gentle Lycius ! " — borne aloft With the bright mists about the mountains hoar These words dissolv'd : Crete's forests heard no more. Whither fled Lamia, now a lady bright, A full-born beauty new and exquisite ? She fled into that valley they pass o'er Who go to Corinth from Cenchreas' shore; 85 ILarnia, And rested at the foot of those wild hills The rugged founts of the Penean rills, And of that other ridge whose barren back Stretches, with all its mist and cloudy rack, South-westward to Cleone. There she stood. About a young bird's flutter from a wood. Fair, on a sloping green of mossy tread, By a clear pool, wherein she passioned To see herself escap'd from so sore ills. While her robes flaunted with the daffodils. Ah, happy Lycius ! — for she was a maid More beautiful than ever twisted braid. Or sigh'd, or blush'd, or on spring-flowered lea Spread a green kirtle to the minstrelsy ; A virgin purest lipp'd, yet in the lore Of love deep learned to the red heart's core, — Not one hour old, yet of sciential brain To unperplex bliss from its neighbor pain, Define their pettish limits, and estrange Their points of contact, and swift counterchange ; Intrigue with the specious chaos, and dispart Its most ambiguous atones with sure art; As though in Cupid's college she had spent ILamfa. Sweet days a lovely graduate, still unshent, And kept his rosy terms in idle languishment. Why this fair creature chose so faerily By the wayside to linger, we shall see; But tlrst 't is tit to tell how she could muse And dream, when in the serpent prison-house, Of all she list, strange or magnificent: How, ever, where she will'd, her spirit went, — Whether to faint Elysium, or where Down through tress-lifting waves the Nereids fair Wind into Thetis' bower by many a pearly stair ; Or where God Bacchus drains his cups divine, Stretch'd out, at ease, beneath a glutinous pine; Or where in Pluto's gardens palatine Mulciber's columns gleam in far piazzian line. And sometimes into cities she would send Her dream, with feast and rioting to blend; And once, while among mortals dreaming thus, She saw the young Corinthian Lycius Charioting foremost in the envious race, Like a young Jove with calm uneager face, And fell into a swooning love of him. Now on the moth-time of that evening dim 87 3Lamia. He would return that way, as well she knew, To Corinth from the shore; for freshly blew The eastern soft wind, and his galley now Grated the quay-stones with her brazen prow In port Cenchreas, from Egina Isle Fresh anchor'd; whither he had been awhile To sacrifice to Jove, whose temple there Waits with high marble doors for blood and incense rare. Jove heard his vows, and better'd his desire ; For by some freakful chance he made retire From his companions, and set forth to walk, Perhaps grown wearied of their Corinth talk ; Over the solitary hills he fared. Thoughtless, at first, but ere eve's star appear'd His fantasy was lost, where reason fades, In the calm'd twilight of Platonic shades. Lamia beheld him coming, near, more near, Close to her passing, in indifference drear; His silent sandals swept the mossy green; So neighbor'd to him, and yet so unseen, She stood. He pass'd, shut up in mysteries, His mind wrapp'd like his mantle, while her eyes iLamia» Follow'd his steps, and her neck regal white Turn'd, syllabhng thus, " Ah, Lycius bright. And will you leave me on the hills alone? Lycius, look back, and be some pity shown ! " He did; not with cold wonder fearingly, But Orpheus-like at an Eurydice; For so delicious were the words she sung, It seem'd he had loved thema whole summer long. And soon his eyes had drunk her beauty up, Leaving no drop in the bewildering cup. And still the cup was full ; while he, afraid Lest she should vanish ere his, lip had paid Due adoration, thus began to adore, Her soft look growing coy, she saw his chain so sure: " Leave thee alone ! Look back ! Ah, Goddess, see Whether my eyes can ever turn from thee ! For pity do not this sad heart belie — Even as thou vanishest so I shall die. Stay, though a Naiad of the rivers, stay ! To thy far wishes will thy streams obey. Stay, though the greenest woods be thy domain, Alone they can drink up the morning rain ! Though a descended Pleiad, will not one 5Lamia. Of thine harmonious sisters keep in tune Thy spheres, and as thy silver proxy shine? So sweetly to these ravish'd ears of mine Came thy sweet greeting, that if thou shouldst fade Thy memory will waste me to a shade, — For pity do not melt ! " " If I should stay," Said Lamia, " here, upon this floor of clay, And pain my steps upon these flowers too rough, What canst thou say or do of charm enough To dull the nice remembrance of my home ? Thou canst not ask me with thee here to roam Over these hills and vales, where no joy is, — Empty of immortality and bliss ! Thou art a scholar, Lycius, and must know That finer spirits cannot breathe below In human climes, and live. Alas, poor youth, What taste of purer air hast thou to soothe My essence? What serener palaces. Where I may all my many senses please And by mysterious sleights a hundred thirsts appease ? It cannot be. Adieu ! " So said, she rose Tiptoe, with white arms spread. He, sick to lose 90 3Lamia. The amorous promise of her lone complain, Swoon'd, murmuring of love and pale with pain. The cruel lady, without any show Of sorrow for her tender favorite's woe, But rather, if her eyes could brighter be. With brighter eyes and slow amenity Put her new lips to his, and gave afresh The life she had so tangled in her mesh ; And as he from one trance was wakening Into another, she began to sing, Happy in beauty, life, and love, and everything, A song of love, too sweet for earthly lyres. While, like held breath, the stars drew in their panting tires. And then she whisper'd in such trembling tone, As those who, safe together met alone For the first time through many anguish'd days, Use other speech than looks ; bidding him raise His drooping head, and clear his soul of doubt. For that she was a woman, and without Any more subtle fluid in her veins Than throbbing blood, and that the self-same pains Inhabited her frail-strung heart as his. And next she wonder'd how his eyes could miss 91 Her face so long in Corinth, where, she said. She dwelt but half retir'd, and there had led Days happy as the gold coin could invent Without the aid of love; yet in content Till she saw him, as once she pass'd him by, Where 'gainst a column he leant thoughtfully At Venus' temple porch, 'mid baskets heap'd Of amorous herbs and flowers, newly reap'd Late on that eve, as 't was the night before The Adonian feast; whereof she saw no more. But wept alone those days, for why should she adore ? Lycius from death awoke into amaze. To see her still, and singing so sweet lays; Then from amaze into delight he fell To hear her whisper woman's lore so well; And every word she spake entic'd him on To unperpiex'd delight and pleasure known. Let the mad poets say whate'er they please Of the sweets of Faeries, Peris, Goddesses, There is not such a treat among them all. Haunters of cavern, lake, and waterfall, As a real woman, lineal indeed From Pyrrha's pebbles or old Adam's seed. "at VENUS' TEMPLE PORCH 'MID BASKETS HEAP'D/ Thus gentle Lamia judg'd, and judg'd aright, That Lycius could not love in half a fright, So threw the goddess off, and won his heart More pleasantly by playing woman's part, With no more awe than what her beauty gave, That, while it smote, still guaranteed to save. Lycius to all made eloquent reply, Marrying to every word a twin-born sigh ; And last, pointing to Corinth, ask'd her sweet. If 't was too far that night for her soft feet. The way was short, for Lamia's eagerness Made, by a spell, the triple league decrease To a few paces ; not at all surmised By blinded Lycius, so in her comprised. They pass'd the city gates, he knew not how. So noiseless, and he never thought to know. As men talk in a dream, so Corinth all, Throughout her palaces imperial, And all her populous streets and temples lewd, Mutter'd, like tempest in the distance brew'd, To the wide-spreaded night above her towers. Men, women, rich and poor, in the cool hours, 94 ILamia. Shuffled their sandals o'er the pavement white, Companion'd or alone; while many a light Flar'd, here and there, from wealthy festivals, And threw their moving shadows on the walls, Or found them cluster'd in the corniced shade Of some arch'd temple door, or dusky colonnade. Muffling his face, of greeting friends in fear, Her fingers he press'd hard, as one came near With curl'd gray beard, sharp eyes, and smooth bald crown, Slow-stepp'd, and rob'd in philosophic gown. Lycius shrank closer, as they met and past, Into his mantle, adding wings to haste, While hurried Lamia trembled: "Ah,*' said he, " Why do you shudder, love, so ruefully ? Why does your tender palm dissolve in dew ?" "I 'm wearied," said fair Lamia: "tell me who Is that old man? I cannot bring to mind His features. Lycius, wherefore did you blind Yourself from his quick eyes?" Lycius reply'd •' 'T is ApoUonius sage, my trusty guide And good instructor; but to-night he seems The ghost of Folly haunting my sweet dreams." 95 Hamia. While yet he spake they had arrived before A pillar'd porch, with lofty portal door, Where hung a silver lamp, whose phosphor glow Reflected in the slabbed steps below, Mild as a star in winter; for so new, And so unsullied was the marble's hue, So through the crystal polish, liquid fine. Ran the dark veins, that none but feet divine Could e'er have touch' d there. Sounds yfiolian Breath'd from the hinges, as the ample span Of the wide doors disclos'd a place unknown Some time to any, but those two alone. And a few Persian mutes, who that same year Were seen about the markets : none knew where They could inhabit ; the most curious Were foil'd, who watch' d to trace them to their house : And but the flitter-winged verse must tell. For truth's sake, what woe afterwards befell; 'T would humor many a heart to leave them thus, Shut from the busy world of more incredulous. Eami'a. PART II. I OVE in a hut, with water and a crust, Is — Love, f orgi ve us ! — cinders, ashes, dust ; Love in a palace is perhaps at last More grievous torment than a hermit's fast, — That is a doubtful tale from faery land. Hard for the non-elect to understand. Had Lycius liv'd to hand his story down. He might have given the moral a- fresh frown. Or clench'd it quite ; but too short was their bliss To breed distrust and hate, that make the soft voice hiss. Besides, there, nightly, with terrific glare. Love, jealous grown of so complete a pair, Hover'd and buzz'd his wings, with fearful roar. Above the lintel of their chamber door, And down the passage cast a glow upon the floor. For all this came a ruin. Side by side They were enthroned, in the even tide. Upon a couch near to a curtaining 97 Eamia. Whose airy texture, from a golden string, Floated into the room, and let appear Unveil'd the summer heaven, blue and clear, Betwixt two marble shafts, — there they reposed. Where use had made it sweet, with eyelids closed, Saving a tithe which love still open kept, That they might see each other while they almost slept ; When from the slope side of a suburb hill, Deafening the swallow's twitter, came a thrill Of trumpets. Lycius started ; the sounds fled, But left a thought, a buzzing in his head. For the first time, since first he harbor'd in That purple-lined palace of sweet sin, His spirit pass'd beyond its golden bourn Into the noisy world almost forsworn. The lady, ever watchful, penetrant. Saw this with pain, so arguing a want Of something more, more than her empery Of joys; and she began to moan and sigh Because he mus'd beyond her, knowing well That but a moment's tljought is passion's pass- ing bell. 98 "came a thrill or teumpets. lycius started; the sounds fled." " Why do you sigh, fair creature ? " whisper'd he, " Why do you think ? " return'd she tenderly ; " You have deserted me. Where am i now ? Not in your heart while care weighs on your brow. No, no, you have dismiss' d me, and I go From your breast houseless : ay, it must be so." He answer'd, bending to her open eyes, Where he was mirror'd small in paradise, " My silver planet, both of eve and morn, Why will you plead yourself so sad forlorn. While I am striving how to fill my heart With deeper crimson and a double smart.? How to entangle, trammel up, and snare Your soul in mine, and labyrinth you there Like the hid scent in an unbudded rose.? Ay, a sweet kiss — you see your mighty woes. My thoughts, shall I unveil them ? Listen then ! What mortal hath a prize, that other men May be confounded and abash'd withal, But lets it sometimes pace abroad majestical. And triumph, as in thee I should rejoice Amid the hoarse alarm of Corinth's voice. Let my foes choke, and my friends shout afar, While through the thronged streets your bridal car 100 Eamfa. Wheels round its dazzling spokes." The lady's cheek Trembled ; she nothing said, but pale and meek, Arose and knelt before him, wept a rain Of sorrows at his words; at last with pain Beseeching him, the while his hand she wrung. To change his purpose. He thereat was stung, Perverse, with stronger fancy to reclaim Her wild and timid nature to his aim. Besides, for all his love, in self despite. Against his better self, he took deUght Luxurious in her sorrows, soft and new. His passion, cruel grown, took on a hue Fierce and sanguineous as 't was possible In one whose brow had no dark veins to swell. Fine was the mitigated fury, like Apollo's presence when in act to strike The serpent — Ha, the serpent ! certes, she Was none. She burnt, she loved the tyranny. And, all subdued, consented to the hour When to the bridal he should lead his paramour. Whispering in midnight silence, said the youth, "Sure some sweet name thou hast, though, by my truth, 101 Hamia. I have not ask'd it, ever thinking thee Not mortal, but of heavenly progeny, As still I do. Hast any mortal name, Fit appellation for this dazzling frame? Or friends or kinsfolk on the citied earth, To share our marriage feast and nuptial mirth ?" " I have no friends," said Lamia, " no, not one; My presence in wide Corinth hardly known. My parents' bones are in their dusty urns Sepulchred, where no kindled incense burns, Seeing all their luckless race are dead, save me, And I neglect the holy rite for thee. Even as you list invite your many guests; But if, as. now it seems, your vision rests With any pleasure on me, do not bid Old Apollonius, — from him keep me hid.'' Lycius, perplex' d at words so blind and blank. Made close inquiry ; from whose touch she shrank. Feigning a sleep; and he to the dull shade Of deep sleep in a moment was betray'd. It was the custom then to bring away The bride from home at blushing shut of day, 103 Veil'd, in a chariot, heralded along By strewn flowers, torches, and a marriage song, With other pageants; but this fair unknown Had not a friend. So being left alone (Lycius was gone to summon all his kin) And knowing surely she could never win His foolish heart from its mad pompousness. She set herself, high-thoughted, how to dress The misery in fit magnificence. She did so, but 't is doubtful how and whence Came, and who were her subtle servitors. About the halls, and to and from the doors, There was a noise of wings, till in short space The glowing banquet-room shone with wide- arched grace. A haunting music, sole perhaps and lone Supportress of the faery-roof, made moan Throughout, as fearful the whole charm might fade. Fresh carved cedar, mimicking a glade Of palm and plantain, met from either side. High in the midst, in honor of the bride: Two palms and then two plantains, and so on. From either side their stems branch'd one to one 103 All down the aisled place; and beneath all There ran a stream of lamps straight on from wall to wall. So canopy'd, lay an untasted feast Teeming with odors. Lamia, regal drest, Silently pac'd about, and as she went, In pale contented sort of discontent, Mission'd her viewless servants to enrich The fretted splendor of each nook and niche. Between the tree-stems, marbled plain at first. Came jasper panels; then anon there burst Forth creeping imagery of slighter trees. And with the larger wove in small intricacies, Approving all, she faded at self-will, And shut the chamber up, close, hush'd, and still. Complete and ready for the revels rude. When dreadful guests would come to spoil her solitude. The day appear' d, and all the gossip rout, O senseless Lycius ! Madman, wherefore flout The silent-blessing fate, warm cloister'd hours, And show to common eyes 'these secret bowers? 104 Hamia. The herd approach'd ; each guest, with busy brain, Arriving' at the portal, gaz'd amain. And enter'd marvelling ; for they knew the street. Remember' d it from childhood all complete Without a gap, yet ne'er before had seen That royal porch, that high-built fair demesne; So in they hurried all, maz'd, curious and keen: Save one, who look'd thereon with eye severe, And with calm-planted steps walk'd in austere, — 'T was Apollonius. Something too he laugh'd. As though some knotty problem, that had daft His patient thought, had now begun to thaw, And solve and melt : 'T was just as he foresaw. He met within the murmurous vestibule His young disciple. " T is no common rule, Lycius," said he, "for uninvited guest To force himself upon you, and infest With an unbidden presence the bright throng Of younger friends ; yet must I do this wrong, And you forgive me.'' Lycius blush'd, and led The old man through the inner doors broad- spread ; 105 With reconciling- words and courteous mien Turning into sweet milk the sophist's spleen. Of wealthy lustre was the banquet-room, Fill'd with pervading brilliance and perfume: Before each lucid panel fuming stood A censer fed with myrrh and spiced wood, Each by a sacred tripod held aloft Whose slender feet wide-swerv'd upon the soft Wool-woofed carpets; fifty wreaths of smoke From fifty censers their' light voyage took To the high roof, still mimick'd as they rose Along the mirror'd walls by twin-clouds odorous. Twelve sphered tables, by silk seats inspher'd. High as the level of a man's breast rear'd On libbard's paws, upheld the heavy gold Of cups and goblets, and the store thrice told Of Ceres' horn, and, in huge vessels, wine Come from the gloomy tun with merry shine. Thus loaded with a feast the tables stood, Each shrining in the midst the image of a God. When in an antechamber every guest Had felt the cold full sponge' to pleasure press' d, 106 By minist'ring slaves, upon his hands and feet, And fragrant oils with ceremony meet Pour'd on his hair, they all mov'd to the feast hi white robes, and themselves in order plac'd Around the silken couches, wondering Whence all this mighty cost and blaze of wealth could spring. Soft went the music the soft air along, While fluent Greek a vowel' d undersong Kept up among the guests, discoursing low At first, for scarcely was the wine at flow; But when the happy vintage touch'd their brains, Louder they talk, and louder come the strains Of powerful instruments. The gorgeous dyes, The space, the splendor of the draperies. The roof of awful richness, nectarous cheer, Beautiful slaves, and Lamia's self appear, Now, when the wine has done its rosy deed, And every soul from human trammels freed. No more so strange; for merry wine, sweet wine, Will make Elysian shades not too fair, too divine. Soon was God Bacchus at meridian height; Flush'd were their cheeks, and bright eyes double bright. 107 Hamta. Garlands of every green and every scent From vales deflower' d or forest-trees branch-rent, In baskets of bright osier'd gold were brought High as the handles heap'd, to suit the thought Of every guest; that each, as he did please, Might fancy-fit his brows, silk-pillow'd at his ease. What wreath for Lamia ? What for Lycius ? What for the sage, old Apollonius ? Upon her aching forehead be there hung The leaves of willow and of adder's tongue; And for the youth, quick, let us strip for him The thyrsus, that his watching eyes may swim Into forgetf ulness ; and for the sage, Let spear-grass and the spiteful thistle wage War on his temples. Do not all charms fly At the mere touch of cold philosophy ? There was an awful rainbow once in heaven: We know her woof, her texture ; she is given In the dull catalogue of common things. Philosophy will clip an Angel's wings, Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, Empty the haunted air and gnomed mine, 108 TILL, CHECKING HIS LOVE-TBANCE, HE TOOK A CUP, FULL BRIMM'd." ILamia. Unweave a rainbow, as it erewhile made The tender-person'd Lamia melt into a shade. By her glad Lycius sitting, in chief place, Scarce saw in all the room another face, Till, checking his love trance, a cup he took Full brimm'd, and opposite sent forth a look 'Cross the broad table, to beseech a glance From his old teacher's wrinkled countenance. And pledge him. The bald-head philosopher Had fix'd his eye, without a twinkle or stir Full on the alarmed beauty of the bride. Brow-beating her fair form, and troubling her sweet pride. Lycius then press'd her hand, with devout touch As pale it lay upon the rosy couch. 'T was icy, and the cold ran through his veins ; Then sudden it grew hot, and all the pains Of an unnatural heat shot to his heart. " Lamia, what means this ? Wherefore dost thou start ? Know'st thou that man ? " Poor Lamia answer'd not. He gaz'd into her eyes, a!nd not a jot 110 Hamfa. Own'd they the lovelorn piteous appeal. More, more he gazed : his human senses reel ; Some hungry spell that loveliness absorbs; There was no recognition in those orbs. " Lamia ! " he cried, and no soft-ton'd reply, The many heard, and the loud revelry Grew hush ; the stately music no more breathes ; The myrtle sicken' d in a thousand wreaths. By faint deg:rees voice, lute, and pleasure ceased ; A deadly silence step by step increased. Until it seem'd a horrid presence there, And not a man but felt the terror in his hair. "Lamia!" heshriek'd; and nothing but the shriek With its sad echo did the silence break. " Begone, foul dream ! " he cry'd, gazing again In the bride's face, where now no azure vein Wander'd on fair-spac'd temples ; no soft bloom Misted the cheek ; no passion to illume The deep-recessed vision : — all was blight ; Lamia, no longer fair, there sat a deadly white. " Shut, shut those juggling eyes, thou ruthless man ! Turn them aside, wretch, or the righteous ban Of all the Gods, whose dreadful images Here represent their shadowy presences, 111 May pierce them on the sudden with the thorn Of painful bhndness, leaving thee forlorn, In trembling dotage to the feeblest fright Of conscience, for their long-offended might, Fcr all thine impious proud-heart sophistries. Unlawful magic, and enticing lies. Corinthians, look upon that gray-beard wretch ! Mark how, possess'd, his lashless eyelids stretch Around his demon eyes ! Corinthians, see ! My sweet bride withers at their potency." " Fool ! " said the sophist, in an under-tone Gruff with contempt ; which a death-nighing moan From Lycius answer'd, as heart-struck and lost. He sank supine beside the aching ghost. " Fool ! Fool ! " repeated he, while his eyes still Relented not, nor mov'd ; " from every ill Of life have I preserv'd thee to this day. And shall I see thee made a serpent's prey ? " Then Lamia breath'd death breath ; the sophist's eye. Like a sharp spear, went through her utterly, Keen, cruel, perceant, stinging; she, as well As her weak hand could any meaning tell, 112 ILamia. Motion'd him to be silent; vainly so, He look'd and look'd again a level — No! "A serpent!" echoed he; no sooner said, Than with a frightful scream she vanished; And Lycius' arms were empty of delight, As were his limbs of life, from that same night. On the high couch he lay; his friends came round, Supported him: no pulse, or breath they found. And, in its marriage robe, the heavy body wound. 113 THE END. ^108 ^o iO-r, Ho^ '•^ C^ .^L'n^'. ^o .1-^" .'..:»^!- ^-^ * *i^j ^ .^^m^^. \^,^^ y^^^i£^^ t^^^^<^ ».°-n*.. • ^ C,'*^ ♦J & WtRT X)KB1NOINC jfiiotwK-e Pa -. ep<— 0<:t 1965 0° ••"• - .^'-^^^ o^ •: ^ 4- LIBRARY OF CONGRESS