XXXI.

These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand
On golden dishes and in baskets bright
Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand
In the retired quiet of the night,

Filling the chilly room with perfume light.
"And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake!
Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite :
Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake,
Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache."

XXXII.

275

Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm

280

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:

285

It seem'd he never, never could redeem

From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes; So mus'd awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies.

290

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 merci,"
Close to her ear touching the melody;
Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft moan:
He ceased she panted quick and suddenly

Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone:

Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone.

295

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,

300

And moan forth witless words with many a sigh; While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep; Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye, Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly.

305

XXXV.

"Ah, Porphyro ! " said she, "but even now Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, Made tuneable with every sweetest vow;

And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear:

310

How chang'd thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear!
Give me that voice again, my Porphyro,

Those looks immortal, those complainings dear!

Oh leave me not in this eternal woe,

For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go."

XXXVI.

Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far
At these voluptuous accents, he arose,
Ethereal, flushed, and like a throbbing star
Seen 'mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose;
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

milton

Against the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon hath set.

315

320

XXXVII.

ee

'Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet:
This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!"
'T is 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."

325

330

XXXVIII.

"My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride!

Say, may

I be for aye thy vassal blest?

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, sav'd 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 Madeline, to no rude infidel."

XXXIX.

335

340

ee

Hark! 't is an elfin-storm from fairy land,
Of haggard 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,

-

345

350

For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee."

XL.

355

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,
Flutter'd in the besïeging wind's uproar;
And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.

360

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 :

365

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.

And they are gone: ay, ages long ago

370

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-nightmar'd. Angela the old

375

Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform;
The Beadsman, after thousand aves told,
For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold.

NOTES.

The great odes which I have set at the beginning of this volume seem to me to be the greatest monuments to the genius of Keats, although without them he must still be ranked among the great poets. In connection with them may be quoted the words of Matthew Arnold, since his quotation is from another unfinished ode. "Shakespearian work it is; not imitative, indeed, of Shakespeare, but Shakespearian, because its expression has that rounded perfection and felicity of loveliness of which Shakespeare is the great master. To show such work is to praise it. Let us now end by delighting ourselves with a fragment of it, too broken to find a place among the pieces which follow, but far too beautiful to be lost. It is a fragment of an ode for May-day. O might I, he cries to May, O might I

1. Ode to a Nightingale. This was suggested, Lord Houghton says, by the song of a nightingale which built its nest in the spring of 1819 close to Wentworth Place. "Keats took great pleasure in her song, and one morning took his chair from the breakfast table to the grass plot under a plum tree, where he remained between two and three hours. He then reached the house with some scraps of paper in his hand which he soon put together in the form of this ode." It was written during the period of depression which followed the death of eats's brother Tom.

1. 16. Hippocrene. A spring on Mt. Helicon, sacred to the Muses. 3 69. Charmed, etc. These two lines, with their richness of sugestion, their witchery of beguilement, their inexhaustible charm, would