English Narrative Poems Part 9

He follow'd through a lowly arched way, Brus.h.i.+ng the cobwebs with his lofty plume; 110 And as she mutter'd "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[155] 115 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: Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve,[156] 120 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!

G.o.d's help! my lady fair the conjuror plays This very night: good angels her deceive! 125 But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle[157] 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 closed a wond'rous riddlebook, 130 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[158] of legends old. 135

XVI

Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flus.h.i.+ng his brow, and in his pained heart Made purple riot[159]: then doth he propose A stratagem, that makes the beldame start: "A cruel man and impious thou art: 140 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," 145 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 pa.s.sion in her face: Good Angela, believe me by these tears; 150 Or I will, even in a moment's s.p.a.ce, Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears, And beard them, though they be more fang'd than wolves and bears."

XVIII

"Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul?

A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, church-yard thing, 155 Whose pa.s.sing-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, 160 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 165 That he might see her beauty unespied, And win perhaps that night a peerless bride, While legion'd fairies paced the coverlet, And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed.

Never on such a night have lovers met, 170 Since Merlin[160] paid his Demon all the monstrous debt.

XX

"It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame: "All cates[161] and dainties shall be stored there Quickly on this feast-night: by the tambour frame[162]

Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to spare, 175 For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare On such a catering trust my dizzy head.

Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in prayer The while: Ah! thou must needs the lady wed, Or may I never leave my grave among the dead." 180

XXI

So saying she hobbled off with busy fear.

The lover's endless minutes slowly pa.s.s'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, 185 Through many a dusky gallery, they gain The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd and chaste; Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain.

His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain.

XXII

Her falt'ring hand upon the bal.u.s.trade, 190 Old Angela was feeling for the stair, When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid, Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware: With silver taper's light, and pious care, She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led 195 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 moons.h.i.+ne, died: 200 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; 205 As though a tongueless nightingale should swell Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled in her dell.

XXIV

A cas.e.m.e.nt high[163] and triple arch'd there was, All garlanded with carven imag'ries Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-gra.s.s, 210 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,[164]

And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings,[165] 215 A s.h.i.+elded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings.

XXV

Full on this cas.e.m.e.nt shone the wintry moon, And threw warm gules[166] on Madeline's fair breast, As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon; Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, 220 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. 225

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 Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees: 230 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, 235 In 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; 240 Clasp'd like a missal[167] where swart Paynims pray; Blinded alike from suns.h.i.+ne and from rain, As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.

XXVIII

Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced, Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, 245 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 breathed himself: then from the closet crept, Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness, 250 And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept, And 'tween the curtains 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 255 A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet:-- O for some drowsy Morphean[168] amulet!

The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet, Affray his ears, though but in dying tone:-- 260 The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gone.

x.x.x

And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,[169]