With jellies soother than the creamy curd, And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon; Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one, From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon.

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!

66

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.

Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm
Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream
By the dusk curtains:-'twas a midnight charm
Impossible to melt as iced stream:

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

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 ceased-she panted quick-and suddenly
Her blue affrayed 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:
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 would keep;
Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye,
Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly.

XXXV.

"Ah, Porphyro!" said she, " but even now

66

'Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear,

"Made tuneable with every sweetest vow;
"And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear:

"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, 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 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:

66

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!

66

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."

XXXVIII.

"My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride!
"Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest?

"Thy beauty's shield, heart-shap'd and vermeil dyed?

"Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest

66

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 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 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."

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.

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 coffin-worm,
Were long be-nightmar'd. Angela the old
Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform;
The Beadsman, after thousand aves told,
For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold.

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI.

1.

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,1
Alone and palely loitering;

The sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.

2.

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,1
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,

And the harvest's done.

3.

I see a lily on thy brow,

With anguish moist and fever dew;

And on thy cheek a fading rose

Fast withereth too.

4.

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.

1

1 This is the reading in The Indicator for May 10, 1820 (published by Leigh Hunt). Lord Houghton's copy reads: O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms. For other variations consult Forman's Keats.