So that it smelt more balmy than its peers So that the jewel, safely casketed, Came forth, and in perfumed leaflets spread. LV. O Melancholy, linger here awhile! O Music, Music, breathe despondingly! LVI. Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe, Among the dead: She withers, like a palm LVII. O leave the palm to wither by itself; 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 LVIII. And, furthermore, her brethren wonder'd much Greatly they wonder'd what the thing might mean: They could not surely give belief, that such LIX. Therefore they watch'd a time when they might sift And seldom felt she any hunger-pain : LX. Yet they contrived to steal the Basil-pot, And so left Florence in a moment's space, LXI. O Melancholy, turn thine eyes away! From isles Lethean, sigh to us O sigh! Will die a death too lone and incomplete, LXII. Piteous she look'd on dead and senseless things, 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." LXIII. And so she pined, and so she died forlorn, No heart was there in Florence but did mourn And a sad ditty of this story borne From mouth to mouth through all the country pass'd: Still is the burthen sung “O cruelty, To steal my Basil-pot away from me!" THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. T. AGNES' EVE ST I. 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 were 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. 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 sculptured 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 in icy hoods and mails. III. Northward he turneth through a little door, But no The joys of all his life were said and sung: His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve: Another way he went, and soon among Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, And all night kept awake, for sinner's sake to grieve. IV. That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft; Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests, With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts. V. At length burst in the argent revelry, The brain, new-stuff'd, in youth, with triumphs gay Of old romance. These let us wish away, And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there, Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day, On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care, As she had heard old dames full many times declare. VI. They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, |