xvi. Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart Made purple riot: then doth he propose A stratagem, that makes the beli ame start: • A cruel man and impious thou art: Sweet ladv, 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 find 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.” XVIII. . Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul? A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing, Whose passing-bell may cre 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 woeful, 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 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, Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt.

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 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.”

xxi. 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, pleased amain. His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain.

XXii. Her fault'ring hand upon the balmstrade, Old Angela was feeling for the stair, When Madeline, St Agnes' charined 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 do

Xxiii. Out went the taper as she hurricó in; Its little smoke, in pallid inoonshine, died. 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 haliny side, As though a tongueless nightingale slould swell Iler throat in vain, and die, heart-stilled, in lies deli

XXIV. A casement high and triple-arch'd there was, All garlanded with carven imageries Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-crew, And diamonded with panes of quaint device, Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask dwin's; And in the 'midst, 'mong thousand heraldrico, And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queensu 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 dress, Save wings, for heaven:-Porphyro grew faint She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal unt

xxviii. Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced, Porphyro gazed 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 breathed himself: then from the closet crept, Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness, And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept, And 'tween the curtains peepid, where, lo!—how fast she slept. Mviv. 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 hoisterous, 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.

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 plun, and gourd; with jellies soother than the creamy curd, And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon; Manna and dates, in arosv transferr'd From Fer; 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! Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite: open thine eyes, for meek St Agnes' sake, or 1 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:–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 redeen From such a stedfast spell his lady's eyes; So mused awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies.

xxxiii. Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, Tumultuous, and, in chords that tenderest be, he playd an ancient ditty, long since mute, --in Provence call d, . La belle dame “ans mercy -close to her ear touching the melody:where with disturbod, she utter'd a soft moan He ceased—she panted quick-and suddenly tler blue affrayed eyes wide open shone:

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 flaggon by his side:

The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his he But his sagacious eye an inmate owns: By one, and one, the bolts full easy slideThe chains lie silent on the footworn stones; The key turns, and the door upon its hinges gram

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-nightmared. 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 to

BOOK i.

DEEP in the shady sadness of a vale
Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn,
Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star,
Sat grey-hair'd Saturn, quiet as a stone,
Still as the silence round about his lair;
Forest on forest hung about his head
Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there,
Not so much life as on a summer's day
Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass,
But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.
A stream went voiceless by, still deadened more
By reason of his fallen divinity
Spreading a shade: the Naiad 'mid her reeds
Press'd her cold finger closer to her lips.

Along the margin-sand large foot-marks went, No further than to where his feet had stray'd, And slept there since. Upon the sodden ground His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead, Unsceptred; and his realmless eyes where closed; While his bow'd head seem'd list ning to the Earth, His ancient mother, for some comfort yet.

It seem'd no force could wake him from his place; But there came one, who with a kindred hand Touch'd his wide shoulders, after bending low With reverence, though to one who knew it not. She was a Goddess of the infant world; By her in stature the tall Amazon Had stood a pigmy's height: she would have ta'en Achilles by the hair and bent his neck;

" If any apology be thought necessary for the appearance of the unfinished poem of Hyperton, the publishers beg to state that they alone are responsible, as it was printed at their particular request, and contrary to the wish of the author. The poem was intended to bave been of equal length with Exprwox, but the reception given to that work discouraged the author from proceeding.

Or with a finger stay’d Ixion's wheel. Her face was large as that of Memphian sphino Pedestald haply in a palace-court, when sages look'd to Egypt for their lore. But oh! how unlike marble was that face: How beautiful, if sorrow had not made Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self. There was a listening fear in her regard, As if calamity had but begun; As if the vanward clouds of evil days Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear Was with its stored thunder labouring up. One hand she press'd upon that aching spot Where beats the human heart, as if just there, Though an immortal, she felt cruel pain. The other upon Saturn's bended neck She laid, and to the level of his ear Leaning with parted lips, some words she spake In solemn tenour and deep organ tone: Some mourning words, which in our feeble tongo would come in these like accents, obo" frail To that large utterance of the early God” • Saturn, look up!—though wherefore, poor I have no comfort for thee, no not onto I cannot say, “O wherefore sleepest thou! For heaven is parted from thee, and the earth Knows thee not, thus afflicted, for a Go"; And ocean too, with all its solemu noise, Has from thy sceptre pass'd; and all the air ls emptied of thine hoary majesty. Thy thunder, conscious of the new command, Rumbles reluctant o'er our fallen hou": And thy sharp lightning in unpracto hand, Scorches and burns our once serene dom” o aching time!o moments big as years' All as ye pass swell out the monstrous truth, And press it so upon our weary griefs That unbelief has not a space to brea”. Saturn, sleep on:—0 thoughtless, why did I Thus violate thy slumbrous solitude' why should I ope thy melancholy eyes' Saturn, sleep on! while at thy feet I”