To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame,

Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond The sound of merriment and chorus

bland.

He startled her; but soon she knew his face,

And grasped his fingers in her palsied hand,

Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place;

They are all here to-night, the whole bloodthirsty race!

"Get hence! get hence! there's dwarf-
ish Hildebrand;

He had a fever late, and in the fit
He cursed thee and thine, both house
and land:

Then there's that old Lord Maurice,
not a whit

More tame for his gray hairs-Alas me! flit!

Flit like a ghost away."-"Ah! gossip dear,

We 're safe enough; here in this armchair sit,

And tell me how"-"Good saints! not here, not here;

Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier."

God's help! my lady fair the conjurer

plays

This very night; good angels her deceive!

But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time to grieve."

Feebly she laugheth in the languid

moon,

While Porphyroupon her face dothlook, Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone Who keepeth closed a wondrous riddlebook,

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 of legends old.

Sudden a thought came like a fullblown rose,

Flushing his brow, and in his painéd heart

Made purple riot; then doth he propose

A stratagem, that makes the beldame start:

"A cruel man and impious thou art! 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."

"I will not harm her, by all saints I swear!"

Quoth Porphyro; "O, may I ne'er find grace,

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The while. Ah! thou must needs the lady wed,

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

fanged than wolves and bears."

"Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul?

A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing,

the dead."

And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries,

Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day;

Blissfully havened both from joy and pain;

Clasped like a missal where swart Paynims pray;

Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,

zonings,

A shielded scutcheon blushed with blood of queens and kings.

Full on this casement shone the win

bud again.

Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced,

Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, And listened to her breathing, if it chanced

To wake into a slumberous tenderness;

133

Open thine eyes, for meek Saint Agnes'

sake,

Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache."

Thus whispering, his warm, unnervéd

arm

Sank in her pillow. dream

Shaded was her

By the dusk curtains:-'t was a midnight charm Impossible to melt as icéd stream : The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam;

Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies: It seemed he never, never could redeem From such a steadfast spell his lady's

eyes;

So mused awhile, entoiled in wooféd fan

tasies.

Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, Tumultuous, and, in chords that tenderest be,

He played an ancient ditty, long since mute,

In Provence called, "La belle dame sans mercy";

Close to her ear touching the melody: Wherewith disturbed, she uttered a

soft moan;

He ceased-she panted quick-- and suddenly

Her blue affrayéd eyes wide open shone: Upon his knees he sank, pale as smoothsculptured stone.

Hereyes were open, but she still beheld, Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep: There was a painful change, that nigh expelled

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 looked so dreamingly.

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

now

Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine

ear,

rest

After so many hours of toil and quest, A famished 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."

hinges groans.

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