Page:Keats - Poetical Works, DeWolfe, 1884.djvu/174



Lycius then pressed her hand, with devout touch, As pale it lay upon the rosy couch: 'Twas icy, and the cold ran through his veins; Then sudden it grew hot, and all the pains Of an unnatural heat shot to his heart. "Lamia, what means this? Wherefore dost thou start? Know'st thou that man!" Poor Lamia answer'd not. He gazed into her eyes, and not a jot Own'd they the lovelorn piteous appeal: More, more he gazed: his human senses reel: Some hungry spell that loveliness absorbs; There was no recognition in those orbs. "Lamia!" he cried—and no soft-toned reply. The many heard, and the loud revelry Grew hush: the stately music no more breathes; The myrtle sicken'd in a thousand wreathes. By faint degrees, voice, lute, and pleasure ceased; A deadly silence step by step increased, Until it seem'd a horrid presence there, And not a man but felt the terror in his hair. "Lamia!" he shriek'd; and nothing but the shriek With its sad echo did the silence break. "Begone, foul dream!" he cried, gazing again In the bride's face, where now no azure vein Wander'd on fair-spaced temples; no soft bloom Misted the cheek; no passion to illume The deep-recessed vision:—all was blight; Lamia, no longer fair, there sat a deadly white. "Shut, shut those juggling eyes, thou ruthless man! Turn them aside, wretch! or the righteous ban