Page:Keats - Poetical Works, DeWolfe, 1884.djvu/188

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From his lorn voice, and past his loamed ears Had made a miry channel for his tears.

Strange sound it was, when the pale shadow spake;
 * For there was striving, in its piteous tongue,

To speak as when on earth it was awake,
 * And Isabella on its music hung:

Langor there was in it, and tremulous shake,
 * As in a palsied Druid's harp unstrung;

And through it moan'd a ghostly under-song, Like hoarse night-gusts sepulchral briars among.

Its eyes, though wild, were still all dewy bright
 * With love, and kept all phantom fear aloof

From the poor girl by magic of their light,
 * The while it did unthread the horrid woof

Of the late darken'd time—the murderous spite
 * Of pride and avarice—the dark pine roof

In the forest—and the sodden turfed dell, Where, without any word, from stabs he fell.

Saying moreover, "Isabel, my sweet!
 * Red whortleberries droop above my head,

And a large flint-stone weighs upon my feet;
 * Around me beeches and high chestnuts shed

Their leaves and prickly nuts; a sheep-fold bleat
 * Comes from beyond the river to my bed:

Go, shed one tear upon my heather-bloom, And it shall comfort me within the tomb.