Page:Keats - Poetical Works, DeWolfe, 1884.djvu/201

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 * The sound of merriment and chorus bland:
 * He startled her; but soon she knew his face,
 * And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand,
 * Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place;

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


 * 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 arm-chair sit,
 * And tell me how"—"Good Saints! not here, not here;

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


 * Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume;
 * And as she mutter'd "Well-a—well-a-day!"
 * He found him in a little moonlight room,
 * Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb.
 * "Now tell me where is Madeline," said he,
 * "O tell me Angela, by the holy loom
 * "Which none but secret sisterhood may see,

When they St. Agnes 'wool are weaving piously."