Page:The Spirit of the Age.djvu/298

290

&ensp;And on her hair a glory, like a saint: &ensp;She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest, &ensp;Save wings, for heaven:—Porphyro grew faint: &ensp;She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.

"Anon his heart revives: her vespers done, &ensp;Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees; &ensp;Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one; &ensp;Loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees &ensp;Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees: &ensp;Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed, &ensp;Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees, &ensp;In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, &ensp;But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled.

"Soon trembling in her soft and chilly nest, &ensp;In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay, &ensp;Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd &ensp;Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away &ensp;Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day: &ensp;Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain; &ensp;Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray; &ensp;Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, &ensp;As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again."

With the rich beauties and the dim obscurities of lines like these, let us contrast the Verses addressed To a Tuft of early Violets by the fastidious author of the Baviad and Mæviad.—

"Sweet flowers! that from your humble beds Thus prematurely dare to rise. &ensp;And trust your unprotected heads To cold Aquarius' watery skies.