Page:The complete poetical works and letters of John Keats, 1899.djvu/169

Rh He ceased—she panted quick—and suddenly

Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone:

Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone.

Her eyes were open, but she still beheld,

Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep:

There was a painful change, that nigh expell'd

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 look'd so dreamingly.

'Ah, Porphyro!' said she, 'but even now

Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear,

Made tuneable with every sweetest vow;

And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear:

How changed thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear!

Give me that voice again, my Porphyro,

Those looks immortal, those complainings dear!

Oh leave me not in this eternal woe,

For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go.'

Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far

At these voluptuous accents, he arose,

Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star

Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose;

Into her dream he melted, as the rose

Blendeth its odour with the violet,—

Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows

Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet

Against the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon hath set.

'T is dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet:

'This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!'

'T is dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat:

'No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine!

Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine.—

Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring?

I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine,

Though thou forsakest a deceived thing;—

A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing.'

'My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride!

Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest?

Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil dyed?

Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest

After so many hours of toil and quest,

A famish'd 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.

'Hark! 't is an elfin storm from faery land,

Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed:

Arise—arise! the morning is at hand:—

The bloated wassailers will never heed:—

Let us away, my love, with happy speed;