When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer, Or look with ruffian passion in her face: Good Angela, believe me by these tears; 150 Or I will, even in a moment's space, Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears, And beard them, though they be more fang'd than wolves and bears." XVIII. "Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul? A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, church-yard thing, 155 Were never miss'd." Thus plaining, doth she bring So woeful, and of such deep sorrowing, 160 That Angela gives promise she will do Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. XIX. Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy, Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide 165 That he might see her beauty unespied, And win perhaps that night a peerless bride, Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt. 170 XX. 66 It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame: 175 For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare On such a catering trust my dizzy head. Wait here, my child, with patience kneel in prayer XXI. So saying she hobbled off with busy fear. 180 The dame return'd, and whisper'd in his ear From fright of dim espial. Safe at last, 185 The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd and chaste; Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain. His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain. XXII. Her faltering hand upon the balustrade, 190 Old Angela was feeling for the stair, When Madeline, St. Agnes' charméd maid, With silver taper's light, and pious care, She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray'd and fled. XXIII. Out went the taper as she hurried in; Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died: To spirits of the air, and visions wide: No utter'd syllable, or, woe betide! 195 200 205 As though a tongueless nightingale should swell Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell. XXIV. A casement high and triple-arch'd there was, Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings; 210 215 A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings. XXV. Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, Porphyro grew faint: She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. 220 225 XXVI. Anon his heart revives: her vespers done, 230 But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. XXVII. Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, 235 Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day ; As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. XXVIII. Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced, 240 245 And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanced To wake into a slumberous tenderness; Which when he heard, that minute did he bless, And breathed himself: then from the closet crept, 250 And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept, And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo!—how fast she slept. XXIX. Then by the bedside, where the faded moon 255 260 The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. XXX. And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, In blanchéd linen, smooth, and lavender'd, While he from forth the closet brought a heap Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd; 265 With jellies soother than the creamy curd, And lucent syrups, tinct with cinnamon; Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd From Fez; and spicéd dainties, every one, From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon. 270 XXXI. These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand Filling the chilly room with perfume light. Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache.” XXXII. Thus whispering, his warm, unnervéd arm 275 280 Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream By the dusk curtains: - 'twas a midnight charm 285 The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam; XXXIII. Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, Her blue affrayéd eyes wide open shone: Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone. XXXIV. Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, 290 295 300 |