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THE EVE OF ST. AGNES.

Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous | Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest After so many hours of toil and quest,

eye, Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dream- A famish'd pilgrim,-saved by miracle.

ingly.

XXXV.

"Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, Made tunable 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."

XXXVI.

Beyond a mortal man impassioned far
At these voluptuous accents, he arose,
Ethereal, flushed, 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.

XXXVII.

'Tis dark; quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet;

"This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!" 'Tis 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."

XXXVIII.

"My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride! Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest? Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil dyed?

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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.

XXXIX.

"Hark! 'tis an elfin storm from fairy 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;
There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see,—
Drowned all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead.
Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be,
For o'er the southern moors I have a home
for thee."

XL.

She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around, At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears— Down the wide stairs a darkling way they

found,

In all the house was heard no human sound. A chain-drooped lamp was flickering by each door;

The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound,

Fluttered in the besieging wind's uproar; And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.

XLI.

They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall!
Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide,
Where lay the porter, in uneasy sprawl,
With a huge empty flagon by his side;
The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his
hide,

But his sagacious eye an inmate owns;
By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide;
The chains lie silent on the footworn stones;
The key turns, and the door upon its hinges
groans.

XLII.

And they are gone! ay, ages long ago These lovers fled away into the storm.

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cushion down

"Arise, arise, Xarifa! I see Andalla's face—“Why rise ye not, Xarifa-nor lay your
He bends him to the people with a calm and
princely grace;

Through all the land of Xeres and banks of
Guadelquiver

Rode forth bridegroom so brave as he, so
brave and lovely never.

Yon tall plume waving o'er his brow, of purple mixed with white,

I guess 't was wreathed by Zara, whom he will wed to-night.

Rise up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the golden cushion down;

Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town!

What aileth thee, Xarifa-what makes thine eyes look down?

Why stay ye from the window far, nor gaze with all the town?

Why gaze ye not, Xarifa—with all the gazing town?

Hear, hear the trumpet how it swells, and how the people cry ;

He stops at Zara's palace-gate-why sit ye still-O, why?"

-" At Zara's gate stops Zara's mate; in him

shall I discover

The dark-eyed youth pledged me his truth
with tears, and was my lover?
I will not rise, with weary eyes, nor lay my
cushion down,

To gaze on false Andalla with all the gazing
town!"
ANONYMOUS, (Spanish.)
Translation of JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART.

THE DAY-DREAM.

THE SLEEPING PALACE.

THE DAY-DREAM.

THE varying year with blade and sheaf
Clothes and re-clothes the happy plains;
Here rests the sap within the leaf;

Here stays the blood along the veins.
Faint shadows, vapors lightly curled,
Faint murmurs from the meadows come,
Like hints and echoes of the world
To spirits folded in the womb.

Soft lustre bathes the range of urns
On every slanting terrace-lawn,
The fountain to his place returns,

Deep in the garden lake withdrawn.
Here droops the banner on the tower,
On the hall-hearths the festal fires,
The peacock in his laurel bower,

The parrot in his gilded wires.
Roof-haunting martins warm their eggs;
In these, in those the life is stayed.
The mantles from the golden pegs
Droop sleepily. No sound is made-
Not even of a gnat that sings.

More like a picture seemeth all,
Than those old portraits of old kings
That watch the sleepers from the wall.

Here sits the butler with a flask

Between his knees, half-drained; and there
The wrinkled steward at his task;
The maid-of-honor blooming fair,
The page has caught her hand in his;
Her lips are severed as to speak;
His own are pouted to a kiss;

The blush is fixed upon her cheek.

Till all the hundred summers pass,
The beams, that through the oriel shine,
Make prisms in every carven glass,

And beaker brimmed with noble wine.
Each baron at the banquet sleeps;
Grave faces gathered in a ring.
His state the king reposing keeps:
He must have been a jolly king.

All round a hedge upshoots, and shows
At distance like a little wood;
Thorns, ivies, woodbine, mistletoes,
And grapes with bunches red as blood;

All creeping plants, a wall of green

Close-matted, burr and brake and briar, And glimpsing over these, just seen,

High up, the topmost palace-spire.

When will the hundred summers die,

And thought and time be born again, And newer knowledge, drawing nigh, Bring truth that sways the soul of men? Here all things in their place remain, As all were ordered, ages since. Come Care and Pleasure, Hope and Pain, And bring the fated fairy Prince!

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY.

YEAR after year unto her feet,
She lying on her couch alone,
Across the purple coverlet,

The maiden's jet-black hair has grown; On either side her tranced form

Forth streaming from a braid of pearl; The slumb'rous light is rich and warm, And moves not on the rounded curl.

The silk star-broidered coverlid Unto her limbs itself doth mould, Languidly ever; and, amid

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Her full black ringlets, downward rolled, Glows forth each softly-shadowed arm, With bracelets of the diamond bright. Her constant beauty doth inform

Stillness with love, and day with light. She sleeps; her breathings are not heard In palace chambers far apart. The fragrant tresses are not stirred

That lie upon her charmed heart. She sleeps; on either hand upswells

The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest; She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells A perfect form in perfect rest.

THE ARRIVAL.

ALL precious things, discovered late,
To those that seek them issue forth;
For love in sequel works with fate,
And draws the veil from hidden worth.
He travels far from other skies-

His mantle glitters on the rocks--
A fairy Prince, with joyful eyes,

And lighter-footed than the fox.

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MARY OF CASTLE CARY.

SERRANA.

"Saw ye my wee thing? saw ye my ain thing?

Saw ye my true-love down by yon lea? Crossed she the meadow, yestreen, at the gloaming?

Sought she the burnie, where flowers the haw-tree?

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Sair gloomed his dark brow; blood-red his cheek grew;

Wild flashed the fire frae his red-rolling ee! "Ye's rue sair this morning your boasting and scorning,

Defend ye, fause traitor; fu' loudly ye lie!"

"Awa wi' beguiling," cried the youth smiling; Aff gade the bonnet, the lint-white locks flee; The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom sha'ing,

"Her hair it is lint-white; her skin it is milk- Fair stood the loved maid wi' the dark-rolling

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ee!

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