By the dusk curtains ;—'twas a midnight charm
Impossible to melt as icèd stream :
The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam;
Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies;
It seem'd he never, never could redeem

From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes;
So mus'd awhile, entoil'd in woofèd fantasies

XXXIII.

Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,
Tumultuous,-and, in chords that tenderest be,
He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute,
In Provence call’d, “ La belle dame sans mercy:"
Close to her ear touching the melody ;-
Wherewith disturb’d she utter'd a soft moan:
He ceas'd—she panted quick—and suddenly

Her blue affrayèd eyes wide open shone:
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth sculptured stone

XXXIV.

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

XXXV.

“ Ah Porphyro !” said she, “but even now
Thy voice was a sweet tremble in mine ear,
Made tunable with every sweetest vow;
And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear;
How chang'd 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 wo,
For if thou diest, my love, I know not where to go"

XXXVI.

Beyond a mortal man impassion'd farl5
At these voluptuous accents he arose,
Ethereal, flush'd, und like a throbbing star

Seen 'mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose ;
Into her dream he melted, as the rose
Blendeth its odors 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.

'T is dark; quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet:
“ This is no dream ; my bride, my Madeline !"
'Tis dark: the icèd gusts still rave and beat.
“ No dream, alas ! alas ! and wo is mine;
Porphyro will leave me here to rave 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 unprunèd wing.”

XXXVIII.

“ My Madeline, sweet dreamer I lovely bride!
Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest?
Thy beauty's shield, heart-shap'd, and vermeil-dyed ? 18
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;
There are no ears to hear, nor eyes to see,-
Drown'd 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-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door;
The arras, rife with horseman, hawk and hound,

Flutter'd in the besieging winds’ uproar;
And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. 17

XLI.

They glide like phantoms into the wide hall;
Like phantoms to the inner porch they glide,
Where lay the porter, in uneasy sprawl,
With a huge empty flagon by his side;
The watchful blood-hound 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 foot-worn 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.
That night the Baron dreamt of many a wo,
And all his warrior guests, with shade and form
Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm,
Were long benightmared. Angela the old
Died palsy-twitch’d, with meagre face deform:

The beadsman, after thousand aves told,
For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold.

1“ The Eve of St. Agnes.”—St. Agnes was a Roman virgin, who suffered martyrdom in the reign of Dioclesian. Her parents, a few days after her decease, are said to have had a vision of her, surrounded by angels and attended by a white lamb, which afterwards became sacred to her. In the Catholic Church, formerly, the nuns used to bring a couple of lambs to her altar during mass. The superstition is (for I believe it is still to be found), that, by taking certain measures of divination, damsels may get a sight of their future husbands in a dream. The ordinary process seems to have been by fasting. Aubrey (as quoted in “Brand's Popular Antiquities") mentions another, which is, to take a row of pins, and pull them out one by one, saying a Paternoster; after which, upon going to bed, the dream is sure to ensue. Brand quotes Ben Jonson :

And on sweet St. Agnes' night,
Pleas'd you with the promis'd sight,
Some of husbands, some of lovers,
Which an empty dream discovers.

2“ The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold.”—Could he have se. lected an image more warm and comfortable in itself, and, therefore, better contradicted by the season? We feel the plump, feathery bird, in his nook, shivering in spite of his natural household warmth, and staring out at the strange weather. The hare cringing through the chill grass is very piteous, and the “silent flock” very patient; and how quiet and gentle, as well as wintry, are all these circumstances, and fit to open a quiet and gentle poem! The breath of the pilgrim, likened to “pious incense," completes them, and is a simile in admirable “ keeping," as the painters call it; that is to say, is thoroughly harmonious with itself and all that is going on. The breath of the pilgrim is visible, so is that of a censer; the censer, after its fashion, may be said to pray; and its breath, like the pilgrim's, ascends to heaven. Young students of poetry may, in this image alone, see what imagination is, under one of its most poetical forms, and how thoroughly it “ tells.” There is no part of it unfitting. It is not applicable in one point, and the reverse in another.

3“ Past the sweet Virgin's picture,” &c.—What a complete feel. ing of winter-time is in this stanza, together with an intimation of those Catholic elegances, of which we are to have more in the poem!

4: To think how they may ache,” &c.—The germ of the thought, or something like it, is in Dante, where he speaks of the figures that perform the part of sustaining columns in architecture. Keats had read Dante in Mr. Cary's translation, for which he had a great respect. He began to read him afterwards in Italian, which language he was mastering with surprising quickness. A friend of ours has a copy of Ariosto containing admiring marks of his pen.

But the same thought may have struck one poet as well as another. Perhaps there are few that have not felt something like it on seeing the figures upon tombs. Here, however, for the first time, we believe, in English poetry, it is expressed, and with what feeling and elegance ! Most wintry

as well as penitential is the word “aching” in “icy hoods and mails ;" and most felicitous the introduction of the Catholic idea in the word “purgatorial.” The very color of the rails is made to assume a meaning, and to shadow forth the gloom of the punishment

Imprisoned in black purgatorial rails.

5“ Flattered to tears.”—This “flattered” is exquisite. A true poet is by nature a metaphysician; far greater in general than metaphysicians professed. He feels instinctively what the others get at by long searching. In this word“ flattered” is the whole theory of the secret of tears; which are the tributes, more or less worthy, of self-pity to self-love. Whenever we shed tears, we take pity on ourselves; and we feel, if we do not consciously say so, that we deserve to have the pity taken. In many cases, the pity is just, and the self-love not to be construed unhandsomely. In many others it is the reverse ; and this is the reason why selfish people are so often found among the tear-shedders, and why they seem never to shed them for others. They ima. gine themselves in the situation of others, as indeed the most generous must, before they can sympathize ; but the generous console as well as weep.

Selfish tears are niggardly of every. thing but themselves. - Flattered to tears.”

Yes, the

poor old man was moved, by the sweet music, to think that so sweet a thing was intended for his comfort, as well as for others. He felt that the mysterious kindness of Heaven did not omit even his poor, old, sorry case, in its numerous workings and visitations; and, as he wished to live longer, he began to think that his wish was to be attended to. He had begun to think how much he had suffered-how much he had suffered wrongly and mysteriously--and how much better a man he was, with all his sins, than fate seemed to have taken him for. Hence he found himself deserving of tears and self-pity, and he shed them, and felt soothed by his poor, old, loving self. Not undeservedly either; for he was a painstaking pilgrim, aged, patient, and humble, and willingly suffered cold and toil for the sake of something better than he