Ah! this is holiday to what was felt She gaz'd into the fresh-thrown mould, as though One glance did fully all its secrets tell; Clearly she saw, as other eyes would know Pale limbs at bottom of a crystal well; Upon the murderous spot she seem'd to grow, Like to a native lily of the dell : Then with her knife, all sudden, she began To dig more fervently than misers can. Soon she turn'd up a soiled glove, whereon Hersilk had play'd in purple phantasies, She kiss'd it with a lip more chill than stone, And put it in her bosom, where it dries And freezes utterly unto the bone Those dainties made to still an infant's Nurture besides, and life, from human fears, From the fast mouldering head there shut from view: So that the jewel, safely casketed, Came forth, and in perfuméd leafits spread. O Melancholy, linger here awhile! O Music, Music, breathe despondingly! O Echo, Echo, from some sombre isle, Unknown, Lethean, sigh to us-O sigh! Spirits in grief, lift up your heads, and smile; Lift up your heads, sweet Spirits, heavily, And make a pale light in your cypress glooms, [tombs. Tinting with silver wan your marble Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe, From the deep throat of sad Melpomene ! Never to turn again.-Away they went, With blood upon their heads, to banishment. O Melancholy, turn thine eyes away! From isles Lethean, sigh to us--O sigh! Spirits of grief, sing not your Well-away!" For Isabel, sweet Isabel, will die : Will die a death too lone and incomplete, Now they have ta'en away her Basil sweet. Piteous she look'd on dead and senseless things, Asking for her lost Basil amorously: And with melodious chuckle in the strings Of her lorn voice, she oftentimes would cry After the Pilgrim in his wanderings, To ask him where her Basil was; and why 'Twas hid from her: "For cruel 'tis," said she, "To steal my Basil-pot away from me." And so she pined, and so she died forlorn, mourn In pity of her love, so overcast. And a sad ditty of this story born From mouth to mouth through all the country pass'd: Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish Hildebrand; He had a fever late, and in the fit He cursed thee and thine, both house and land: Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit More tame for his gray hairs-Alas me! flit! Flit like a ghost away."-" Ah, Gossip dear, We're safe enough; here in this armchair sit, And tell me how "-" Good Saints! not here, not here; "Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier." He follow'd through a lowly arched way, Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume; And as she mutter'd "Well-a-well-aday! He found him in a little moonlight When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously." "St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes' EveYet men will murder upon holy days: Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve, And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays, To venture so: it fills me with amaze To see thee, Porphyro!-St. Agnes' Eve! God's help! my lady fair the conjurer plays This very night; good angels her deceive! But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time to grieve." Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon, While Porphyro upon her face doth look, Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone Who keepeth clos'd a wond'rous riddlebook, As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told His lady's purpose; and he scarce could brook And beard them, though they be more fang'd than wolves and bears." "Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul? A poor, weak, palsy-stricken churchyard thing, Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll; Whose prayers for thee, each ́morn and evening, Were never miss'd." doth she bring Thus plaining, A gentler speech from burning Porphyro; So woful, and of such deep sorrowing, That Angela gives promise she will do Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy, Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide Him in a closet, of such privacy |