LV. 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, finting with silver wan your marble tombs. LVI. Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe, From the deep throat of sad Melpomene! O leave the palm to wither by itself; Let not quick Winter chill its dying hour!It may not be those Baâlites of pelf, Her brethren, noted the continual shower From her dead eyes; and many a curious elf, Among her kindred, wonder'd that such dower Of youth and beauty should be thrown aside By one mark'd out to be a Noble's bride. LVIII. And, furthermore, her brethren wonder'd much A very nothing would have power to wean LIX. Therefore they watch'd a time when they might sift This hidden whim; and long they watch'd in vain; For seldom did she go to chapel-shrift, And seldom felt she any hunger-pain; And when she left, she hurried back, as swift As bird on wing to breast its eggs again; And, patient as a hen-bird, sat her there Beside her Basil, weeping through her hair. LX. Yet they contrived to steal the Basil-pot, And so left Florence in a moment's space, Never to turn again.-Away they went, With blood upon their heads, to banishment. LXI. O Melancholy, turn thine eyes away! O Music, Music, breathe despondingly! O Echo, Echo, on some other day, From isles Lethean, sigh to us-O sigh! Spirits of grief, sing not your " Well-a-way!" For Isabel, sweet Isabel, will die; Will die a death too lone and incomplete, Now they have ta'en away her Basil sweet. LXII. 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 "T was hid from her: "For cruel 'tis," said she, To steal my Basil-pot away from me." LXIII. And so she pined, and so she died forlorn, No heart was there in Florence but did mourn And a sad ditty of this story born From mouth to mouth through all the country pass'd Still is the burthen sung-" O cruelty, To steal my Basil-pot away from me!" IV. That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft; And so it chanced, for many a door was wide, From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide: The level chambers, ready with their pride, Were glowing to receive a thousand guests: The carved angels, ever eager-eyed, Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests, With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts. V At length burst in the argent revelry, The brain, new stuff'd, in youth, with triumphs gay VI. They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, As, supperless to bed they must retire, And couch supine their beauties, lily white; Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire. VII. Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline: The music, yearning like a God in pain, She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine, Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train Pass by-she heeded not at all: in vain Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, And back retired; not cool'd by high disdain. But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere: She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year. VIII. She danced along with vague, regardless eyes, Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short: The hallow'd hour was near at hand: she sighs Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort Of whisperers in anger, or in sport; 'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, Hoodwink'd with fairy fancy; all amort, Save to St. Agnes, and her lambs unshorn, And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. IX. So, purposing each moment to retire, She linger'd still. Meantime, across the moors, Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores All saints to give him sight of Madeline, But for one moment in the tedious hours, That he might gaze and worship all unseen; Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss-in sooth such things have been. X. He ventures in: let no buzz'd whisper tell: Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. XI. Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came, The sound of merriment and chorus bland: He startled her: but soon she knew his face, And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand, Saying," Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place; They are all here to-night, the whole bloodthirsty race! XII. "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: Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier.' XXVIII. Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced, Which when he heard, that minute did he bless, And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept, XXXIV. Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, And moan forth witless words with many a sigh; And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo!-how fast Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly. she slept. XXIX. Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet:O for some drowsy Morphean amulet! The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet, Affray his ears, though but in dying tone:The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. XXX. And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd, While he from forth the closet brought a heap Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd; With jellies soother than the creamy curd, And lucid syrops, tinct with cinnamon; Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one, From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon. XXXI. These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand Filling the chilly room with perfume light.- "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; Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache." A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing." BOOK I. DEEP in the shady sadness of a vale Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, Spreading a shade: the Naiad 'mid her reeds Along the margin-sand large foot-marks went, No further than to where his feet had stray'd, And slept there since. Upon the sodden ground His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead, Unsceptred; and his realmless eyes were closed; While his bow'd head seem'd list'ning to the Earth, His ancient mother, for some comfort yet. It seem'd no force could wake him from his place; But there came one, who with a kindred hand Touch'd his wide shoulders, after bending low With reverence, though to one who knew it not. She was a Goddess of the infant world; By her in stature the tall Amazon Had stood a pigmy's height: she would have ta'en Achilles by the hair and bent his neck; * If any apology be thought necessary for the appear. ance of the unfinished poem of HYPERION, the publishers beg to state that they alone are responsible, as it was printed at their particular request, and contrary to the wish of the author. The poem was intended to have been of equal length with ENDYMION, but the reception given to that work discouraged the author from proceeding. Or with a finger stay'd Ixion's wheel. Her face was large as that of Memphian sphinx, And ocean too, with all its solemn noise, |