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Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou | The bride had consented, the gallant came late;

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Ascend to heaven, in honor of my Love.

Were I as high as heaven above the plain,
And you, my Love, as humble and as low
As are the deepest bottoms of the main,
Whereso'er you were, with you my Love should

go.

Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies,
My love should shine on you like to the sun,
And look upon you with ten thousand eyes
Till heaven waxed blind, and till the world were
done.

Whereso'er I am, below, or else above you,

(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word),

"O, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochin

var?"

"I long wooed your daughter, my suit you de. nied;

Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide,

And now I am come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine, There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Loch

invar."

The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up,

He quaffed off the wine, and threw down the cup. She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,

With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,

"Now tread we a measure," said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did
fume,

Whereso'er you are, my heart shall truly love you. And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet

JOSHUA SYLVESTER.

and plume;

And the bridemaidens whispered, "'T were better by far

To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."

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One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near;

So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung; "She is won! we are gone! over bank, bush, and scaur;

var.

They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,

He swam the Eske River where ford there was

There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan;

none;

But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;

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The maid and page renewed their strife;
The palace banged, and buzzed and clackt;
And all the long-pent stream of life
Dashed downward in a cataract.

And last of all the king awoke,

And in his chair himself upreared, And yawned, and rubbed his face, and spoke : "By holy rood, a royal beard ! How say you? we have slept, my lords; My beard has grown into my lap." The barons swore, with many words, 'T was but an after-dinner's nap.

"Pardy!" returned the king, "but still
My joints are something stiff or so.
My lord, and shall we pass the bill
I mentioned half an hour ago?"
The chancellor, sedate and vain,
In courteous words returned reply;
But dallied with his golden chain,
And, smiling, put the question by.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

THE "SLEEPING BEAUTY" DEPARTS WITH HER LOVER.

FROM "THE DAY DREAM."

AND on her lover's arm she leant,
And round her waist she felt it fold;
And far across the hills they went
In that new world which is the old.
Across the hills, and far away
Beyond their utmost purple rim,
And deep into the dying day,
The happy princess followed him.

"I'd sleep another hundred years,
O love, for such another kiss!"
"O wake forever, love," she hears,
"O love, 't was such as this and this."
And o'er them many a sliding star,

And many a merry wind was borne, And, streamed through many a golden bar,

The twilight melted into morn.

"O eyes long laid in happy sleep!" "O happy sleep, that lightly fled!" "O happy kiss, that woke thy sleep!" "O love, thy kiss would wake the dead!" And o'er them many a flowing range Of vapor buoyed the crescent bark; And, rapt through many a rosy change, The twilight died into the dark.

"A hundred summers! can it be? And whither goest thou, tell me where! "O, seek my father's court with me, For there are greater wonders there."

And o'er the hills, and far away
Beyond their utmost purple rim,
Beyond the night, across the day,
Through all the world she followed him.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

THE EVE OF ST. AGNES.

I.

ST. AGNES' EVE, - ah, bitter chill it was
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;

The brain, new-stuffed, in youth, with triumphs

gay

Of old romance. These let us wish away;
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one lady there,
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day,
On love, and winged St. Agnes' saintly care,
As she had heard old dames full many times de-

clare.

VI.

They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve,
Young virgins might have visions of delight,
And soft adorings from their loves receive

The hare limped trembling through the frozen Upon the honeyed middle of the night,

grass,

And silent was the flock in woolly fold:

If ceremonies due they did aright;

As, supperless to bed they must retire,

Numb were the beadman's fingers while he told And couch supine their beauties, lily white;
His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
Like pious incense from a censer old,
Seemed taking flight for heaven without a death,
Past the sweet virgin's picture, while his prayer
he saith.

Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require
Of heaven with upward eyes for all that they
desire.

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VII.

a

Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline;
The music, yearning like a god in pain,
She scarcely heard; her maiden eyes divine,
Fixed on the floor, saw many sweeping train
Pass by, she heeded not at all; in vain
Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier,
And back retired; not cooled by high disdain,
But she saw not; her heart was otherwhere;
She sighed 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 hallowed hour was near at hand; she sighs
Amid the timbrels, and the thronged resort
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport;
Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn,
Hoodwinked 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 lingered still. Meantime, across the moors,
Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire
For Madeline. Beside the portal doors,
Buttressed from moonlight, stands he, and im-

plores

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 buzzed whisper tell;
All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords
Will storm his heart, love's feverous citadel;

For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes, | Who keepeth closed a wondrous riddle-bock,

Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords,
Whose very dogs would execrations howl
Against his lineage; not one breast affords

Him any mercy, in that mansion foul,

As spectacled she sits in chimney nook.
But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she tol!
His lady's purpose; and he scarce could brook
Tears, at the thought of those enchantments coll,

Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old.

XI.

Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came,
Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand,
To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame,
Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond
The sound of merriment and chorus bland.
He startled her; but soon she knew his face,
And grasped 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.

XVI.

Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose,
Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart
Made purple riot; then doth he propose
A stratagem, that makes the beldame start:
"A cruel man and impious thou art!
Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep and dream
Alone with her good angels, far apart
From wicked men like thee. Go, go! I deem
Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst

seem."

XVII.

"I will not harm her, by all saints I swear!" "Get hence ! get hence! there's dwarfish Hilde- Quoth Porphyro; "O, may I ne'er find grace

brand;

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 arm-chair sit,
And tell me how"
"Good saints, not here, not

here;

Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier."

XIII.

He followed through a lowly arched way,
Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume;
And as she muttered "Well-a - well-a-day!"
He found him in a little moonlight room,
Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb.
"Now tell me where is Madeline," said he,
"O, tell me, Angela, by the holy loom
Which none but secret sisterhood may see,
When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously."

XIV.

"St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes' Eve, -
Yet 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."

xv.

Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon,
While Porphyro upon her face doth look,
Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone

When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer,
If one of her soft ringlets I displace,
Or look with ruffian passion in her face;
Good Angela, believe me by these tears;
Or I will, even in a moment's space,
Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears,
And beard them, though they be more fangel
than wolves and bears."

XVIII.

"Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul?
A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, church-yard thing,
Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll;
Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening,
Were never missed." Thus plaining, doth sh
bring

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.

XIX.

Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy,
Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide
Him in a closet, of such privacy
That he might see her beauty unespied,
And win perhaps that night a peerless bride;
While legioned fairies paced the coverlet,
And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed.
Never on such a night have lovers met,
Since Merlin paid his demon all the monstrous

debt.

xx.

"It shall be as thou wishest," said the dame; "All cates and dainties shall be stored there Quickly on this feast-night; by the tambour

frame

Her own lute thou wilt see; no time to spare,
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

The while. Ah! thou must needs the lady wed,
Or may I never leave my grave among the dead."

XXI.

So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear.
The lover's endless minutes slowly passed :
The dame returned, and whispered in his ear
To follow her; with aged eyes aghast
From fright of dim espial. Safe at last,
Through many a dusky gallery, they gain
The maiden's chamber, silken, hushed 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,
Old Angela was feeling for the stair,
When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid,
Rose, like a missioned spirit, unaware;
With silver taper's light, and pious care,
She turned, and down the aged gossip led
To a safe level matting. Now prepare,
Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed!
She comes, she comes again, like a ring-dove

frayed and fled.

XXIII.

Out went the taper as she hurried in;

Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died;
She closed the door, she panted, all akin
To spirits of the air, and visions wide;
No uttered syllable, or, woe betide!

But to her heart, her heart was voluble,
Paining with eloquence her balmy side;
As though a tongueless nightingale should swell
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled in her
dell.

XXIV.

A casement high and triple-arched there was, All garlanded with carven imageries

Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,
And on her silver cross soft amethyst,
And on her hair a glory, like a saint;
She seemed a splendid angel, newly drest,
Save wings, for heaven. Porphyro grew faint:
She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal
taint.

XXVI.

Anon his heart revives; her vespers done,
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;
Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees;
Half hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed,
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees,
In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed,
But dares not look behind, or all the charm is
fled.

XXVII.

Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest,
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplexed she lay,
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppressed
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away;
Flown like a thought, until the morrow-day;
Blissfully havened both from joy and pain;
Clasped like a missal where swart Paynims pray;
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,

As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.

XXVIII.

Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced,
Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress,
And listened 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,
Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness,
And over the hushed carpet, silent, stept,

And 'tween the curtains peeped, where, lo! - how fast she slept.

ΧΧΙΧ.

Then by the bedside, where the faded moon
Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set
A table, and, half anguished, threw thereon
A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet:

Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, O for some drowsy Morphean amulet!

And diamonded with panes of quaint device,
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damasked wings;
And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries,
And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings,

The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion,
The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet,
Affray his ears, though but in dying tone :
The hall-doorshuts again, and all the noise is gone.

A shielded scutcheon blushed with blood of

xxx.

queens and kings.

XXV.

Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,
And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast,
As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon; | With jellies soother than the creamy curd,

And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,
In blanched linen, smooth, and lavendered;
While he from forth the closet brought a heap
Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd;

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