Keats to Morris

ISABELLA.

From the poor girl by magic of their light,
The while it did unthread the horrid woof
Of the late darken'd time,-the murderous spite
Of pride and avarice,-the dark pine roof
In the forest, and the sodden turfed dell,
Where, without any word, from stabs he fell.
XXXVIII.

Saying moreover, "Isabel, my sweet!

Red whortle-berries droop above my head,
And a large flint-stone weighs upon my feet;
Around me beeches and high chestnuts shed
Their leaves and prickly nuts; a sheep-fold bleat
Comes from beyond the river to my bed:
Go, shed one tear upon my heather-bloom,
And it shall comfort me within the tomb.
XXXIX.

"I am a shadow now, alas! alas!

Upon the skirts of human-nature dwelling Alone: I chant alone the holy mass,

While little sounds of life are round me knelling, And glossy bees at noon do fieldward pass,

And many a chapel-bell the hour is telling, Paining me through: those sounds grow strange

to me,

And thou art distant in Humanity.

XL.

"I know what was, I feel full well what is, And I should rage, if spirits could go mad; Though I forget the taste of earthly bliss,

That paleness warms my grave, as though I had A Seraph chosen from the bright abyss

To be my spouse: thy paleness makes me glad Thy beauty grows upon me, and I feel

A greater love through all my essence steal."

XLI.

XLIV.

See, as they creep along the river-side

How she doth whisper to that aged Danie,
And, after looking round the champaign wide,
Shows her a knife.-"What feverous hectic
flame

Burns in thee, child?-What good can theo
betide,

That thou shouldst smile again?"-The even-
ing came,

And they had found Lorenzo's earthy bed;
The flint was there, the berries at his head.

XLV.

Who hath not loiter'd in a green church-yard,
And let his spirit, like a demon-mole,
Work through the clayey soil and gravel hard,

To see skull, coffin'd bones, and funeral stole,
Pitying each form that hungry Death hath marr'd,
And filling it once more with human soul?
Ah! this is holiday to what was felt
When Isabella by Lorenzo knelt.

XLVI.

She gazed 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.

XLVII.

Soon she turn'd up a soiled glove, whereon
Her silk 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

The Spirit mourn'd "Adieu!"-dissolved, and And freezes utterly unto the bone

left

The atom darkness in a slow turmoil;
As when of healthful midnight sleep bereft,
Thinking on rugged hours and fruitless toil,
We put our eyes into a pillowy cleft,

And see the spangly gloom froth up and boil:
It made sad Isabella's eyelids ache,

And in the dawn she started up awake;

XLII.

Those dainties made to still an infant's cries: Then 'gan she work again; nor stay'd her care But to throw back at times her veiling hair.

XLVIII.

That old nurse stood beside her wondering,
Until her heart felt pity to the core

At sight of such a dismal labouring,

And so she kneeled, with her locks all hoar,

"Ha! ha!" said she, "I knew not this hard life, And put her lean hands to the horrid thing:

LXIII.

THE EVE OF ST. AGNES.

And so she pined, and so she died forlorn,
Imploring for her Basil to the last.

No heart was there in Florence but did 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:

Still is the burthen sung-"O cruelty,
To steal my Basil-pot away from me!"

THE EVE OF ST. AGNES.

ST. AGNES' EVE-Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen
grass,

And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he
told

His rosary, and while his frosted breath, Like pious incense from a censer old, Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death, Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith.

II.

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Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests, With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts.

At length burst in the argent revelry, With plume, tiara, and all rich array, Numerous as shadows haunting fairily The brain, new stuff'd, 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 wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care, As she had heard old dames fully many times declare.

VI.

They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve,
Young Virgins might have visions of delight,
And soft adorings from their loves receive
Upon the honey'd middle of the night,
If ceremonies due they did aright;

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:
All eyes oe muffled, or a hundred swords

Will storm his heart, Love's fev'rous citadel:
For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes,
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,

Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul.

XI.

Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came, Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand,

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To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame, Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond

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: 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 follow'd through a lowly arched way, Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume, And as she mutter'd "Well-a-well-a-day!" He found him in a little moonlit 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' 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 conjuror 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
Who keepeth closed a wondrous riddle-book,
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

seem."

Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold, Or may I never leave my grave among the

And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old.

dead"

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