These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand On golden dishes and in baskets bright Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand In the retired quiet of the night, Filling the chilly room with perfume light.—275 "And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake! Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite[172]: Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake, Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache."
XXXII
Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm280 Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream By the dusk curtains:—'twas a midnight charm Impossible to melt as iced stream: The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam; Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies:285 It seem'd he never, never could redeem From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes; So mused awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies.
XXXIII
Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,— Tumultuous,—and, in chords that tenderest be.290 He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute, In Provence call'd "La belle dame sans mercy:[173]" Close to her ear touching the melody;— Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft moan: He ceased—she panted quick—and suddenly295 Her blue affrayed 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'd300 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,305 Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly.
XXXV
"Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, Made tuneable with every sweetest vow; And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear:310 How changed 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 woe, For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go."315
XXXVI