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St. Agnes' Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was!
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The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
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The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass,
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And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
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Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told
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His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
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Like pious incense from a censer old,
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Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death,
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Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith.
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His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man;
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Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees,
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And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,
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Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees:
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The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze,
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Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails:
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Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries,
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He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails
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To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.
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Northward he turneth through a little door,
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And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue
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Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor;
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But no—already had his deathbell rung;
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The joys of all his life were said and sung:
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His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve:
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Another way he went, and soon among
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Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve,
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And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve.
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That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft;
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And so it chanc'd, for many a door was wide,
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From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft,
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The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide:
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The level chambers, ready with their pride,
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Were glowing to receive a thousand guests:
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The carved angels, ever eager-eyed,
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Star'd, where upon their heads the cornice rests,
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With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts.
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At length burst in the argent revelry,
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With plume, tiara, and all rich array,
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Numerous as shadows haunting fairily
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The brain, new stuff'd, in youth, with triumphs gay
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Of old romance. These let us wish away,
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And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there,
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Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day,
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On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care,
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As she had heard old dames full many times declare.
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They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve,
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Young virgins might have visions of delight,
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And soft adorings from their loves receive
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Upon the honey'd middle of the night,
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If ceremonies due they did aright;
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As, supperless to bed they must retire,
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And couch supine their beauties, lily white;
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Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require
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Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire.
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Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline:
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The music, yearning like a God in pain,
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She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine,
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Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train
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Pass by—she heeded not at all: in vain
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Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier,
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And back retir'd; not cool'd by high disdain,
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But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere:
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She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year.
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She danc'd along with vague, regardless eyes,
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Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short:
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The hallow'd hour was near at hand: she sighs
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Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort
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Of whisperers in anger, or in sport;
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'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn,
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Hoodwink'd with faery fancy; all amort,
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Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn,
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And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn.
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So, purposing each moment to retire,
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She linger'd still. Meantime, across the moors,
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Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire
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For Madeline. Beside the portal doors,
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Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores
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All saints to give him sight of Madeline,
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But for one moment in the tedious hours,
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That he might gaze and worship all unseen;
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Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss—in sooth such things have been.
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He ventures in: let no buzz'd whisper tell:
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All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords
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Will storm his heart, Love's fev'rous citadel:
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For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes,
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Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords,
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Whose very dogs would execrations howl
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Against his lineage: not one breast affords
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Him any mercy, in that mansion foul,
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Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul.
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Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came,
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Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand,
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To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame,
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Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond
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The sound of merriment and chorus bland:
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He startled her; but soon she knew his face,
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And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand,
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Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place;
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They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race!"
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"Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish Hildebrand;
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He had a fever late, and in the fit
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He cursed thee and thine, both house and land:
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Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit
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More tame for his gray hairs—Alas me! flit!
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Flit like a ghost away."—"Ah, Gossip dear,
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We're safe enough; here in this arm-chair sit,
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And tell me how"—"Good Saints! not here, not here;
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Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier."
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He follow'd through a lowly arched way,
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Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume,
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And as she mutter'd "Well-a—well-a-day!"
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He found him in a little moonlight room,
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Pale, lattic'd, chill, and silent as a tomb.
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"Now tell me where is Madeline," said he,
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"O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom
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Which none but secret sisterhood may see,
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When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously."
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"St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes' Eve—
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Yet men will murder upon holy days:
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Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve,
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And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays,
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To venture so: it fills me with amaze
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To see thee, Porphyro!—St. Agnes' Eve!
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God's help! my lady fair the conjuror plays
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This very night: good angels her deceive!
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But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time to grieve."
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Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon,
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While Porphyro upon her face doth look,
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Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone
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Who keepeth clos'd a wond'rous riddle-book,
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As spectacled she sits in chimney nook.
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But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told
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His lady's purpose; and he scarce could brook
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Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold
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And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old.
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Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose,
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Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart
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Made purple riot: then doth he propose
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A stratagem, that makes the beldame start:
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"A cruel man and impious thou art:
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Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream
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Alone with her good angels, far apart
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From wicked men like thee. Go, go!—I deem
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Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem."
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"I will not harm her, by all saints I swear,"
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Quoth Porphyro: "O may I ne'er find grace
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When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer,
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If one of her soft ringlets I displace,
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Or look with ruffian passion in her face:
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Good Angela, believe me by these tears;
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Or I will, even in a moment's space,
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Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears,
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And beard them, though they be more fang'd than wolves and bears."
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"Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul?
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A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing,
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Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll;
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Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening,
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Were never miss'd."—Thus plaining, doth she bring
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A gentler speech from burning Porphyro;
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So woful, and of such deep sorrowing,
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That Angela gives promise she will do
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Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe.
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Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy,
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Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide
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Him in a closet, of such privacy
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That he might see her beauty unespied,
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And win perhaps that night a peerless bride,
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While legion'd fairies pac'd the coverlet,
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And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed.
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Never on such a night have lovers met,
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Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt.
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"It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame:
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"All cates and dainties shall be stored there
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Quickly on this feast-night: by the tambour frame
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Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to spare,
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For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare
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On such a catering trust my dizzy head.
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Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in prayer
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The while: Ah! thou must needs the lady wed,
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Or may I never leave my grave among the dead."
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So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear.
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The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd;
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The dame return'd, and whisper'd in his ear
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To follow her; with aged eyes aghast
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From fright of dim espial. Safe at last,
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Through many a dusky gallery, they gain
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The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd, and chaste;
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Where Porphyro took covert, pleas'd amain.
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His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain.
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Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade,
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Old Angela was feeling for the stair,
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When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid,
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Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware:
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With silver taper's light, and pious care,
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She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led
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To a safe level matting. Now prepare,
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Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed;
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She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray'd and fled.
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Out went the taper as she hurried in;
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Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died:
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She clos'd the door, she panted, all akin
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To spirits of the air, and visions wide:
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No uttered syllable, or, woe betide!
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But to her heart, her heart was voluble,
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Paining with eloquence her balmy side;
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As though a tongueless nightingale should swell
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Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell.
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A casement high and triple-arch'd there was,
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All garlanded with carven imag'ries
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Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass,
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And diamonded with panes of quaint device,
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Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,
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As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings;
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And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries,
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And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings,
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A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings.
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Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,
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And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast,
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As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon;
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Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,
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And on her silver cross soft amethyst,
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And on her hair a glory, like a saint:
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She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest,
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Save wings, for heaven:—Porphyro grew faint:
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She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.
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Anon his heart revives: her vespers done,
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Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;
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Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;
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Loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees
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Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees:
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Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed,
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Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees,
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In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed,
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But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled.
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Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest,
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In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay,
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Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd
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Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away;
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Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day;
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Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain;
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Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray;
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Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,
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As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.
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Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced,
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Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress,
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And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanced
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To wake into a slumberous tenderness;
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Which when he heard, that minute did he bless,
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And breath'd himself: then from the closet crept,
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Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness,
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And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept,
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And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo!—how fast she slept.
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Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon
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Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set
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A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon
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A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet:—
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O for some drowsy Morphean amulet!
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The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion,
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The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet,
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Affray his ears, though but in dying tone:—
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The hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone.
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And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,
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In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd,
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While he from forth the closet brought a heap
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Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd
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With jellies soother than the creamy curd,
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And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon;
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Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd
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From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one,
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From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon.
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These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand
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On golden dishes and in baskets bright
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Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand
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In the retired quiet of the night,
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Filling the chilly room with perfume light.—
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"And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake!
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Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite:
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Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake,
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Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache."
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Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm
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Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream
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By the dusk curtains:—'twas a midnight charm
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Impossible to melt as iced stream:
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The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam;
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Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies:
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It seem'd he never, never could redeem
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From such a stedfast spell his lady's eyes;
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So mus'd awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies.
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Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,—
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Tumultuous,—and, in chords that tenderest be,
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He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute,
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In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans mercy:"
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Close to her ear touching the melody;—
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Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft moan:
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He ceased—she panted quick—and suddenly
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Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone:
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Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone.
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Her eyes were open, but she still beheld,
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Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep:
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There was a painful change, that nigh expell'd
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The blisses of her dream so pure and deep
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At which fair Madeline began to weep,
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And moan forth witless words with many a sigh;
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While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep;
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Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye,
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Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly.
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"Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now
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Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear,
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Made tuneable with every sweetest vow;
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And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear:
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How chang'd thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear!
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Give me that voice again, my Porphyro,
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Those looks immortal, those complainings dear!
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Oh leave me not in this eternal woe,
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For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go."
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Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far
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At these voluptuous accents, he arose,
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Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star
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Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose
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Into her dream he melted, as the rose
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Blendeth its odour with the violet,—
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Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows
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Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet
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Against the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon hath set.
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'Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet:
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"This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!"
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'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat:
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"No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine!
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Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine.—
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Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring?
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I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine
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Though thou forsakest a deceived thing;—
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A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing."
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"My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride!
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Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest?
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Thy beauty's shield, heart-shap'd and vermeil dyed?
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Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest
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After so many hours of toil and quest,
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A famish'd pilgrim,—saved by miracle.
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Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest
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Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well
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To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel."
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"Hark! 'tis an elfin-storm from faery land,
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Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed:
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Arise—arise! the morning is at hand;—
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The bloated wassaillers will never heed:—
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Let us away, my love, with happy speed;
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There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see,—
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Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead:
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Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be,
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For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee."
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She hurried at his words, beset with fears,
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For there were sleeping dragons all around,
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At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears—
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Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found.—
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In all the house was heard no human sound.
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A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door;
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The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound,
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Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar;
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And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.
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They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall;
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Like phantoms, to the iron porch, they glide;
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Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl,
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With a huge empty flaggon by his side:
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The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide,
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But his sagacious eye an inmate owns:
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By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide:—
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The chains lie silent on the footworn stones;—
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The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans.
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And they are gone: ay, ages long ago
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These lovers fled away into the storm.
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That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe,
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And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form
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Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm,
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Were long be-nightmar'd. Angela the old
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Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform;
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The Beadsman, after thousand aves told,
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For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold.
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