English Narrative Poems Part 10

In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd, While he from forth the closet brought a heap Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd; 265 With jellies soother[170] than the creamy curd, And lucent[171] 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. 270

x.x.xI

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."

x.x.xII

Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm 280 Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream By the dusk curtains:--'twas a midnight charm Impossible to melt as iced stream: The l.u.s.trous 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.

x.x.xIII

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 suddenly 295 Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone: Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone.

x.x.xIV

Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep: There was a painful change, that nigh expell'd 300 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.

x.x.xV

"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

x.x.xVI

Beyond a mortal man impa.s.sion'd far At these voluptuous accents, he arose, Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star Seen 'mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose; Into her dream he melted, as the rose 320 Blendeth its odour with the violet,-- Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet Against the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon hath set.

x.x.xVII

'Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet: 325 "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? 330 I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine, Though thou forsakest a deceived thing;-- A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing."

x.x.xVIII

"My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride!

Say, may I be for aye thy va.s.sal blest? 335 Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil dyed?

Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest After so many hours of toil and quest, A famish'd pilgrim,--saved by miracle.

Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest 340 Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel.

x.x.xIX

"Hark! 'tis an elfin storm from faery land, Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed: Arise--arise! the morning is at hand:-- 345 The bloated wa.s.sailers[174] will never heed:-- Let us away, my love, with happy speed; There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see,-- Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead: Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be, 350 For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee."

XL

She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around, At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears-- Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found.-- 355 In all the house was heard no human sound.

A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door; The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar; And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. 360

XLI

They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall; Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide, Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl, With a huge empty flagon by his side: The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide, 365 But his sagacious eye an inmate owns: By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide:-- The chains lie silent on the footworn stones;-- The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans;

XLII

And they are gone: aye, ages long ago 370 These lovers fled away into the storm.

That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe, And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm, Were long be-nightmared. Angela[175] the old 375 Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform; The Beadsman, after thousand aves told, For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold.

ALFRED TENNYSON

DORA

With farmer Allan at the farm abode William and Dora. William was his son, And she his niece. He often looked at them, And often thought, "I'll make them man and wife."

Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, 5 And yearn'd towards William; but the youth, because He had been always with her in the house, Thought not of Dora.

Then there came a day When Allan call'd his son, and said, "My son: I married late, but I would wish to see 10 My grandchild on my knees before I die: And I have set my heart upon a match.

Now therefore look to Dora; she is well To look to; thrifty too beyond her age.

She is my brother's daughter: he and I 15 Had once hard words, and parted, and he died In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred His daughter Dora: take her for your wife; For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day, For many years." But William answer'd short: 20 "I cannot marry Dora; by my life, I will not marry Dora." Then the old man Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said: "You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus!

But in my time a father's word was law, 25 And so it shall be now for me. Look to it; Consider, William: take a month to think, And let me have an answer to my wish; Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack, And never more darken my doors again." 30 But William answer'd madly; bit his lips, And broke away. The more he look'd at her The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh; But Dora bore them meekly. Then before The month was out he left his father's house, 35 And hired himself to work within the fields; And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison.

Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd His niece and said: "My girl, I love you well; 40 But if you speak with him that was my son, Or change a word with her he calls his wife, My home is none of yours. My will is law."

And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, "It cannot be: my uncle's mind will change!" 45 And days went on, and there was born a boy To William; then distresses came on him; And day by day he pa.s.s'd his father's gate, Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not.

But Dora stored what little she could save, 50 And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know Who sent it; till at last a fever seized On William, and in harvest time he died.

Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought 55 Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said: "I have obey'd my uncle until now, And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me This evil came on William at the first.

But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone, 60 And for your sake, the woman that he chose, And for this orphan, I am come to you: You know there has not been for these five years So full a harvest: let me take the boy, And I will set him in my uncle's eye 65 Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, And bless him for the sake of him that's gone."

And Dora took the child, and went her way Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound 70 That was unsown, where many poppies grew.

Far off the farmer came into the field And spied her not; for none of all his men Dare tell him Dora waited with the child; And Dora would have risen and gone to him, 75 But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers reap'd, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.

But when the morrow came, she rose and took The child once more, and sat upon the mound; And made a little wreath of all the flowers 80 That grew about, and tied it round his hat To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye.

Then when the farmer pa.s.s'd into the field He spied her, and he left his men at work, And came and said: "Where were you yesterday? 85 Whose child is that? What are you doing here?"

So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, And answer'd softly, "This is William's child!"

"And did I not," said Allan, "did I not Forbid you, Dora?" Dora said again: 90 "Do with me as you will, but take the child, And bless him for the sake of him that's gone!"

And Allan said, "I see it is a trick Got up betwixt you and the woman there.

I must be taught my duty, and by you! 95 You knew my word was law, and yet you dared To slight it. Well--for I will take the boy; But go you hence, and never see me more."