XLV Who hath not loiter'd in a green church-yard, Work through the clayey soil and gravel hard, XLVI She gaz'd into the fresh-thrown mould, as though Upon the murderous spot she seem'd to grow, Then with her knife, all sudden, she began XLVII Soon she turn'd up a soiled glove, whereon Those dainties made to still an infant's cries: XLVIII That old nurse stood beside her wondering, At sight of such a dismal labouring, And so she kneeled, with her locks all hoar, And put her lean hands to the horrid thing: Three hours they labour'd at this travail sore; XLIX Ah! wherefore all this wormy circumstance? The simple plaining of a minstrel's song! For here, in truth, it doth not well belong To speak :-0 turn thee to the very tale, And taste the music of that vision pale. 360 370 380 390 L With duller steel than the Perséan sword With death, as life. The ancient harps have said, If Love impersonate was ever dead, Pale Isabella kiss'd it, and low moan'd. 'Twas love; cold,—dead indeed, but not dethroned. 400 LI In anxious secrecy they took it home, And then the prize was all for Isabel: She drench'd away :-and still she comb'd, and kept LII Then in a silken scarf,-sweet with the dews LIII And she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun, And moisten'd it with tears unto the core. LIV And so she ever fed it with thin tears, Whence thick, and green, and beautiful it grew, So that it smelt more balmy than its peers Of Basil-tufts in Florence; for it drew. Nurture besides, and life, from human fears, 410 420 From the fast mouldering head there shut from view: So that the jewel, safely casketed, Came forth and in perfumed leafits spread. 431 LV O Melancholy, linger here awhile! O Music, Music, breathe despondingly! O Echo, Echo, from some sombre isle, Unknown, Lethean, sigh to us-O sigh! Spirits in grief, lift up your heads, and smile; Lift up your heads, sweet Spirits, heavily, And make a pale light in your cypress glooms, Tinting with silver wan your marble tombs. LVI Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe, From the deep throat of sad Melpomene ! Among the dead: She withers, like a palm LVII O leave the palm to wither by itself; Let not quick Winter chill its dying hour!— Her brethren, noted the continual shower LVIII And, furthermore, her brethren wonder'd much 440 450 Greatly they wonder'd what the thing might mean: 460 They could not surely give belief, that such A very nothing would have power to wean Her from her own fair youth, and pleasures gay, LIX Therefore they watch'd a time when they might sift This hidden whim; and long they watch'd in vain ; For seldom did she go to chapel-shrift, And seldom felt she any hunger-pain; And when she left, she hurried back, as swift And, patient as a hen-bird, sat her there 470 LX Yet they contriv'd to steal the Basil-pot, And so left Florence in a moment's space, LXI O Melancholy, turn thine eyes away! O Music, Music, breathe despondingly! O Echo, Echo, on some other day, From isles Lethean, sigh to us-O sigh! Spirits of grief, sing not your Well-a-way!' · For Isabel, sweet Isabel, will die; Will die a death too lone and incomplete, LXII Piteous she look'd on dead and senseless things, Of her lorn voice, she oftentimes would cry After the Pilgrim in his wanderings, To ask him where her Basil was; and why 'Twas hid from her: For cruel 'tis,' said she, To steal my Basil-pot away from me.' LXIII And so she pined, and so she died forlorn, No heart was there in Florence but did mourn In pity of her love, so overcast. And a sad ditty of this story born 480 490 500 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!' 499 THE EVE OF ST. AGNES I ST. AGNES' Eve-Ah, bitter chill it was! The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass, Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told 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 His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ; Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees, The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze, To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. III Northward he turneth through a little door, And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue IV That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft; 10 20 30 Star'd, where upon their heads the cornice rests, With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts. |