English Narrative Poems

Narrative poetry, English; Readers -- Poetry
Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest,                   235
      In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay,
      Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd
      Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away;
      Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day;
      Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain;                     240
      Clasp'd like a missal[167] where swart Paynims pray;
      Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,
    As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.


    XXVIII

      Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced,
      Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress,                           245
      And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanced
      To wake into a slumberous tenderness;
      Which when he heard, that minute did he bless,
      And breathed himself: then from the closet crept,
      Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness,                        250
      And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept,
    And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo!--how fast she slept.


    XXIX

      Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon
      Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set
      A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon                    255
      A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet:--
      O for some drowsy Morphean[168] amulet!
      The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion,
      The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet,
      Affray his ears, though but in dying tone:--                   260
    The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gone.


    XXX

      And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,[169]
      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


    XXXI

      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
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English Narrative Poems

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