Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? What little town by river or sea-shore, Or mountain built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of its folk this pious morn? Ah! little town, thy streets forever more Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate can e'er return. O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty"--that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. MADELINE. [From _The Eve of St. Agnes_.] Out went the taper as she hurried in; Its little smoke in pallid moonshine died; She closed the door, she panted, all akin To spirits of the air and visions wide; No uttered syllable, or, woe betide! But to her heart her heart was voluble, Paining with eloquence her balmy side; As though a tongueless nightingale should swell Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled in her dell. A casement high and triple-arched there was, All garlanded with carven imageries Of fruits and flowers and bunches of knot-grass, And diamonded with panes of quaint device, Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes As are the tiger-moth's deep-damasked wings; And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries, And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, A shielded scutcheon blushed with blood of queens and kings. Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon; Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together pressed, And on her silver cross soft amethyst, And on her hair a glory, like a saint: She seemed a splendid angel, newly dressed, Save wings, for heaven: Porphyro grew faint: She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. CHARLES DICKENS. BOB SAWYER'S BACHELOR PARTY. [From _Pickwick Papers_.] After supper another jug of punch was put on the table, together with a paper of cigars and a couple of bottles of spirits. Then there was an awful pause; and this awful pause was occasioned by a very common occurrence in this sort of places, but a very embarrassing one, notwithstanding.