“Now prepare, Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed; She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove frayed and fled.” The whole picture that follows is purity itself. We wish the wind would whistle less loudly without—there! it dies away as if in homage to this maiden soft. Shut your eyes and dream, while I read in whispers. “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 damask’d wings. And in the midst, ’mong thousand heraldries, And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, A shielded ’scutcheon blush’d 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 prest, And on her silver cross soft amethyst, And on her hair a glory like a saint: She seemed a splendid angel, newly drest, Save wings, for heaven:—Porphyro grew faint: She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. Anon his heart revives: her vespers done, Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees; Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one; Loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees: Half hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed, Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees, In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, 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; Clasp’d like a missal where swart Paynims pray, Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, As though a rose should shut, and be a rose again.”