---------------------------- 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 bud again. Stol’n to this paradise, and so extranced, Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, And listened to her breathing.--------- ------------------- Shaded was her dream By the dusk curtains:--’twas a midnight charm Impossible to melt as iced stream:-- * * * * * He took her hollow lute,-- Tumultuous,--and, in chords that tenderest be, He play’d an ancient ditty, long since mute, In Provence call’d, “La belle dame sans mercy:” Close to her ear touching the melody;-- Wherewith disturb’d, she utter’d a soft moan: He ceas’d--she panted quick--and suddenly Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone: Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone. 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 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, Fearing to move or speak, she look’d so dreamingly. “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: “How chang’d 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.”