NOTES.

Emily,A ship is floating in the harbor now;A wind is hovering o'er the mountain's brow;There is a path on the sea's azure floor,—No keel has ever ploughed that path before;The halcyons1brood around the foamless isles;The treacherous ocean has forsworn its wiles;The merry mariners are bold and free:Say, my heart's sister, wilt thou sail with me?Our bark is as an albatross whose nestIs a far Eden of the purple east;And we between her wings will sit, while NightAnd Day and Storm and Calm pursue their flight,Our ministers, along the boundless sea,Treading each other's heels, unheededly.It is an isle under Ionian2skies,Beautiful as a wreck of paradise;And, for3the harbors are not safe and good,This land would have remained a solitudeBut for some pastoral people native there,Who from the elysian, clear, and golden airDraw the last spirit of the age of gold,4—Simple and spirited, innocent and bold.The blue Ægean girds this chosen home,With ever-changing sound and light and foamKissing the sifted sands and caverns hoar;And all the winds wandering along the shoreUndulate with the undulating tide.There are thick woods where sylvan forms abide;And many a fountain, rivulet, and pond,As clear as elemental diamond,Or serene morning air. And far beyond,The mossy tracks made by the goats and deer(Which the rough shepherd treads but once a year)Pierce into glades, caverns, and bowers, and hallsBuilt round with ivy, which the waterfallsIllumining, with sound that never fails,Accompany the noonday nightingales.And all the place is peopled with sweet airs.5The light clear element which the isle wearsIs heavy with the scent of lemon-flowers,Which floats like mist laden with unseen showers,And falls upon the eyelids like faint sleep;And from the moss violets and jonquils peep,And dart their arrowy odor through the brain,Till you might faint with that delicious pain.And every motion, odor, beam, and tone,With that deep music is in unison:Which is a soul within the soul,—they seemLike echoes of an antenatal dream.6It is an isle 'twixt heaven, air, earth, and sea,Cradled, and hung in clear tranquillity;Bright as that wandering Eden, Lucifer,7Washed by the soft blue oceans of young air.8It is a favored place. Famine or blight,Pestilence, war, and earthquake, never lightUpon its mountain-peaks; blind vultures, theySail onward far upon their fatal way.The wingèd storms, chaunting their thunder-psalmTo other lands, leave azure chasms of calmOver this isle, or weep themselves in dew,From which its fields and woods ever renewTheir green and golden immortality.And from the sea there rise, and from the skyThere fall, clear exhalations, soft and bright,Veil after veil, each hiding some delight:Which sun or moon or zephyr draw aside,Till the isle's beauty, like a naked brideGlowing at once with love and loveliness,Blushes and trembles at its own excess.Yet, like a buried lamp, a soul no lessBurns in the heart of this delicious isle,An atom of the Eternal, whose own smileUnfolds itself, and may be felt not seenO'er the gray rocks, blue waves, and forests green,Filling their bare and void interstices.This isle and house are mine, and I have vowedThee to be lady of the solitude.And I have fitted up some chambers thereLooking towards the golden eastern air,And level with the living winds which flowLike waves above the living waves below.I have sent books and music there, and allThose instruments with which high spirits callThe future from its cradle, and the pastOut of its grave, and make the present lastIn thoughts and joys which sleep but cannot die,Folded within their own eternity.Our simple life wants little, and true tasteHires not the pale drudge Luxury to wasteThe scene it would adorn; and therefore stillNature with all her children haunts the hill.The ringdove in the embowering ivy yetKeeps up her love-lament; and the owls flitRound the evening tower; and the young stars glanceBetween the quick bats in their twilight dance;The spotted deer bask in the fresh moonlightBefore our gate; and the slow silent nightIs measured by the pants of their calm sleep.Be this our home in life; and, when years heapTheir withered hours like leaves on our decay,Let us become the overhanging day,The living soul, of this elysian isle—Conscious, inseparable, one. MeanwhileWe two will rise and sit and walk togetherUnder the roof of blue Ionian weather;And wander in the meadows; or ascendThe mossy mountains, where the blue heavens bendWith lightest winds to touch their paramour;9Or linger where the pebble-paven shoreUnder the quick faint kisses of the seaTrembles and sparkles as with ecstasy;—Possessing and possessed by all that isWithin that calm circumference of bliss,And by each other, till to love and liveBe one. . . .We shall become the same, we shall be oneSpirit within two frames, oh wherefore two?One passion in twin hearts, which grows and grewTill, like two meteors of expanding flame,Those spheres instinct with it become the same,Touch, mingle, are transfigured; ever stillBurning, yet ever inconsumable;In one another's substance finding food,Light flames too pure and light and unimbuedTo nourish their bright lives with baser prey,Which point to heaven and cannot pass away:One hope within two wills, one will beneathTwo overshadowing minds, one life, one death,One heaven, one hell, one immortality,And one annihilation!Woe is me!The wingèd words on which my soul would pierceInto the height of Love's rare universeAre chains of lead around its flight of fire—I pant, I sink, I tremble, I expire!

Woe is me!The wingèd words on which my soul would pierceInto the height of Love's rare universeAre chains of lead around its flight of fire—I pant, I sink, I tremble, I expire!

"A clever but disreputable professor at Pisa one day related to Shelley the sad story of a beautiful and noble lady, the Contessina Emilia Viviani, who had been confined by her father in a dismal convent of the suburbs,to await her marriage with a distasteful husband." Shelley, fired as ever by a tale of tyranny, was eager to visit the fair captive. The professor accompanied him and Medwin to the convent parlor, where they found her more lovely than even the most glowing descriptions had led them to expect. Nor was she only beautiful. Shelley soon discovered that she had "cultivated her mind beyond what I have ever met with in Italian women"; and a rhapsody composed by her upon the subject of Uranian Love—"Il Vero Amore"—justifies the belief that she possessed an intellect of more than ordinary elevation. He took Mrs. Shelley to see her; and both did all they could to make her convent prison less irksome by frequent visits, by letters, by presents of flowers and books. It was not long before Shelley's sympathy for this unfortunate lady took the form of love, which, however spiritual and Platonic, was not the less passionate. The result was the composition of "Epipsychidion," the most unintelligible of all his poems to those who have not assimilated the spirit of Plato'sSymposiumand Dante'sVita Nuova.—J. A. Symonds.

W. M. Rossetti characterizes this poem as "a pure outpouring of poetry; a brimming and bubbling fountain of freshness and music, magical with its own spray rainbows."

A year after its composition, Shelley wrote: "The 'Epipsychidion' I cannot look at. If you are curious, however, to hear what I am and have been, it will tell you something thereof. It is an idealized history of my life and feelings."

Epipsychidion.From Gr.epi, upon, andpsyche, the soul. This poem is addressed "to the noble and unfortunate Lady Emilia Viviani, now imprisoned in the Convent of St. Anne, Pisa," and was written in 1821.

1.halcyons.Kingfishers. Halcyone was the daughter of Æolus and wife of Ceyx. When her husband died she was changed into a bird,—the kingfisher,—and, floating over the sea, she still calls for the lost Ceyx in tones full of plaining and tears. And "whensoever she makes her nest, a law of nature brings round what is called Halcyon's weather—days distinguishable among all others for their serenity."

2.Ionian.Greek. See the expression "Under the roof of blue Ionian weather," below. Explain its meaning.

3.for.Since, because.

elysian.Heavenly. Pertaining to Elysium, the islands of the blest, the Elysian fields.

4.age of gold.Compare Milton, "Hymn on the Nativity" (see note 36, page192. See, also, poem by John Lydgate, page275).

5.peopled with sweet airs.Filled with sweet music.

6.antenatal dream.See Wordsworth's "Ode on the Intimations of Immortality" (also, note 13, page47).

"Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting."

7.Lucifer.Venus when seen in the morning, rising before the sun is called Lucifer, the light-bearer. From Lat.lux, light, andfero, to bear (see note 18, page189). The same star when seen in the evening, following the sun, is called Hesperus.

8.blue oceans of young air.Explain.

9.paramour.See Milton's "Ode on the Nativity," stanza i.

"It was no reason then for herTo wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour."

Milton makes the sun the paramour of the earth; Shelley, the earth the paramour of the sky.

Swifter far than summer's flight,Swifter far than youth's delight,Swifter far than happy night,Art thou come and gone:As the earth when leaves are dead,As the night when sleep is sped,As the heart when joy is fled,I am left alone, alone.The swallow Summer comes again,The owlet Night resumes her reign,But the wild swan Youth is fainTo fly with thee, false as thou.My heart each day desires the morrow,Sleep itself is turned to sorrow,Vainly would my winter borrowSunny leaves from any bough.Lilies for a bridal bed,Roses for a matron's head,Violets for a maiden dead,Pansies let my flowers be:On the living grave I bear,Scatter them without a tear,Let no friend, however dear,Waste one hope, one fear, for me.

The swallow Summer comes again,The owlet Night resumes her reign,But the wild swan Youth is fainTo fly with thee, false as thou.My heart each day desires the morrow,Sleep itself is turned to sorrow,Vainly would my winter borrowSunny leaves from any bough.

Lilies for a bridal bed,Roses for a matron's head,Violets for a maiden dead,Pansies let my flowers be:On the living grave I bear,Scatter them without a tear,Let no friend, however dear,Waste one hope, one fear, for me.

Percy Bysshe Shelleywas born at Field Place, near Horsham in Sussex, August 4, 1792. He was educated at Eton and at Oxford. While a student at the latter place, he wrote a pamphlet, entitledThe Necessity of Atheism, which caused his expulsion from college. This occurred in 1811, and in the same year he married Harriet Westbrook, from whom, three years later, he separated. In 1816 he married Mary Godwin. In 1818 he left England for Italy, where he remained until his death by drowning in the gulf of Spezia, July 8, 1822. His first considerable poem, "Queen Mab," was published in 1813; "Alastor, or the Spirit of Solitude," in 1816; "The Revolt of Islam," in 1818; and "Epipsychidion" and "Adonais" in 1821. His two dramas, the "Cenci" and "Prometheus Unbound," were issued, the former in 1819, the latter in 1821.

"Shelley's early rupture with the English world," says Hales, "lost him all the advantages which a fuller experience of it and a longer intercourse with it might have given. That world was no less estranged from him than he from it. It misunderstood and misinterpreted him throughout his career. It covered him with its opprobrium. Assuredly, he was not the man that world painted. It by no means follows that because Shelley did not repeat the ordinary creeds, and even mocked at them, that he believed nothing. Shelley was never in his soul an atheist: it was simply impossible with his nature that he should be; what he did deny and defy was a deity whose worship seemed, as he saw the world, consistent with the reign of selfishness and bigotry."

Lord Macaulay says: "We doubt whether any modern poet has possessed in an equal degree some of the highest qualities of the great ancient masters. The wordsbardandinspiration, which seem so cold and affected when applied to other modern writers, have a perfect propriety when applied to him. He was not an author, but a bard. His poetry seems not to have been an art, but an inspiration. Had he lived to the full age of man, he might not improbably, have given to the world some great work of the very highest rank in design and execution."

Leigh Hunt says: "Assuredly, had he lived, he would have been the greatest dramatic writer since the days of Elizabeth. In general, if Coleridge is the sweetest of our poets, Shelley is at once the mostethereal and most gorgeous—the one who has clothed his thoughts in draperies of the most evanescent and most magnificent words and imagery. His poetry is as full of mountains, seas, and skies, of light, and darkness, and the seasons, and all the elements of our being, as if Nature herself had written it, with the Creation and its hopes newly cast around her, not, it must be confessed, without too indiscriminate a mixture of great and small, and a want of sufficient shade—a certain chaotic brilliancy, 'dark with excess of light.'"

Another English poet says: "Shelley outsang all poets on record but some two or three throughout all time; his depths and heights of inner and outer music are as divine as nature's, and not sooner exhaustible. He was alone the perfect singing-god; his thoughts, words, deeds, all sang together."

"The poet who creates a new ideal, and fills men's hearts with the flame of a divine desire, is a practical force in the stream of human development—and this Shelley has done. So much of his poetry is full of the tender melancholy of the moonlight he loved, that the world is still half blind to his highest bardic character, as the poet of a spiritual dawn, the eager spirit who flies forward—

"Calling the lapsèd soul,And weeping in the morning dew."

Even his moonlight seems to reflect the beams of some unrisen sun; and his sunlight has all the ethereal exhilaration of that of the first hours of a glorious day."—John Todhunter.

Other Poems to be Read:Adonais; The Sensitive Plant; The Cloud; Mount Blanc; To Wordsworth; The Euganean Hills; Liberty; Alastor; Prometheus Unbound.

References:De Quincey'sEssays; Jeaffreson'sThe Real Shelley;Shelley(English Men of Letters), by J. A. Symonds; Leigh Hunt'sImagination and Fancy; Rossetti'sMemoir of Shelley; Dowden'sLife of P. B. Shelley; Moore'sLife of Lord Byron; Middleton'sShelley and his Writings; Medwin'sLife of Shelley; Trelawney'sRecollections of the Last Days of Shelley and Byron; Todhunter'sShelley: A Study.

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness painsMy sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,Or emptied some dull opiate to the drainsOne minute past, and Lethe-wards1had sunk:'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,But being too happy in thy happiness,—That thou, light-winged Dryad2of the trees,In some melodious plotOf beechen green, and shadows numberless,Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O for a draught of vintage, that hath beenCooled a long age in the deep-delved earth,Tasting of Flora and the country-green,Dance, and Provençal song,3and sun-burnt mirth!O for a beaker full of the warm South,Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,4With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,And purple-stained mouth;That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forgetWhat thou among the leaves hast never known,The weariness, the fever, and the fretHere, where men sit and hear each other groan;Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;Where but to think is to be full of sorrowAnd leaden-eyed despairs;Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,5But on the viewless wings of Poesy,Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:Already with thee! tender is the night,And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,Clustered around by all her starry Fays;But here there is no light,Save what from heaven is with the breezes blownThrough verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweetWherewith the seasonable month endowsThe grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;6Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves;And mid-May's eldest child,The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eyes.

Darkling7I listen; and for many a timeI have been half in love with easeful Death,Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme,To take into the air my quiet breath;Now more than ever seems it rich to die,To cease upon the midnight with no pain,While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroadIn such an ecstasy!Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—To thy high requiem8become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!No hungry generations tread thee down;The voice I hear this passing night was heardIn ancient days by emperor and clown:Perhaps the self-same song that found a pathThrough the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,She stood in tears amid the alien corn9;The same that oft-times hathCharmed magic casements, opening on the foamOf perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bellTo toll me back from thee to my sole self!Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so wellAs she is famed to do, deceiving elf.Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fadesPast the near meadows, over the still stream,Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deepIn the next valley-glades:Was it a vision, or a waking dream?Fled is that music:—do I wake or sleep?

"This poem," says Leigh Hunt, "was written in a house at the foot of Highgate Hill, on the border of the fields looking towards Hampstead. The poet had then his mortal illness upon him, and knew it; never was the voice of death sweeter."

1.Lethe-wards.That is, towards Lethe. Lethe was one of the rivers of Hell. Its name means "forgetfulness." Milton describes it thus:

"A slow and silent stream,Lethe, the river of oblivion, rollsHer watery labyrinth, whereof who drinksForthwith his former state and being forgets—Forgets both joy and grief, pleasure and pain."

—Paradise Lost, ii, 583.

2.Dryad.A wood-nymph. From Gr.drus, an oak tree. The life of the Dryad was supposed to be bound up with that of her tree.

"The quickening power of the soul, like Martha, is 'busy about many things,' or, like a Dryad, living in a tree."—Sir John Davis.

3.Provençal song.Song of the troubadours, a school of lyric poets that flourished in Provence, in the south of France, from the eleventh to the thirteenth century. A love song.

4.Hippocrene.The "Fountain of the Horse" (Fons Caballinus). A fountain on Mount Helicon, Bœotia, sacred to the Muses. It was said to have been produced by the horse Pegasus striking the ground with his feet. Its waters were supposed to be a source of poetical inspiration.

Longfellow, in "The Goblet of Life," says:

"No purple flowers—no garlands green,Conceal the goblet's shade or sheen,Nor maddening draughts of Hippocrene,Like gleams of sunshine, flash betweenThick leaves of mistletoe."

5.Bacchus and his pards.Bacchus was frequently represented as riding on the back of a leopard, a tiger, or a lion, or in a chariot drawn by panthers.

pards.Spotted beasts.

See Dryden's "Alexander's Feast," third stanza, page160.

6.Compare with Shakespeare's "A Midsummer Night's Dream," Act ii, sc. i:

"I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine."

7.darkling.In the dark. The word is very rarely used.

8.requiem.A dirge, or funeral song. "So called from the first word in the Catholic mass for the dead,Requiem æternum dona iis Domine(Give eternal rest to them, O Lord)."—Brand.

become a sod.Compare with Ecclesiastes, xii, 7: "Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was."

9.alien corn.See Ruth, ii. Whyaliencorn? Longfellow, in his poem on "Flowers," says:

"Everywhere about us they are glowing—Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born;Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing,Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn."

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 seem'd 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 bodice; by degreesHer 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, perplexed she lay,Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppressedHer soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away;Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day;Blissfully havened both from joy and pain;Clasped 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.Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced,Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress,And listened to her breathing, if it chancedTo 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,And over the hushed carpet, silent, stept,And 'tween the curtains peeped, where, lo!—how fast she slept.Then by the bed-side, where the faded moonMade a dim, silver twilight, soft he setA table, and, half anguished, threw thereonA cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet:—O for some drowsy Morphean amulet!The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion,The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet,Affray his ears, though but in dying tone:—The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gone.And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,In blanched linen, smooth, and lavendered,While he from forth the closet brought a heapOf candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd;With jellies soother than the creamy curd,And lucent syrups, tinct with cinnamon;Manna and dates, in argosy transferredFrom Fez; and spiced dainties, every one,From silken Samarcand to cedared Lebanon.These delicates he heaped with glowing handOn golden dishes and in baskets brightOf wreathed silver: sumptuous they standIn the retired quiet of the night,Filling the chilly room with perfume light.—"And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake!Thou art mine heaven, and I thine eremite:Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake,Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache."Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved armSank in her pillow. Shaded was her dreamBy the dusk curtains:—'twas a midnight charmImpossible to melt as iced stream:The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam;Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies:It seemed he never, never could redeemFrom such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes;So mused awhile, entoiled in woofed phantasies.Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,—Tumultuous,—and, in chords that tenderest be,He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute,In Provence called "La belle dame sans mercy":Close to her ear touching the melody;—Wherewith disturbed, she uttered a soft moan:He ceased—she panted quick—and suddenlyHer 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 expelledThe blisses of her dream so pure and deep.At which fair Madeline began to weep,And moan forth witless words with many a sighWhile still her gaze on Porphyro would keep;Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye,Fearing to move or speak, she looked so dreamingly."Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even nowThy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear,Made tuneable with every sweetest vow;And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear:How changed 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."Beyond a mortal man impassioned farAt these voluptuous accents, he arose,Ethereal, flushed, and like a throbbing starSeen 'mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose;Into her dream he melted, as the roseBlendeth its odor with the violet,—Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blowsLike Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleetAgainst the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon hath set.'Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet:"This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!"'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat:"No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine!Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine.—Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring?I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine,Though thou forsakest a deceived thing;—A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing.""My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride!Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest?Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil dyed?Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my restAfter so many hours of toil and quest,A famished pilgrim,—saved by miracle.Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest,Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st wellTo trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel.""Hark!'tis an elfin-storm from faery land,Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed:Arise—arise! the morning is at hand;—The bloated wassailers will never heed:—Let us away, my love, with happy speed;There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see,—Drowned all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead:Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be,For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee."She hurried at his words, beset with fears,For there were sleeping dragons all around,At glaring watch, perhaps with ready spears—Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found,In all the house was heard no human sound.A chain-drooped lamp was flickering by each door;The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound,Fluttered in the besieging wind's uproar;And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall!Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide,Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl,With a huge empty flagon by his side:The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide,But his sagacious eye an inmate owns:By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide:—The chains lie silent on the footworn stones;The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans.And they are gone: ay, ages long agoThese lovers fled away into the storm.That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe,And all his warrior-guests, with shade and formOf witch and demon and large coffin-worm,Were long be-nightmared. Angela, the old,Died palsy-twitch'd with meagre face deform;The Beadsman, after thousand aves told,For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold.

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 bodice; by degreesHer 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, perplexed she lay,Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppressedHer soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away;Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day;Blissfully havened both from joy and pain;Clasped 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.

Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced,Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress,And listened to her breathing, if it chancedTo 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,And over the hushed carpet, silent, stept,And 'tween the curtains peeped, where, lo!—how fast she slept.

Then by the bed-side, where the faded moonMade a dim, silver twilight, soft he setA table, and, half anguished, threw thereonA cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet:—O for some drowsy Morphean amulet!The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion,The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet,Affray his ears, though but in dying tone:—The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gone.

And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,In blanched linen, smooth, and lavendered,While he from forth the closet brought a heapOf candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd;With jellies soother than the creamy curd,And lucent syrups, tinct with cinnamon;Manna and dates, in argosy transferredFrom Fez; and spiced dainties, every one,From silken Samarcand to cedared Lebanon.

These delicates he heaped with glowing handOn golden dishes and in baskets brightOf wreathed silver: sumptuous they standIn the retired quiet of the night,Filling the chilly room with perfume light.—"And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake!Thou art mine heaven, and I thine eremite:Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake,Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache."

Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved armSank in her pillow. Shaded was her dreamBy the dusk curtains:—'twas a midnight charmImpossible to melt as iced stream:The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam;Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies:It seemed he never, never could redeemFrom such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes;So mused awhile, entoiled in woofed phantasies.

Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,—Tumultuous,—and, in chords that tenderest be,He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute,In Provence called "La belle dame sans mercy":Close to her ear touching the melody;—Wherewith disturbed, she uttered a soft moan:He ceased—she panted quick—and suddenlyHer 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 expelledThe blisses of her dream so pure and deep.At which fair Madeline began to weep,And moan forth witless words with many a sighWhile still her gaze on Porphyro would keep;Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye,Fearing to move or speak, she looked so dreamingly.

"Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even nowThy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear,Made tuneable with every sweetest vow;And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear:How changed 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."

Beyond a mortal man impassioned farAt these voluptuous accents, he arose,Ethereal, flushed, and like a throbbing starSeen 'mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose;Into her dream he melted, as the roseBlendeth its odor with the violet,—Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blowsLike Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleetAgainst the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon hath set.

'Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet:"This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!"'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat:"No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine!Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine.—Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring?I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine,Though thou forsakest a deceived thing;—A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing."

"My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride!Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest?Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil dyed?Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my restAfter so many hours of toil and quest,A famished pilgrim,—saved by miracle.Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest,Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st wellTo trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel."

"Hark!'tis an elfin-storm from faery land,Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed:Arise—arise! the morning is at hand;—The bloated wassailers will never heed:—Let us away, my love, with happy speed;There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see,—Drowned all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead:Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be,For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee."

She hurried at his words, beset with fears,For there were sleeping dragons all around,At glaring watch, perhaps with ready spears—Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found,In all the house was heard no human sound.A chain-drooped lamp was flickering by each door;The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound,Fluttered in the besieging wind's uproar;And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.

They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall!Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide,Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl,With a huge empty flagon by his side:The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide,But his sagacious eye an inmate owns:By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide:—The chains lie silent on the footworn stones;The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans.

And they are gone: ay, ages long agoThese lovers fled away into the storm.That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe,And all his warrior-guests, with shade and formOf witch and demon and large coffin-worm,Were long be-nightmared. Angela, the old,Died palsy-twitch'd with meagre face deform;The Beadsman, after thousand aves told,For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold.

"The Eve of St. Agnes" is one of the finest of Keats's shorter poems. Leigh Hunt describes it as "the most complete specimen of his genius; exquisitely loving; young, but full-grown poetry of the rarest description; graceful as the beardless Apollo; glowing and gorgeous with the colors of romance." The stanzas here quoted, while comprising the main portion of the story, are not quite half of the entire poem.

Madeline, the beautiful daughter of a rude and rich old baron, is secretly betrothed to Porphyro, a young man whom her father has sworn to slay. On the eve of St. Agnes a great feast is in progress in the baron's castle. Porphyro, at the risk of his life, "comes across the moors, with heart on fire for Madeline." With the aid of the old nurse, Angela, he gains admission into the castle and is concealed in a closet, where he conceives the plan for their elopement. In the meanwhile, Madeline, having danced with her father's guests, retires to her room, her mind full of the thought of Porphyro, and intent upon testing the truth of the belief, then current, that on this evening, maidens might, if they performed certain ceremonies and forms, be vouchsafed a sight of their future husbands.

St. Agnes was a young virgin of Palermo, who is said to have suffered martyrdom at the age of thirteen, in the Diocletian persecution, abouta.d.304. Her feast was celebrated on the 21st of January.

With reference to the versification of this poem, see what is said of the Spenserian stanza, page232. There are many imitations of Spenser in these verses.

The student is desired to discover for himself the peculiarities of thought, of feeling, of expression, which give interest and beauty to this production. The following are a few of the words and expressions whose meaning he should study: "Gules"; "taint"; "vespers"; "poppied"; "Swart Paynims"; "Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness"; "Morphean amulet"; "affray"; "azure-lidded sleep"; "argosy"; "missal"; "tinct"; "Fez"; "Samarcand"; "Lebanon"; "eremite"; "witless"; "alarum"; "entoiled in woofed phantasies"; "La belle dame sans mercy"; "heart-shaped and vermeil dyed"; "Of haggard seeming"; "arras."

John Keatswas born October 29, 1795, in Moorfields, London. He was sent to school at Enfield, where he gained the rudiments of a classical education; but, his father having died when John was amere child, he was apprenticed at an early age to a surgeon in Edmonton. When seventeen years old a copy of Spenser's "Faerie Queene" fell into his hands, and the perusal of that great poem was the beginning, for him, of a new life. He felt the poetic instinct within him, and resolved that he too would be a poet. In 1817 he published a small volume of poems, which attracted but little attention; and in 1818 his more ambitious effort, "Endymion," was presented to the world. The latter poem was unkindly received by the great reviews. The author was advised to "go back to his gallipots," and told that "a starved apothecary was better than a starved poet." A story was long current that these severe criticisms induced Keats's early death, but this is entirely improbable. He continued writing, although consumption, a hereditary disease in his family, had already begun its work upon him. He published "The Eve of St. Agnes" in 1820, and had made some progress with a noble poem, entitled "Hyperion," which Lord Byron declared to be "actually inspired by the Titans, and as sublime as Æschylus." In September of that year he sailed for Italy, but the hope of prolonging life by a change of climate proved to be vain. On the 27th of February, 1821, he died at Rome.

"We can hardly be wrong in believing," says Masson, "that had Keats lived to the ordinary age of man, he would have been one of the greatest of all our poets. As it is, I believe we shall all be disposed to place him very near indeed to our very best."

"That which was deepest in his mind," says Stopford Brooke, "was the love of loveliness for its own sake, the sense of its rightful and pre-eminent power; and, in the singleness of worship which he gave to Beauty, Keats is especially the artist, and the true father of the latest modern school of poetry."

Other Poems to be Read:Endymion; Ode on a Grecian Urn; Lamia; Hyperion; To Autumn; Hymn to Apollo; Isabella.

References:Keats(English Men of Letters), by Sidney Colvin;Keats, by W. M. Rossetti; Matthew Arnold's Essay on Keats, in Ward'sEnglish Poets; Shairp'sStudies in Poetry.

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