Six Centuries of English Poetry Part 12

Fled is that music:--do I wake or sleep?

NOTES.

"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 h.e.l.l. Its name means "forgetfulness." Milton describes it thus:

"A slow and silent stream, Lethe, the river of oblivion, rolls Her watery labyrinth, whereof who drinks Forthwith 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. =Provencal 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, Boeotia, 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 suns.h.i.+ne, flash between Thick 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, page 160.

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 ma.s.s for the dead, _Requiem aeternum 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. Why _alien_ corn? 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."

FROM "THE EVE OF ST. AGNES."

Full on this cas.e.m.e.nt 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 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, perplexed she lay, Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppressed Her 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 suns.h.i.+ne 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 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, 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 moon Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set A table, and, half anguished, threw thereon A 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 heap Of 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 transferred From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one, From silken Samarcand to cedared Lebanon.

These delicates he heaped 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.-- "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 arm Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream By the dusk curtains:--'twas a midnight charm Impossible to melt as iced stream: The l.u.s.trous salvers in the moonlight gleam; Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies: It seemed he never, never could redeem From 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 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 expelled 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 looked 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 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 impa.s.sioned far At these voluptuous accents, he arose, Ethereal, flushed, and like a throbbing star Seen 'mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose; Into her dream he melted, as the rose Blendeth its odor with the violet,-- Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet Against 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 va.s.sal blest?

Thy beauty's s.h.i.+eld, heart-shaped and vermeil dyed?

Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest After 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 well To 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 wa.s.sailers 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!