SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.

SHE walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies:
And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace,
Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

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IO

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SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST BATTLE.

WARRIORS and chiefs! should the shaft or the sword

Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord,

Heed not the corse, though a king's, in your path :
Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath!

Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow,

Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe,
Stretch me that moment in blood at thy feet!
Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet.

Farewell to others, but never we part,

Heir to my royalty, son of my heart!
Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway,

Or kingly the death, which awaits us to-day!

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ΙΟ

KEATS.

The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;

The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass,
And silent was the flock in woolly fold:

Numb were the Beadsman's fingers while he told
His rosary, and while his frosted breath,

Like pious incense from a censer old,

Seem'd taking flight for heaven without a death,

Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith.

II.

His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man;

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Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees.

And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,

Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees:

The sculptured dead, on each side seemed to freeze,
Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails:
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat❜ries,
He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails

To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.

III.

Northward he turneth through a little door,

And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue
Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor;
But no - already had his death-bell rung;

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The joys of all his life were said and sung;
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve:
Another way he went, and soon among
Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve,

And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve.

IV.

That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft;
And so it chanced, for many a door was wide,
From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft,

The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide:
The level chambers, ready with their pride,
Were glowing to receive a thousand guests:

The carved angels, ever eager-eyed,

Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests,

With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their

breasts.

V.

At length burst in the argent revelry,

With plume, tiara, and all rich array,
Numerous as shadows haunting fairily

The brain, new-stuff'd, in youth, with triumphs gay
Of old romance. These let us wish away,

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And turn, soul-thoughted, to one Lady there,
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day,
On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care,

As she had heard old dames full many times declare.

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VI.

They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve,
Young virgins might have visions of delight,
And soft adorings from their loves receive
Upon the honey'd middle of the night,
If ceremonies due they did aright;
As, supperless to bed they must retire,
And couch supine their beauties, lily white,

Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require

Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire.

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VII.

Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline:
The music, yearning like a God in pain,
She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine,
Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train
Pass by she heeded not at all: in vain

Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier,

And back retired; not cool'd by high disdain,

But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere;

She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year.

VIII.

She danced along with vague regardless eyes,
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short:

The hallow'd hour was near at hand: she sighs
Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport;

'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn,
Hoodwink'd with faery fancy; all amort,
Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn,
And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn.

IX.

So, purposing each moment to retire,

She linger'd still. Meantime, across the moors,
Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire
For Madeline. Beside the portal doors,
Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores
All saints to give him sight of Madeline,
But for one moment in the tedious hours,
That he might gaze and worship all unseen;
Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss

- in sooth such things

have been.

X.

He ventures in: let no buzz'd whisper tell:
All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords

Will storm his heart, Love's fev'rous citadel:

For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes
Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords,
Whose very dogs would execrations howl
Against his lineage: not one breast affords
Him any mercy, in that mansion foul,

Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul

XI.

Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came

Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand,

To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame,
Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond

The sound of merriment and chorus bland :
He startled her; but soon she knew his face,
And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand,

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Saying, Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place; They are all here to-night, the whole bloodthirsty race!

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XII.

Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish Hildebrand : He had a fever late, and in the fit

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He cursed thee and thine, both house and land:
Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit
More tame for his gray hairs- Alas me flit!
Flit like a ghost away,"
We're safe enough; here in this arm-chair sit,

And tell me how "

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Ah, Gossip dear,

Good Saints! not here, not here, Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier."

XIII.

He follow'd through a lowly archéd way,
Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume;
And as she mutter'd Well-a- · well-a-day !”
He found him in a little moonlight room,
Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb.
"Now tell me where is Madeline," said he,
"O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom
Which none but secret sisterhood may see,
When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously.”

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