Delphi Poetry Anthology: The World's Greatest Poems (Delphi Poets Series Book 50)

by Homer

  But for one moment in the tedious hours,

  That he might gaze and worship all unseen; 80

  Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in sooth such things have been.

  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, 85

  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. 90

  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: 95

  He startled her; but soon she knew his face,

  And grasp’d his fingers in her palsied hand,

  Saying, ‘Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place;

  They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race!

  ‘Get hence! get hence! there’s dwarfish Hildebrand; 100

  He had a fever late and in the fit

  He cursed thee and thine, both house and land:

  Then there’s that old Lord Maurice, not a whit

  More tame for his grey hairs — Alas me! flit!

  Flit like a ghost away.’— ‘Ah, Gossip dear, 105

  We’re safe enough; here in this armchair sit,

  And tell me how’— ‘Good Saints! not here, not here;

  Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier.’

  He follow’d through a lowly arched way,

  Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume; 110

  And as she mutter’d ‘Well-a — well-a-day!

  He found him in a little moonlight room,

  Pale, lattic’d, chill, and silent as a tomb.

  ‘Now tell me where is Madeline,’ said he,

  ‘O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom 115

  Which none but secret sisterhood may see,

  When they St. Agnes’ wool are weaving piously.’

  ‘St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes’ Eve —

  Yet men will murder upon holy days:

  Thou must hold water in a witch’s sieve, 120

  And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays,

  To venture so: it fills me with amaze

  To see thee, Porphyro! — St. Agnes’ Eve!

  God’s help! my lady fair the conjurer plays

  This very night: good angels her deceive! 125

  But let me laugh awhile, I’ve mickle time to grieve.’

  Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon,

  While Porphyro upon her face doth look,

  Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone

  Who keepeth clos’d a wond’rous riddle-book, 130

  As spectacled she sits in chimney nook.

  But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told

  His lady’s purpose; and he scarce could brook

  Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold,

  And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 135

  Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose,

  Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart

  Made purple riot: then doth he propose

  A stratagem, that makes the beldame start:

  ‘A cruel man, and impious thou art: 140

  Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream

  Alone with her good angels, far apart

  From wicked men like thee. Go, go! — I deem

  Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem.’

  ‘I will not harm her, by all saints I swear,’ 145

  Quoth Porphyro: ‘O may I ne’er find grace

  When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer,

  If one of her soft ringlets I displace,

  Or look with ruffian passion in her face:

  Good Angela, believe me by these tears; 150

  Or I will, even in a moment’s space,

  Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen’s ears,

  And beard them, though they be more fang’d than wolves and bears.’

  ‘Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul?

  A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing, 155

  Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll;

  Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening,

  Were never miss’d.’ Thus plaining, doth she bring

  A gentler speech from burning Porphyro;

  So woful, and of such deep sorrowing, 160

  That Angela gives promise she will do

  Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe.

  Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy.

  Even to Madeline’s chamber, and there hide

  Him in a closet, of such privacy 165

  That he might see her beauty unespied,

  And win perhaps that night a peerless bride,

  While legion’d faeries pac’d the coverlet,

  And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed.

  Never on such a night have lovers met, 170

  Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt.

  ‘It shall be as thou wishest,’ said the Dame:

  ‘All cates and dainties shall be stored there

  Quickly on this feast-night: by the tambour frame

  Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to spare, 175

  For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare

  On such a catering trust my dizzy head.

  Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in prayer

  The while: Ah! thou must needs the lady wed,

  Or may I never leave my grave among the dead.’ 180

  So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear.

  The lover’s endless minutes slowly pass’d;

  The Dame return’d, and whisper’d in his ear

  To follow her; with agèd eyes aghast

  From fright of dim espial. Safe at last, 185

  Through many a dusky gallery, they gain

  The maiden’s chamber, silken, hush’d, and chaste;

  Where Porphyro took covert, pleas’d amain.

  His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain.

  Her falt’ring hand upon the balustrade, 190

  Old Angela was feeling for the stair,

  When Madeline, St. Agnes’ charmèd maid,

  Rose, like a mission’d spirit, unaware:

  With silver taper’s light, and pious care,

  She turn’d, and down the agèd gossip led 195

  To a safe level matting. Now prepare,

  Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed;

  She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray’d and fled.

  Out went the taper as she hurried in;

  Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died; 200

  She clos’d 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; 205

  As though a tongueless nightingale should swell

  Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell.

  A casement high and triple-arch’d there was,

  All garlanded with carven imag’ries

  Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, 210

  And diamonded with panes of quaint device,

  Unnumerable 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, 215

  A shielded scutcheon blush’d with blood of queens and kings.

&nb
sp; 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, 220

  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. 225

  Anon his heart revives: her vespers done,

  Of all its wreathèd 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; 230

  Half-hidden, like a mermaid in seaweed,

  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, 235

  In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex’d she lay,

  Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress’d

  Her soothèd limbs, and soul fatigued away;

  Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day;

  Blissfully haven’d both from joy and pain; 240

  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 entranced,

  Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, 245

  And listen’d to her breathing, if it chanced

  To wake into a slumberous tenderness;

  Which when he heard, that minute did he bless,

  And breath’d himself: then from the closet crept,

  Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness, 250

  And over the hush’d carpet, silent, stepped,

  And ‘tween the curtains peep’d, 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-anguish’d, threw thereon 255

  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: — 260

  The hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone.

  And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,

  In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender’d,

  While he from forth the closet brought a heap

  Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd: 265

  With jellies soother than the creamy curd,

  And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon:

  Manna and dates, in argosy transferr’d

  From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one,

  From silken Samarcand to cedar’d Lebanon. 270

  These delicates he heap’d with glowing hand

  On golden dishes and in baskets bright

  Of wreathèd silver: sumptuous they stand

  In the retired quiet of the night,

  Filling the chilly room with perfume light. — 275

  ‘And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake!

  Thou art my 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 280

  Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream

  By the dusk curtains:— ’twas a midnight charm

  Impossible to melt as icèd stream:

  The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam:

  Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies: 285

  It seem’d he never, never could redeem

  From such a steadfast spell his lady’s eyes;

  She mus’d awhile, entoil’d in woofed phantasies.

  Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, —

  Tumultuous, — and, in chords that tenderest be, 290

  He play’d an ancient ditty, long since mute,

  In Provence call’d, ‘La belle dame sans merci:’

  Close to her ear touching the melody; —

  Wherewith disturb’d, she utter’d a soft moan:

  He ceased — she panted quick — and suddenly 295

  Her blue affrighted eyes wide open shone:

  Upon his knees he sank, 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 300

  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, 305

  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: 310

  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.’ 315

  Beyond a mortal man impassion’d far

  At these voluptuous accents, he arose,

  Ethereal, flush’d, and like a throbbing star

  Seen mid the sapphire heaven’s deep repose;

  Into her dream he melted, as the rose 320

  Blendeth its odour 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: 325

  ‘This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!’

  ’Tis dark: the icèd 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? 330

  I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine,

  Though thou forsakest a deceived thing: —

  A dove forlorn and lost with sick unprunèd wing!’

  ‘My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride!

  Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest? 335

  Thy beauty’s shield, heart-shap’d and vermeil dyed?

  Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest

  After so many hours of toil and quest,

  A famish’d pilgrim, — saved by miracle.

  Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest 340

  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; — 345

  The bloated wassailers will never heed: —

  Let us away, my love, with happy speed;

  There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, —

  Drown’d all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead:

  Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be, 350

  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. — 355

  In all the house was heard no human sound.

  A chain-droop’d lamp was flickering by each door;

  The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound,

  Flutter’d in the besieging wind’s uproar

  And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. 360

  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, 365

  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: aye, ages long ago 370

  These lovers fled away into the storm.

  That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe,

  And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form

  Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm,

  Were long be-nightmar’d. Angela the old 375

  Died palsy-twitch’d, with meagre face deform;

  The Beadsman, after thousand aves told,

  For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold.

  List of Poems in Alphabetical Order

  List of Poets in Alphabetical Order

  La Belle Dame Sans Merci

  John Keats (1795–1821)

  ‘O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

  Alone and palely loitering?

  The sedge has wither’d from the lake,

  And no birds sing.

  ‘O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms! 5

  So haggard and so woe-begone?

  The squirrel’s granary is full,

  And the harvest’s done.

  ‘I see a lily on thy brow

  With anguish moist and fever-dew, 10

  And on thy cheeks a fading rose

  Fast withereth too.

  ‘I met a lady in the meads,

  Full beautiful — a faery’s child,

  Her hair was long, her foot was light, 15

  And her eyes were wild.

  ‘I made a garland for her head,

  And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;