And twilight saints, and dim embla- As though a rose should shut, and be a zonings, A shielded scutcheon blushed with blood of queens and kings. 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; noise is gone. 133 Open thine eyes, for meek Saint Agnes' sake, Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul Thus whispering, his warm, unnervéd arm Sank in her pillow. dream By the dusk curtains:-'t was a midnight charm Impossible to melt as icéd stream : The lustrous 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 wooféd fan tasies. Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, Tumultuous, and, in chords that tenderest be, He played 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 affrayéd eyes wide open shone : Upon his knees he sank, pale as smoothsculptured stone. Hereyes were open, but she still beheld, The blisses of her dream so pure and 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, 'Tis dark: quick pattereth the flawblown sleet: "This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!" "Tis dark: the icéd gusts still rave and beat: "Nodream, 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 deceivéd 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? But his sagacious eye an inmate owns: By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide; The chains lie silent on the foot-worn stones; Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my The key turns, and the door upon its 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." hinges groans. And they are gone: ay, ages long ago 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 In darkness as in light, I sleep, I wake, as in his sight All that I am, have been, He sees at once, as he hath seen, "Forever with the Lord": Father, if 't is thy will, The promise of that faithful word Unto thy child fulfil! So, when my latest breath Shall rend the veil in twain, By death I shall escape from death, And life eternal gain. PRAYER. PRAYER is the soul's sincere desire The motion of a hidden fire Prayer is the burden of a sigh, The falling of a tear; The upward glancing of an eye, When none but God is near. Prayer is the simplest form of speech Prayer is the Christian's vital breath, Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice O Thou, by whom we come to God, HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS. [1762-1827.] WHILST THEE I SEEK. WHILST Thee I seek, protecting Power, Thy love the power of thought bestowed; In each event of life, how clear In every joy that crowns my days, My heart shall find delight in praise, When gladness wings my favored hour, Thy love my thoughts shall fill; Resigned, when storms of sorrow lower, My soul shall meet thy will. My lifted eye, without a tear, The gathering storm shall see; My steadfast heart shall know no fear; That heart shall rest on thee. UNKNOWN. THERE WAS SILENCE IN HEAVEN. CAN angel spirits need repose In the full sunlight of the sky? And can the veil of slumber close A cherub's bright and blazing eye? Have seraphim a weary brow, A fainting heart, an aching breast? No, far too high their pulses flow To languish with inglorious rest. O, not the death-like calm of sleep Could hush the everlasting song; No fairy dream or slumber deep Entrance the rapt and holy throng. |