LI. In anxious secrecy they took it home, She drench'd away and still she comb'd and kept Then in a silken scarf, LII. sweet with the dews Of precious flowers pluck'd in Araby, LIII. And she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun, LIV. And so she ever fed it with thin tears, Whence thick, and green, and beautiful it grew, So that it smelt more balmy than its peers From the fast mouldering head there shut from view : So that the jewel, safely casketed, Came forth, and in perfumed leaflets spread. LV. O Melancholy, linger here awhile ! O Music, Music, breathe despondingly! LVI. Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe, Among the dead: She withers, like a palm LVII. O leave the palm to wither by itself; Let not quick Winter chill its dying hour! — It may not be those Baâlites of pelf, Her brethren, noted the continual shower From her dead eyes; and many a curious elf, Among her kindred, wonder'd that such dower Of youth and beauty should be thrown aside LVIII. And, furthermore, her brethren wonder'd much Greatly they wonder'd what the thing might mean: They could not surely give belief, that such A very nothing would have power to wean Her from her own fair youth, and pleasures gay, And even remembrance of her love's delay. LIX. Therefore they watch'd a time when they might sift And seldom felt she any hunger-pain : LX. Yet they contrived to steal the Basil-pot, And so left Florence in a moment's space, LXI. O Melancholy, turn thine eyes away! From isles Lethean, sigh to us O sigh! Will die a death too lone and incomplete, LXII. Piteous she look'd on dead and senseless things, And with melodious chuckle in the strings Of her lorn voice, she oftentimes would cry After the Pilgrim in his wanderings, To ask him where her Basil was; and why 'Twas hid from her: "For cruel 'tis," said she, "To steal my Basil-pot away from me." LXIII. And so she pined, and so she died forlorn, No heart was there in Florence but did mourn And a sad ditty of this story borne From mouth to mouth through all the country pass'd: Still is the burthen sung "O cruelty, To steal my Basil-pot away from me!" THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. ST I. T. AGNES' EVE- Ah, bitter chill it was! 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 ; Knights, ladies, praying in dumb oratʼries, III. Northward he turneth through a little door, But no |