"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,
For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare
On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 177
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

325

'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, 331 Though thou forsakest a deceived thing; A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing."

Thy beauty's shield, 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,-sav'd by miracle. 339 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 fairy land, Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed: 344 Arise arise! the morning is at hand; 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-drooped lamp was flickering by each door;

The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, 358 Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar; And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.

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: ay, 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

SECOND CONVERSATION

Esop. And so, our fellow-slaves are given to contention on the score of dignity?

Rhodopè. I do not believe they are much addicted to contention: for, whenever the good Xanthus hears a signal of such misbehaviour, he either brings a scourge into the midst of them or sends our lady to scold them smartly for it.

Esop. Admirable evidence against their propensity!

Rhodope. I will not have you find them out so, nor laugh at them.

Esop. Seeing that the good Xanthus and our lady are equally fond of thee, and always visit thee both together, the girls, however envious, cannot well or safely be arrogant, but must of necessity yield the first place to thee.

Rhodope. They indeed are observant of the kindness thus bestowed upon me: yet they afflict me by taunting me continually with what I am unable to deny.

Æsop. If it is true, it ought little to trouble thee; if untrue, less. I know, for I have looked into nothing else of late, no evil can thy heart have admitted: a sigh of thine before the gods would remove the heaviest that could fall on it. Pray tell me what it may be. Come, be courageous; be cheerful. I can easily pardon a smile if thou impleadest me of curiosity.

Rhodope. They remark to me that enemies or robbers took them forcibly from their parents . . . and that . . . and that ..

Esop. Likely enough: what then? Why desist from speaking? why cover thy face with thy hair and hands? Rhodope! Rhodope! dost thou weep moreover?

Rhodopè. It is so sure!
Esop. Was the fault thine?
Rhodope. O that it were! ..

any.

if there was

Esop. While it pains thee to tell it, keep thy silence; but when utterance is a solace, then impart it.

Rhodope. They remind me (oh! who could have had the cruelty to relate it?) that my father, my own dear father.

Esop. Say not the rest: I know it: his day was come.

Rhodope. . . . sold me, sold me. You start you did not at the lightning last night, nor at the rolling sounds above. And do you, generous Æsop! do you also call a misfortune a disgrace?

Æsop. If it is, I am among the most disgraceful of men. Didst thou dearly love thy father?

Rhodope. All loved him. He was very fond of me.

Esop. And yet sold thee! sold thee to a stranger!

Rhodope. He was the kindest of all kind fathers, nevertheless. Nine summers ago, you may have heard perhaps, there was a grievous famine in our land of Thrace.

Esop. I remember it perfectly. Rhodope. O poor Esop! and were you too famishing in your native Phrygia?

Esop. The calamity extended beyond the narrow sea that separates our countries. My appetite was sharpened; but the appetite and the wits are equally set on the same grindstone.

Rhodope. I was then scarcely five years old: my mother died the year before: my father sighed at every funeral, but he sighed more deeply at every bridal, song. He loved me because he loved her who bore me: and yet I made him sorrowful whether I cried or smiled. If ever I vexed him, it was because I would not play when he told me, but made him, by my weeping, weep again.

Esop. And yet he could endure to lose thee! he, thy father! Could any other? could any who lives on the fruits of the earth, endure it? O age, that art incumbent over me! blessed be thou; thrice blessed! Not that thou stillest the tumults of the heart, and promisest eternal calm, but that, prevented by thy beneficence, I never shall experience this only intolerable wretchedness. Rhodopè. Alas! alas!

Æsop. Thou art now happy, and shouldst not utter that useless exclamation.

Rhodopè. You said something angrily and vehemently when you stepped aside. Is it

Esop. Rest on it for comfort and for counsel when they fail thee: rest on it, as the deities on the breast of mortals, to console and purify it.

Rhodope. Could I remove any, sorrow from it, I should be contented.

Esop. Then be so; and proceed in thy narrative.

Rhodope. Bear with me a little yet. My thoughts have overpowered my words, and now themselves are overpowered and scattered.

Forty-seven days ago (this is only the fortyeighth since I beheld you first) I was a child; I was ignorant, I was careless.

Esop. If these qualities are signs of childhood, the universe is a nursery.

Rhodope. Affliction, which makes many wiser, had no such effect on me. But reverence and love (why should I hesitate at the one avowal more than at the other?) came over me, to ripen my understanding.

Esop. O Rhodopè! we must loiter no longer upon this discourse.

Rhodope. Why not?

Esop. Pleasant is yonder beanfield, seen over the high papyrus when it waves and bends: deep laden with the sweet heaviness of its odour is the listless air that palpitates diz zily above it but Death is lurking for the slumberer beneath its blossoms.

Rhodope. You must not love then! . . . but may not I?

Esop. We will . . . but

Rhodope. We! O sound that is to vibrate on my breast forever! O hour! happier than all other hours since time began! O gracious Gods! who brought me into bondage!

Esop. Be calm, be composed, be circumspect. We must hide our treasure that we may not lose it.

Rhodope. I do not think that you can love me; and I fear and tremble to hope so. Ah, yes; you have said you did. But again you only look at me, and sigh as if you repented.

Esop. Unworthy as I may be of thy fond regard, I am not unworthy of thy fullest confidence: why distrust me? Rhodope. Never will I

. . never, never.