“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,
  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.

  “Anon his heart revives:  her vespers done,
  Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;
  Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;
  Loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees
  Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees: 
  Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed,
  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,
  In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex’d she lay,
  Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress’d
  Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away
  Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day: 
  Blissfully haven’d both from joy and pain;
  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.” 
  EVE OF ST. AGNES.

With the rich beauties and the dim obscurities of lines like these, let us contrast the Verses addressed To a Tuft of early Violets by the fastidious author of the Baviad and Maeviad.—­

  “Sweet flowers! that from your humble beds
  Thus prematurely dare to rise,
  And trust your unprotected heads
  To cold Aquarius’ watery skies.

“Retire, retire! These tepid airs Are not the genial brood of May; That sun with light malignant glares, And flatters only to betray.

  “Stern Winter’s reign is not yet past—­
  Lo! while your buds prepare to blow,
  On icy pinions comes the blast,
  And nips your root, and lays you low.

  “Alas, for such ungentle doom! 
  But I will shield you; and supply
  A kindlier soil on which to bloom,
  A nobler bed on which to die.

  “Come then—­’ere yet the morning ray
  Has drunk the dew that gems your crest,
  And drawn your balmiest sweets away;
  O come and grace my Anna’s breast.

  “Ye droop, fond flowers!  But did ye know
  What worth, what goodness there reside,
  Your cups with liveliest tints would glow;
  And spread their leaves with conscious pride.

  “For there has liberal Nature joined
  Her riches to the stores of Art,
  And added to the vigorous mind
  The soft, the sympathising heart.

  “Come, then—­’ere yet the morning ray
  Has drunk the dew that gems your crest,
  And drawn your balmiest sweets away;
  O come and grace my Anna’s breast.