Page:Blackwood's Magazine volume 018.djvu/452

Once more that spirit's unearthly loveliness.
Look! is not mine hair whiten'd in one night?
If not, it might have been,—yes! in one hour
Of last eventful strange night's middle watch.
Rob. Thou saw'st then somewhat? Tell me—and sit down.
Reg. Desolate—desolate—why should I not
Sit and tell, and tell o'er, and o'er again
What is for ages link'd to me;—to be
Almost for ever in my bodily sight—
As now it is, there, though other sensible things
Dim its dear clearness;—and in my soul's sight
To be quite, quite for ever? Nay—my words
Why should I waste? But thou wilt patient hear;—
But hear thou wilt,—and I cannot refuse thee:—
Hear then in brief; if I in brief can tell it,
Which yet I doubt. Entrance I gain'd last night;
And gain'd the room—an oratory. There—
Long time I loiter'd eager; but my haste
Hurried not on the hour's portentous pace.
Much I gazed from the window,—but of that
I will not now; somewhat there was, which all
Who like to look on earth's charms love to see;
But somewhat was there more; I saw thence,—such
As heretofore had an adventure seem'd,
But now I note it not, nor think of it,
Things so note-worthier follow'd. Much I mused
On thee—on Giuliana—on myself,—
Till my thoughts wander'd, and went sliding off
In dreams gay—lovely—or horrible—as it chanced;
And by my frequent fits of slumberousness,
(For a prodigious heaviness hung on the air,)
And by my sudden starts therefrom, I found
Watching was then a jest.—Hours had to pass
Ere the appointed one. I threw me back
Upon a chair and slept—or rather slumber'd
'Tween sleep and dozing. Many were my dreams,
Various and discontinuous; things, that night
Seen for the first time, and things, long ago
Seen, which I ne'er again shall see, did blend
Strangely and brokenly with ghastly things,
Such as we hear in childhood, scorn in youth,
And doubt in manhood, save when seen. At last
I awoke,—remember'd in some minutes where
I was; and, while the clock toll'd twelve, saw—what
Quite 'woke me, if before waking was doubtful.
The moon shone in the chamber,—and I beheld
The door distinctly open—and a shape
Steal in—I say steal, not that its steps wanted
Majesty, or that all-o'erawing motion
Which heralds worth, but from its noiselessness,
Its lifelessness, I might say; not an echo
Rung to its tread, or whisper'd to its breath;—
Dark was her face—for 'twas a woman's form,—
Dark as is night's—when crested with the crescent—
But by the forehead's locks, the downward eyes,
And cheek quite shaded,—she on sleeping earth
Looks down and smiles in Indian loveliness.
So dark was that face,—but 'twas in the dark,
Or in, at most, only the room's half light:
Into the moonshine she came on,—and there
That visage sweet show'd duskier, for heaven's gleam
Her light loose lawny vestment silver'd—so