XXXI

These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand

      On golden dishes and in baskets bright

      Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand

      In the retired quiet of the night,

      Filling the chilly room with perfume light.—

      'And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake!

      Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite:

      Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake,

Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache.'