XXXIII

Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,—

      Tumultuous,—and, in chords that tenderest be,

      He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute,

      In Provence call'd 'La belle dame sans mercy:'

      Close to her ear touching the melody;—

      Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft moan:

      He ceased—she panted quick—and suddenly

      Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone:

Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone.