XXXIII.

Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,-- Tumultuous,--and, in chords that tenderest be, 290 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.