Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish Hildebrand; He had a fever late, and in the fit He cursed thee and thine, both house and land: Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit More tame for his grey hairs—Alas me! flit! Flit like a ghost away."—"Ah, Gossip dear, We're safe enough; here in this arm-chair sit, And tell me how"—"Good Saints! not here, not here; Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier."
The old nurse, in an effort to convince Porphyro to vamoose ASAP, tells him about some of the guests.
They sound like a delightful bunch: their hobbies include cursing Porphyro's family and family property and, presumably, thinking about killing them.
Think about the hodge-podge collection of names you've got at this point: Madeline, Porphyro, Hildebrand, and Maurice. The fact that they don't belong to one place or time heightens the unreal feel of the poem; you've got an ancient Greek name (Porphyro) right alongside names like Madeline and Hildebrand, which seem more at home in a medieval European castle.
By the way, when Porphyro calls the nurse "Gossip," he's calling her his "close, secret-sharing confidant," not 'mean girl who talks about people behind their backs.
Porphyro wants the nurse to chillax and take a seat, but she tells him they have to relocate pronto or the stones they're standing upon are going to end up supporting his coffin.
If you ever wondered what a bier is (come on, you know you have), it's a little structure made to bear up somebody's coffin/burial casket.