St. Agnes' Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass
And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told
His rosary, and while his frosted breath
Like pious incense from a censer old
Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith

His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man;
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees
And back rеturneth, meagre, barеfoot, wan
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees:
The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze
Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails:
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries
He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails
To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails

Northward he turneth through a little door
And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue
Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor;
But no—already had his deathbell rung;
The joys of all his life were said and sung:
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve:
Another way he went, and soon among
Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve
And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve
That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft;
And so it chanc'd, for many a door was wide
From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft
The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide:
The level chambers, ready with their pride
Were glowing to receive a thousand guests:
The carved angels, ever eager-eyed
Star'd, where upon their heads the cornice rests
With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts

At length burst in the argent revelry
With plume, tiara, and all rich array
Numerous as shadows haunting faerily
The brain, new stuff'd, in youth, with triumphs gay
Of old romance. These let us wish away
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day
On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care
As she had heard old dames full many times declare

They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve
Young virgins might have visions of delight
And soft adorings from their loves receive
Upon the honey'd middle of the night
If ceremonies due they did aright;
As, supperless to bed they must retire
And couch supine their beauties, lily white;
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require
Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire
Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline:
The music, yearning like a God in pain
She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine
Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train
Pass by—she heeded not at all: in vain
Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier
And back retir'd; not cool'd by high disdain
But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere:
She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year

She danc'd along with vague, regardless eyes
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short:
The hallow'd hour was near at hand: she sighs
Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport;
'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn
Hoodwink'd with faery fancy; all amort
Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn
And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn

So, purposing each moment to retire
She linger'd still. Meantime, across the moors
Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire
For Madeline. Beside the portal doors
Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores
All saints to give him sight of Madeline
But for one moment in the tedious hours
That he might gaze and worship all unseen;
Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss—in sooth such things have been
He ventures in: let no buzz'd whisper tell:
All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords
Will storm his heart, Love's fev'rous citadel:
For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes
Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords
Whose very dogs would execrations howl
Against his lineage: not one breast affords
Him any mercy, in that mansion foul
Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul

Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came
Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand
To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame
Behind a broad half-pillar, far beyond
The sound of merriment and chorus bland:
He startled her; but soon she knew his face
And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand
Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place;
They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race!

"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 gray 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."

He follow'd through a lowly arched way
Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume
And as she mutter'd "Well-a—well-a-day!"
He found him in a little moonlight room
Pale, lattic'd, chill, and silent as a tomb
"Now tell me where is Madeline," said he
"O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom
Which none but secret sisterhood may see
When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously."

"St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes' Eve—
Yet men will murder upon holy days:
Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve
And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays
To venture so: it fills me with amaze
To see thee, Porphyro!—St. Agnes' Eve!
God's help! my lady fair the conjuror plays
This very night: good angels her deceive!
But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time to grieve."

Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon
While Porphyro upon her face doth look
Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone
Who keepeth clos'd a wond'rous riddle-book
As spectacled she sits in chimney nook
But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told
His lady's purpose; and he scarce could brook
Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold
And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old

Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose
Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart
Made purple riot: then doth he propose
A stratagem, that makes the beldame start:
"A cruel man and impious thou art:
Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream
Alone with her good angels, far apart
From wicked men like thee. Go, go!—I deem
Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem."

"I will not harm her, by all saints I swear,"
Quoth Porphyro: "O may I ne'er find grace
When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer
If one of her soft ringlets I displace
Or look with ruffian passion in her face:
Good Angela, believe me by these tears;
Or I will, even in a moment's space
Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears
And beard them, though they be more fang'd than wolves and bears."

"Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul?
A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing
Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll;
Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening
Were never miss'd."—Thus plaining, doth she bring
A gentler speech from burning Porphyro;
So woful, and of such deep sorrowing
That Angela gives promise she will do
Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe

Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy
Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide
Him in a closet, of such privacy
That he might see her beauty unespy'd
And win perhaps that night a peerless bride
While legion'd faeries pac'd the coverlet
And pale enchantment held her sleepy-ey'd
Never on such a night have lovers met
Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt

"It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame:
"All cates and dainties shall be stored there
Quickly on this feast-night: by the tambour frame
Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to spare
For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare
On such a catering trust my dizzy head
Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in prayer
The while: Ah! thou must needs the lady wed
Or may I never leave my grave among the dead."

So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear
The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd;
The dame return'd, and whisper'd in his ear
To follow her; with aged eyes aghast
From fright of dim espial. Safe at last
Through many a dusky gallery, they gain
The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd, and chaste;
Where Porphyro took covert, pleas'd amain
His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain

Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade
Old Angela was feeling for the stair
When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid
Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware:
With silver taper's light, and pious care
She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led
To a safe level matting. Now prepare
Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed;
She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray'd and fled

Out went the taper as she hurried in;
Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died:
She clos'd the door, she panted, all akin
To spirits of the air, and visions wide:
No uttered syllable, or, woe betide!
But to her heart, her heart was voluble
Paining with eloquence her balmy side;
As though a tongueless nightingale should swell
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell

A casement high and triple-arch'd there was
All garlanded with carven imag'ries
Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass
And diamonded with panes of quaint device
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings;
And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries
And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings
A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings

Full on this casement shone the wintry moon
And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast
As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon;
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest
And on her silver cross soft amethyst
And on her hair a glory, like a saint:
She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest
Save wings, for heaven:—Porphyro grew faint:
She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint

Anon his heart revives: her vespers done
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;
Loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees:
Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees
In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed
But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled

Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away;
Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day;
Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain;
Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray;
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again

Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced
Porphyro gaz'd upon her empty dress
And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanced
To wake into a slumberous tenderness;
Which when he heard, that minute did he bless
And breath'd himself: then from the closet crept
Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness
And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept
And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo!—how fast she slept

Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon
Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set
A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon
A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet:—
O for some drowsy Morphean amulet!
The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion
The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarinet
Affray his ears, though but in dying tone:—
The hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone

And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep
In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd
While he forth from the closet brought a heap
Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd;
With jellies soother than the creamy curd
And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon;
Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd
From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one
From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon

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."

Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm
Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream
By the dusk curtains:—'twas a midnight charm
Impossible to melt as iced stream:
The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam;
Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies:
It seem'd he never, never could redeem
From such a stedfast spell his lady's eyes;
So mus'd awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies

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 ceas'd—she panted quick—and suddenly
Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone:
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone

Her eyes were open, but she still beheld
Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep:
There was a painful change, that nigh expell'd
The blisses of her dream so pure and deep
At which fair Madeline began to weep
And moan forth witless words with many a sigh;
While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep;
Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye
Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly

"Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now
Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear
Made tuneable with every sweetest vow;
And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear:
How chang'd thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear!
Give me that voice again, my Porphyro
Those looks immortal, those complainings dear!
Oh leave me not in this eternal woe
For if thy diest, my Love, I know not where to go."

Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far
At these voluptuous accents, he arose
Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star
Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose;
Into her dream he melted, as the rose
Blendeth its odour with the violet,—
Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows
Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet
Against the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon hath set

'Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet:
"This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!"
'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat:
"No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine!
Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine.—
Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring?
I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine
Though thou forsakest a deceived thing;—
A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing."

"My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride!
Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest?
Thy beauty's shield, heart-shap'd and vermeil dyed?
Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest
After so many hours of toil and quest
A famish'd pilgrim,—sav'd by miracle
Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest
Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well
To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel

"Hark! 'tis an elfin-storm from faery land
Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed:
Arise—arise! the morning is at hand;—
The bloated wassaillers will never heed:—
Let us away, my love, with happy speed;
There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see,—
Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead:
Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be
For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee."

She hurried at his words, beset with fears
For there were sleeping dragons all around
At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears—
Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found.—
In all the house was heard no human sound
A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door;
The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound
Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar;
And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor

They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall;
Like phantoms, to the iron porch, they glide;
Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl
With a huge empty flaggon by his side:
The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide
But his sagacious eye an inmate owns:
By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide:—
The chains lie silent on the footworn stones;—
The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans

And they are gone: ay, ages long ago
These lovers fled away into the storm
That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe
And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form
Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm
Were long be-nightmar'd. Angela the old
Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform;
The Beadsman, after thousand aves told
For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold