| |
I.
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 | 5 |
| 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. | |
| |
II.
His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man; | 10 |
| Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees, | |
| And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan, | |
| Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees: | |
| The sculptur’d dead, on each side, seem to freeze, | |
| Emprison’d in black, purgatorial rails: | 15 |
| 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. | |
| |
III.
Northward he turneth through a little door, | |
| And scarce three steps, ere Music’s golden tongue | 20 |
| 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 | 25 |
| Rough ashes sat he for his soul’s reprieve, | |
| And all night kept awake, for sinners’ sake to grieve. | |
| |
IV.
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, | 30 |
| 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, | 35 |
| With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts. | |
| |
V.
At length burst in the argent revelry, | |
| With plume, tiara, and all rich array, | |
| Numerous as shadows haunting fairily | |
| The brain, new stuff d, in youth, with triumphs gay | 40 |
| 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. | 45 |
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VI.
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; | 50 |
| 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. | |
| |
VII.
Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline: | 55 |
| 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, | 60 |
| 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. | |
| |
VIII.
She danc’d along with vague, regardless eyes, | |
| Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short: | 65 |
| 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, | 70 |
| Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn, | |
| And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. | |
| |
IX.
So, purposing each moment to retire, | |
| She linger’d still. Meantime, across the moors, | |
| Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire | 75 |
| 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; | 80 |
| Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss—in sooth such things have been. | |
| |
X.
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, | 85 |
| 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. | 90 |
| |
XI.
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 hail-pillar, far beyond | |
| The sound of merriment and chorus bland: | 95 |
| 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! | |
| |
XII.
“Get hence! get hence! there’s dwarfish Hildebrand; | 100 |
| “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, | 105 |
| “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.” | |
| |
XIII.
He follow’d through a lowly arched way, | |
| Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume; | 110 |
| 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 | 115 |
| “Which none but secret sisterhood may see, | |
| “When they St. Agnes’ wool are weaving piously.” | |
| |
XIV.
“St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes’ Eve— | |
| “Yet men will murder upon holy days: | |
| “Thou must hold water in a witch’s sieve, | 120 |
| “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! | 125 |
| “But let me laugh awhile, I’ve mickle time to grieve.” | |
| |
XV.
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, | 130 |
| 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. | 135 |
| |
XVI.
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: | 140 |
| “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. | |
| |
XVII.
“I will not harm her, by all saints I swear,” | 145 |
| 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; | 150 |
| “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.” | |
| |
XVIII.
“Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul? | |
| “A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing, | 155 |
| “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, | 160 |
| That Angela gives promise she will do | |
| Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. | |
| |
XIX.
Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy, | |
| Even to Madeline’s chamber, and there hide | |
| Him in a closet, of such privacy | 165 |
| That he might see her beauty unespied, | |
| And win perhaps that night a peerless bride, | |
| While legion’d fairies pac’d the coverlet, | |
| And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. | |
| Never on such a night have lovers met, | 170 |
| Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt. | |
| |
XX.
“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, | 175 |
| “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.” | 180 |
| |
XXI.
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, | 185 |
| 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. | |
| |
XXII.
Her falt’ring hand upon the balustrade, | 190 |
| 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 | 195 |
| 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. | |
| |
XXIII.
Out went the taper as she hurried in; | |
| Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died: | 200 |
| 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; | 205 |
| As though a tongueless nightingale should swell | |
| Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell. | |
| |
XXIV.
A casement high and triple-arch’d there was, | |
| All garlanded with carven imag’ries | |
| Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, | 210 |
| 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, | 215 |
| A shielded scutcheon blush’d with blood of queens and kings. | |
| |
XXV.
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, | 220 |
| 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. | 225 |
| |
XXVI.
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: | 230 |
| 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. | |
| |
XXVII.
Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, | 235 |
| 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; | 240 |
| 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. | |
| |
XXVIII.
Stol’n to this paradise, and so entranced, | |
| Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, | 245 |
| 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, | 250 |
| And over the hush’d carpet, silent, stept, | |
| And ’tween the curtains peep’d, where, lo!—how fast she slept. | |
| |
XXIX.
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 | 255 |
| 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 clarionet, | |
| Affray his ears, though but in dying tone:— | 260 |
| The hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. | |
| |
XXX.
And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, | |
| In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender’d, | |
| While he from forth the closet brought a heap | |
| Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd; | 265 |
| 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. | 270 |
| |
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.— | 275 |
| “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.” | |
| |
XXXII.
Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm | 280 |
| 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: | 285 |
| 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. | |
| |
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 | 295 |
| Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone: | |
| Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone. | |
| |
XXXIV.
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 | 300 |
| 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, | 305 |
| Fearing to move or speak, she look’d so dreamingly. | |
| |
XXXV.
“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: | 310 |
| “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 thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go.” | 315 |
| |
XXXVI.
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 | 320 |
| 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. | |
| |
XXXVII.
’Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet: | 325 |
| “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? | 330 |
| “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.” | |
| |
XXXVIII.
“My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride! | |
| “Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest? | 335 |
| “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,—saved by miracle. | |
| “Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest | 340 |
| “Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think’st well | |
| “To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel.” | |
| |
XXXIX.
’Hark! ’tis an elfin-storm from faery land, | |
| “Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed: | |
| “Arise—arise! the morning is at hand;— | 345 |
| “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, | 350 |
| “For o’er the southern moors I have a home for thee.” | |
| |
XL.
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.— | 355 |
| 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. | 360 |
| |
XLI.
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, | 365 |
| 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 groan. | |
| |
XLII.
And they are gone: ay, ages long ago | 370 |
| 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 | 375 |
| Died palsy-twitch’d, with meagre face deform; | |
| The Beadsman, after thousand aves told, | |
| For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold. | |
| |
| See Notes. |
| |
