for feeling or spontaneity; no irrelevancy or unfitness

of any sort. All flows out of sincerity and passion. The writer is as much in love with the heroine as his hero is; his description of the painted window, however gorgeous, has not an untrue or superfluous word; and the only speck of a fault in the whole poem arises from an excess of emotion.

THE EVE OF SAINT AGNES.1

I.

St. Agnes' Eve-Ah! bitter chill it was;
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;2
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.3

II.

His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man,

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'd to freeze,
Imprison'd in black, purgatorial rails :
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb oratʼries,
He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails

To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.1

III.

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 :5
But no; already had his death-bell 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 sinner's 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
The silver-snarling trumpets 'gan to chide;
The level chambers ready with their pride,
Were glowing to receive a thousand guests:
And carved angels, ever eager-eyed,

Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests,

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
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.

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;
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 youthful 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 tip-toe amorous cavalier,
And back retired, 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;
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.

IX.

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.

X.

He ventures in, let no buzz'd whisper tell;
All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords
Will storm his heart, Love's feverous citadel.
For him those chambers held barbarian hordes,
Hyæna 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.

XI.

Ah! happy chance! the aged creature came
Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand,
To where he stood, hid from the torches' light,
Behind a broad hall 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.

XII.

"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."

XIII.

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, 6 Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. "Now tell me where is Madeline," said he ; "Oh, tell me, Angela, by the holy loom 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 holidays;
Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve,
And be the liege lord of all 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."

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 wondrous riddle-book, As spectacled she sits in chimney nook ; But soon his eyes grow 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.

XVI.

Sudden a thought came, like a full-blown rose,
Flushing his brow, and in his painèd 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,