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:
And couch supine their beauties, lily white;
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require
Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire.
The sculptured dead, on each side, seem to Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline;
Emprisoned in black, purgatorial rails:
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat 'ries, He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails
The music, yearning like a God in pain,
She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine,
Fixed on the floor, saw many a sweeping train1
Pass by-she heeded not at all: in vain
To think how they may ache in icy hoods and Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier,
Northward he turneth through a little door,
And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden
tongue
Flattered 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 chanced, 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,
Stared, 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 fairily
And back retired; not cooled by high disdain, But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere: She sighed for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year.
She danced along with vague, regardless eyes,
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short:
The hallowed hour was near at hand: she sighs
Amid the timbrels, and the thronged resort
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport;
'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn,
Hoodwinked with faery fancy; all amort,3
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 lingered still. Meantime, across the moors,
Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire
For Madeline. Beside the portal doors,
Buttressed from moonlight, stands he, and im-
plores
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.
The brain, new stuffed, in youth, with triumphs He ventures in: let no buzzed 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,
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 hall-pillar, far beyond
The sound of merriment and chorus bland:
He startled her; but soon she knew his face,
And grasped his fingers in her palsied hand,
Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this
place;
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 painèd heart
Made purple riot: then doth he propose
They are all here to-night, the whole blood- A stratagem, that makes the beldame start: thirsty race!
"A cruel man and impious thou art:
Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream
Alone with her good angels, far apart
Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish Hilde- From wicked men like thee. Go, go!-I deem
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;
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
If one of her soft ringlets I displace, Follow me, child, or else these stones will Or look with ruffian passion in her face: be thy bier."
He followed through a lowly arched way,
Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume;
And as she muttered "Well-a-well-a-day!'
He found him in a little moonlight room,
Pale, latticed, 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 conjurer plays
This very night; good angels her deceive!
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 fanged
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 missed." 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
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 unespied,
But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time to And win perhaps that night a peerless bride,
"It shall be as thou wishest, "said the Dame; "All cates1 and dainties shall be stored there Quickly on this feast-night: by the tambour frame2
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."
Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced,
Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress,
And listened to her breathing, if it chanced
To wake into a slumberous tenderness;
Which when he heard, that minute did he bless,
And breathed himself: then from the closet
crept,
Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness,
Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot. And over the hushed carpet, silent, stepped,
3 red color (a heraldic term)
2 A drum-like embroidery frame.
4 mass-book (which pagans would have no occasion to unclasp)
And 'tween the curtains peeped, where, lo! | Close to her ear touching the melody;
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-drooped lamp was flickering by each Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other
groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin,
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