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,

     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 to freeze,

     Emprison’d in black, purgatorial rails:

     Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat’ries,

     He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails

     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,

     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,

     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,

     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

     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 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,

     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;

     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,

     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;