I know he loved me well, for when we parted,

None did in grief excel,-both were truehearted.

THE EVE OF ST. AGNES.

I.

Those promises we made ne'er shall be ST. AGNES' EVE-Ah, bitter chill it was! broken; The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; Those words that then he said ne'er shall be The hare limped trembling through the frozen spoken.

grass,

And silent was the flock in woolly fold:

He hearing what she said, made his love Numb were the Beadman's fingers while he

stronger,

Off his disguise he laid, and staid no longer.
When her dear love she knew, in wanton

fashion

Into his arms she flew,-such is love's passion!

He asked her how she liked his counter

feiting,

told

His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
Like pious incense from a censer old,
Seemed taking flight for heaven without a
death,

Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his
prayer he saith.

II.

Whether she was well pleased with such like His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ;

greeting?

You are well versed, quoth she, in several

speeches,

Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees,

And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,

Could you coin money so, you might get Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees;

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 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

Then hand in hand they walk with mirth Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve,

and pleasure,

They laugh, they kiss, they talk-love knows

no measure.

Now both do sit and sing-but she sings clearest ;

Like nightingale in Spring, Welcome my dearest!

ANONYMOUS.

And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve.

IV.

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 EVE OF ST. AGNES.

The level chambers, ready with their pride, The hallowed hour was near at hand; she
Were glowing to receive a thousand guests;
The carved angels, ever eager-eyed,

Amid the timbrels, and the thronged resort
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport;
'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn,

With hair blown back, and wings put cross- Hoodwinked with fairy fancy; all amort

XII.

"Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish

Hildebrand;

He had a fever late, and in the fit

His lady's purpose; and he scarce could brook

Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold,

He cursed thee and thine, both house and And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old.

land;

Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a

whit

rose,

XVI.

More tame for his gray hairs-Alas me! flit! Sudden a thought came like a full-blown
Flit like a ghost away!"-"Ah, Gossip dear,
We're safe enough; here in this arm-chair
sit,

Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart
Made purple riot; then doth he propose

And tell me how "_"Good saints, not here, A stratagem, that makes the beldame start: "A cruel man and impious thou art!

not here; Follow me, child, or else these stones will be Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep and dream

thy bier."

XIII.

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."

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,
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!
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 closed a wondrous riddle-book,
As spectacled she sits in chimney nook.
But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she
told

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!" 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 fanged
than wolves and bears."

XVIII.

"Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul? A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, church-yard 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

woe.

The while. Ah! thou must needs the lady And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, wed, A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings.

Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm
Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream
By the dusk curtains;—'t was a midnight
charm

Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced,
Porphyro gazed 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 The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam;
Impossible to melt as iced stream:
Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies;

bless,

And breathed himself; then from the closet It seemed he never, never could redeem

crept,

Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness

And over the hushed carpet, silent, stept,
And 'tween the curtains peeped, where, lo!—

how fast she slept.

ΧΧΙΧ.

Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon
Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set
A table, and, half anguished, 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 clarionet,
Affray his ears, though but in dying tone :—
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 lavendered;
While he from forth the closet brought a
heap

From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes; So mused awhile, entoiled in woofed phantasies.

XXXIII.

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 called "La belle dame sans
mercy;"

Close to her ear touching the melody;—
Wherewith disturbed, she utter'd a soft moan;
He ceased-she panted quick-and suddenly
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.

Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and There was a painful change, that nigh exgourd;

With jellies soother than the creamy curd,
And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon;
Manna and dates, in argosy transferred
From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one,
From silken Samarcand to cedared Lebanon.

pelled

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;