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ST. AGNES EVE!Ah, bitter chill it was! | |
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; | |
The hare limpd trembling through the frozen grass, | |
And silent was the flock in woolly fold: | |
Numb were the Beadsmans fingers, while he told | 5 |
His rosary, and while his frosted breath, | |
Like pious incense from a censer old, | |
Seemd taking flight for heaven, without a death, | |
Past the sweet Virgins picture, while his prayer he saith. | |
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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 sculpturd dead, on each side, seem to freeze, | |
Emprisond in black, purgatorial rails: | 15 |
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb oratries, | |
He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails | |
To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. | |
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Northward he turneth through a little door, | |
And scarce three steps, ere Musics golden tongue | 20 |
Flatterd to tears this aged man and poor; | |
But noalready 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 souls reprieve, | |
And all night kept awake, for sinners sake to grieve. | |
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That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft; | |
And so it chancd, 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, | |
Stard where upon their heads the cornice rests, | 35 |
With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts. | |
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At length burst in the argent revelry, | |
With plume, tiara, and all rich array, | |
Numerous as shadows haunting fairily | |
The brain, new stuffd, 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 wingd St. Agnes saintly care, | |
As she had heard old dames full many times declare. | 45 |
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They told her how, upon St. Agnes Eve, | |
Young virgins might have visions of delight, | |
And soft adorings from their loves receive | |
Upon the honeyd 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. | |
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Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline; | 55 |
The music, yearning like a God in pain, | |
She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine, | |
Fixd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train | |
Pass byshe heeded not at all: in vain | |
Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, | 60 |
And back retird; not coold by high disdain, | |
But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere: | |
She sighd for Agnes dreams, the sweetest of the year. | |
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She dancd along with vague, regardless eyes, | |
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short: | 65 |
The hallowd hour was near at hand: she sighs | |
Amid the timbrels, and the throngd resort | |
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport; | |
Mid looks of love, defiance, hate and scorn, | |
Hoodwinkd with faery fancy; all amort, | 70 |
Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn, | |
And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. | |
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So, purposing each moment to retire, | |
She lingerd still. Meantime, across the moors, | |
Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire | 75 |
For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, | |
Buttressd 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, kissin sooth such things have been. | |
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He ventures in: let no buzzd whisper tell: | |
All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords | |
Will storm his heart, Loves fevrous 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 |
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Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came, | |
Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand, | |
To where he stood, hid from the torchs flame, | |
Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond | |
The sound of merriment and chorus bland: | 95 |
He startled her; but soon she knew his face, | |
And graspd 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! | |
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Get hence! get hence! theres dwarfish Hildebrand; | 100 |
He had a fever late and in the fit | |
He cursed thee and thine, both house and land: | |
Then theres that old Lord Maurice, not a whit | |
More tame for his grey hairsAlas me! flit! | |
Flit like a ghost away.Ah, Gossip dear, | 105 |
Were safe enough; here in this armchair sit, | |
And tell me howGood Saints! not here, not here; | |
Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier. | |
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He followd through a lowly arched way, | |
Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume; | 110 |
And as she mutterd Well-awell-a-day! | |
He found him in a little moonlight room, | |
Pale, latticd, 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. | |
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St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes Eve | |
Yet men will murder upon holy days: | |
Thou must hold water in a witchs 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! | |
Gods help! my lady fair the conjurer plays | |
This very night: good angels her deceive! | 125 |
But let me laugh awhile, Ive mickle time to grieve. | |
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Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon, | |
While Porphyro upon her face doth look, | |
Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone | |
Who keepeth closd a wondrous riddle-book, | 130 |
As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. | |
But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told | |
His ladys purpose; and he scarce could brook | |
Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold, | |
And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. | 135 |
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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. | |
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I will not harm her, by all saints I swear, | 145 |
Quoth Porphyro: O may I neer 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 moments space, | |
Awake, with horrid shout, my foemens ears, | |
And beard them, though they be more fangd than wolves and bears. | |
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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 missd. 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. | |
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Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy. | |
Even to Madelines 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 legiond faeries pacd 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. | |
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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 |
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So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear. | |
The lovers endless minutes slowly passd; | |
The Dame returnd, and whisperd in his ear | |
To follow her; with agèd eyes aghast | |
From fright of dim espial. Safe at last, | 185 |
Through many a dusky gallery, they gain | |
The maidens chamber, silken, hushd, and chaste; | |
Where Porphyro took covert, pleasd amain. | |
His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain. | |
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Her faltring hand upon the balustrade, | 190 |
Old Angela was feeling for the stair, | |
When Madeline, St. Agnes charmèd maid, | |
Rose, like a missiond spirit, unaware: | |
With silver tapers light, and pious care, | |
She turnd, and down the agèd 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 frayd and fled. | |
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Out went the taper as she hurried in; | |
Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died; | 200 |
She closd 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. | |
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A casement high and triple-archd there was, | |
All garlanded with carven imagries | |
Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, | 210 |
And diamonded with panes of quaint device, | |
Unnumerable of stains and splendid dyes. | |
As are the tiger-moths deep-damaskd wings; | |
And in the midst, mong thousand heraldries, | |
And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, | 215 |
A shielded scutcheon blushd with blood of queens and kings. | |
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Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, | |
And threw warm gules on Madelines fair breast, | |
As down she knelt for heavens 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 seemd a splendid angel, newly drest, | |
Save wings, for heaven: Porphyro grew faint: | |
She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. | 225 |
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Anon his heart revives: her vespers done, | |
Of all its wreathèd pearls her hair she frees; | |
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one; | |
Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees | |
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees; | 230 |
Half-hidden, like a mermaid in seaweed, | |
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. | |
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Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, | 235 |
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplexd she lay, | |
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppressd | |
Her soothèd limbs, and soul fatigued away; | |
Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day; | |
Blissfully havend both from joy and pain; | 240 |
Claspd 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. | |
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Stoln to this paradise, and so entranced, | |
Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, | 245 |
And listend to her breathing, if it chanced | |
To wake into a slumberous tenderness; | |
Which when he heard, that minute did he bless, | |
And breathd himself: then from the closet crept, | |
Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness, | 250 |
And over the hushd carpet, silent, stepped, | |
And tween the curtains peepd, where, lo!how fast she slept. | |
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Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon | |
Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set | |
A table, and, half-anguishd, 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. | |
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And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, | |
In blanched linen, smooth, and lavenderd, | |
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 transferrd | |
From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one, | |
From silken Samarcand to cedard Lebanon. | 270 |
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These delicates he heapd with glowing hand | |
On golden dishes and in baskets bright | |
Of wreathèd 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. | |
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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 icèd stream: | |
The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam: | |
Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies: | 285 |
It seemd he never, never could redeem | |
From such a steadfast spell his ladys eyes; | |
She musd awhile, entoild in woofed phantasies. | |
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Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, | |
Tumultuous,and, in chords that tenderest be, | 290 |
He playd an ancient ditty, long since mute, | |
In Provence calld, La belle dame sans merci: | |
Close to her ear touching the melody; | |
Wherewith disturbd, she utterd a soft moan: | |
He ceasedshe panted quickand suddenly | 295 |
Her blue affrighted eyes wide open shone: | |
Upon his knees he sank, as smooth-sculptured stone. | |
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Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, | |
Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep: | |
There was a painful change, that nigh expelld | 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 lookd so dreamingly. | |
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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 changd 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 |
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Beyond a mortal man impassiond far | |
At these voluptuous accents, he arose, | |
Ethereal, flushd, and like a throbbing star | |
Seen mid the sapphire heavens 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 Loves alarum pattering the sharp sleet | |
Against the window-panes; St. Agnes moon hath set. | |
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Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet: | 325 |
This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline! | |
Tis dark: the icèd 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 unprunèd wing! | |
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My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride! | |
Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest? | 335 |
Thy beautys shield, heart-shapd and vermeil dyed? | |
Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest | |
After so many hours of toil and quest, | |
A famishd pilgrim,saved by miracle. | |
Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest | 340 |
Saving of thy sweet self; if thou thinkst well | |
To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. | |
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Hark! tis an elfin-storm from faery land, | |
Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed: | |
Arisearise! the morning is at hand; | 345 |
The bloated wassailers will never heed: | |
Let us away, my love, with happy speed; | |
There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, | |
Drownd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead: | |
Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be, | 350 |
For oer the southern moors I have a home for thee. | |
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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-droopd lamp was flickering by each door; | |
The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, | |
Flutterd in the besieging winds uproar | |
And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. | 360 |
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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 flagon 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 groans. | |
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And they are gone: aye, 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-nightmard. Angela the old | 375 |
Died palsy-twitchd, with meagre face deform; | |
The Beadsman, after thousand aves told, | |
For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold. | |
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