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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 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 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 tomorrow 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 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,

       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 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 grasp’d his fingers in her palsied hand,

       Saying, “Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place;

       They are all here tonight, 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 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;

       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,

       Pale, lattic’d, 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 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 wond’rous riddle-book, As spectacled she sits in chimney nook.

       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.

      XVI.

      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: 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.”

      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 fang’d than wolves and

       bears.”

      XVIII.

      “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 miss’d.” — Thus plaining, doth she bring

      

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