At length burst in the argent revelry,

      With plume, tiara, and all rich array,

      Numerous as shadows haunting fairily

      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,

      As she had heard old dames full many times declare.

      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

      Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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!”

      “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.”

      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.”

      “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.”

      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.

      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