English Narrative Poems :: JOHN KEATS THE EVE OF ST. AGNES

JOHN KEATS THE EVE OF ST. AGNES

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[143] fingers, while he told5 His rosary, and while his frosted breath, Like pious incense from a censer old, Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death, Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith.

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 sculptured dead, on each side, seem to freeze, Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails:15 Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries, He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.

III

Northward he turneth through a little door, And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue20 Flatter'd 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 among25 Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve.

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,30 The silver, snarling[144] trumpets 'gan to chide: The level chambers, ready with their pride, Were glowing to receive a thousand guests: The carved angels, ever eager-eyed, Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests,35 With hair blown back, and wings put crosswise on their breasts.

At length burst in the argent revelry, With plume, tiara, and all rich array, Numerous as shadows haunting fairily The brain, new-stuff'd, [145]in youth, with triumphs gay40 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.45

They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve,[146] 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;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.

VII

Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline:55 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,60 And back retired; 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 danced along with vague, regardless eyes, Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short:65 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,[147]70 Save to St. Agnes and her lambs[148] unshorn, And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn.

So, purposing each moment to retire, She lingered still. Meantime, across the moors, Had come young Porphyro,[149] with heart on fire75 For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, Buttress'd[150] 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, kiss—in sooth[151] 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,85 Hyena[152] 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,[153] weak in body and in soul.90

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:95 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 to-night, the whole bloodthirsty race!

XII

"Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish Hildebrand;100 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[154] dear,105 We're safe enough; here in this armchair 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;110 And as she mutter'd "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[155]115 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,[156]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! God's help! my lady fair the conjuror plays This very night: good angels her deceive!125 But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle[157] 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 closed a wond'rous riddlebook,130 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[158] of legends old.135

XVI

Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart Made purple riot[159]: 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."

XVII

"I will not harm her, by all saints I swear,"145 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;150 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, church-yard thing,155 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 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.

XIX

Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy, Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide Him in a closet, of such privacy165 That he might see her beauty unespied, And win perhaps that night a peerless bride, While legion'd fairies paced the coverlet, And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. Never on such a night have lovers met,170 Since Merlin[160] paid his Demon all the monstrous debt.

"It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame: "All cates[161] and dainties shall be stored there Quickly on this feast-night: by the tambour frame[162] 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

XXI

So saying she hobbled off with busy fear. The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd; The Dame return'd, and whisper'd in his ear To follow her; with aged eyes aghast From fright of dim espial. Safe at last,185 Through many a dusky gallery, they gain The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd and chaste; Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain. His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain.

XXII

Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade,190 Old Angela was feeling for the stair, When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid, Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware: With silver taper's light, and pious care, She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led195 To a safe level matting. Now prepare, Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed; She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray'd and fled.

XXIII

Out went the taper as she hurried in; Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died:200 She closed 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.

XXIV

A casement high[163] and triple arch'd there was, All garlanded with carven imag'ries Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass,210 And diamonded with panes of quaint device, Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings; And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries,[164] And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings,[165]215 A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings.

XXV

Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, And threw warm gules[166] on Madeline's fair breast, As down she knelt for heaven's 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 seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest, Save wings, for heaven:—Porphyro grew faint; She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.225

XXVI

Anon his heart revives: her vespers done, Of all its wreathed 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 sea-weed, 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.

XXVII

Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest,235 In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay, Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away; Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day; Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain;240 Clasp'd like a missal[167] where swart Paynims pray; Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.

XXVIII

Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced, Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress,245 And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanced To wake into a slumberous tenderness; Which when he heard, that minute did he bless, And breathed himself: then from the closet crept, Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness,250 And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept, And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo!—how fast she slept.

XXIX

Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon255 A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet:— O for some drowsy Morphean[168] 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.

XXX

And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,[169] In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd, While he from forth the closet brought a heap Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd;265 With jellies soother[170] than the creamy curd, And lucent[171] syrops, tinct with cinnamon; Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one, From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon.270

XXXI

These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand On golden dishes and in baskets bright Of wreathed 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[172]: Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake, Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache."

XXXII

Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm280 Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream By the dusk curtains:—'twas a midnight charm Impossible to melt as iced stream: The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam; Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies:285 It seem'd he never, never could redeem From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes; So mused awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies.

XXXIII

Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,— Tumultuous,—and, in chords that tenderest be.290 He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute, In Provence call'd "La belle dame sans mercy:[173]" Close to her ear touching the melody;— Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft moan: He ceased—she panted quick—and suddenly295 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: There was a painful change, that nigh expell'd300 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 look'd so dreamingly.

XXXV

"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 changed 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

XXXVI

Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far At these voluptuous accents, he arose, Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star Seen 'mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose; Into her dream he melted, as the rose320 Blendeth its odour with the violet,— Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet Against the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon hath set.

XXXVII

'Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet:325 "This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!" 'Tis dark: the iced 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 unpruned wing."

XXXVIII

"My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride! Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest?335 Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil dyed? Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest After so many hours of toil and quest, A famish'd pilgrim,—saved by miracle. Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest340 Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel.

XXXIX

"Hark! 'tis an elfin storm from faery land, Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed: Arise—arise! the morning is at hand:—345 The bloated wassailers[174] will never heed:— Let us away, my love, with happy speed; There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see,— Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead: Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be,350 For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee."

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-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door; The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar; And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.360

XLI

XLII

And they are gone: aye, ages long ago370 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-nightmared. Angela[175] the old375 Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform; The Beadsman, after thousand aves told, For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold.

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