{"id":8686,"date":"2023-01-20T01:11:28","date_gmt":"2023-01-20T06:11:28","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.conviviobookworks.com\/blog\/?p=8686"},"modified":"2023-01-20T10:00:34","modified_gmt":"2023-01-20T15:00:34","slug":"the-eve-of-st-agnes-by-john-keats","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/www.conviviobookworks.com\/blog\/the-eve-of-st-agnes-by-john-keats\/","title":{"rendered":"‘The Eve of St. Agnes’ by John Keats"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a><\/div>\n
\n

The evening of this 20th of January brings St. Agnes Eve, another old and obscure holiday, and with St. Agnes Eve we begin to set our sights toward the romance that burgeons forth each Valentine\u2019s Day. For the old belief is that on St. Agnes Eve, young girls could expect to see visions of their future loves. This, accomplished through various spells and incantations and other old beliefs.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
In 1820, John Keats wrote a poem that he called “The Eve of St. Agnes.” It would make for perfect reading this long dark night.<\/div>\n
\n
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\n
I.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
St. Agnes\u2019 Eve\u2014Ah, bitter chill it was!
\n<\/span>The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
\n<\/span>The hare limp\u2019d trembling through the frozen grass,
\n<\/span>And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
\n<\/span>Numb were the Beadsman\u2019s fingers, while he told
\n<\/span>His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
\n<\/span>Like pious incense from a censer old,
\n<\/span>Seem\u2019d taking flight for heaven, without a death,
\n<\/span>Past the sweet Virgin\u2019s picture, while his prayer he saith.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
II.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man;
\n<\/span>Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees,
\n<\/span>And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,
\n<\/span>Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees:
\n<\/span>The sculptur\u2019d dead, on each side, seem to freeze,
\n<\/span>Emprison\u2019d in black, purgatorial rails:
\n<\/span>Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat\u2019ries,
\n<\/span>He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails
\n<\/span>To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
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III.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
Northward he turneth through a little door,
\n<\/span>And scarce three steps, ere Music\u2019s golden tongue
\n<\/span>Flatter\u2019d to tears this aged man and poor;
\n<\/span>But no\u2014already had his deathbell rung;
\n<\/span>The joys of all his life were said and sung:
\n<\/span>His was harsh penance on St. Agnes\u2019 Eve:
\n<\/span>Another way he went, and soon among
\n<\/span>Rough ashes sat he for his soul\u2019s reprieve,
\n<\/span>And all night kept awake, for sinners\u2019 sake to grieve.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
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IV.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft;
\n<\/span>And so it chanc\u2019d, for many a door was wide,
\n<\/span>From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft,
\n<\/span>The silver, snarling trumpets \u2018gan to chide:
\n<\/span>The level chambers, ready with their pride,
\n<\/span>Were glowing to receive a thousand guests:
\n<\/span>The carved angels, ever eager-eyed,
\n<\/span>Star\u2019d, where upon their heads the cornice rests,
\n<\/span>With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
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V.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
At length burst in the argent revelry,
\n<\/span>With plume, tiara, and all rich array,
\n<\/span>Numerous as shadows haunting fairily
\n<\/span>The brain, new stuff\u2019d, in youth, with triumphs gay40<\/span>
\n<\/span>Of old romance. These let us wish away,
\n<\/span>And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there,
\n<\/span>Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day,
\n<\/span>On love, and wing\u2019d St. Agnes\u2019 saintly care,
\n<\/span>As she had heard old dames full many times declare.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
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VI.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
They told her how, upon St. Agnes\u2019 Eve,
\n<\/span>Young virgins might have visions of delight,
\n<\/span>And soft adorings from their loves receive
\n<\/span>Upon the honey\u2019d middle of the night,
\n<\/span>If ceremonies due they did aright;
\n<\/span>As, supperless to bed they must retire,
\n<\/span>And couch supine their beauties, lily white;
\n<\/span>Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require
\n<\/span>Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
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VII.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline:
\n<\/span>The music, yearning like a God in pain,
\n<\/span>She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine,
\n<\/span>Fix\u2019d on the floor, saw many a sweeping train
\n<\/span>Pass by\u2014she heeded not at all: in vain
\n<\/span>Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier,
\n<\/span>And back retir\u2019d; not cool\u2019d by high disdain,
\n<\/span>But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere:
\n<\/span>She sigh\u2019d for Agnes\u2019 dreams, the sweetest of the year.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
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VIII.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
She danc\u2019d along with vague, regardless eyes,
\n<\/span>Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short:
\n<\/span>The hallow\u2019d hour was near at hand: she sighs
\n<\/span>Amid the timbrels, and the throng\u2019d resort
\n<\/span>Of whisperers in anger, or in sport;
\n<\/span>\u2018Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn,
\n<\/span>Hoodwink\u2019d with faery fancy; all amort,
\n<\/span>Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn,
\n<\/span>And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
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IX.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
So, purposing each moment to retire,
\n<\/span>She linger\u2019d still. Meantime, across the moors,
\n<\/span>Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire
\n<\/span>For Madeline. Beside the portal doors,
\n<\/span>Buttress\u2019d from moonlight, stands he, and implores
\n<\/span>All saints to give him sight of Madeline,
\n<\/span>But for one moment in the tedious hours,
\n<\/span>That he might gaze and worship all unseen;
\n<\/span>Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss\u2014in sooth such things have been.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
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X.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
He ventures in: let no buzz\u2019d whisper tell:
\n<\/span>All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords
\n<\/span>Will storm his heart, Love\u2019s fev\u2019rous citadel:
\n<\/span>For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes,
\n<\/span>Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords,
\n<\/span>Whose very dogs would execrations howl
\n<\/span>Against his lineage: not one breast affords
\n<\/span>Him any mercy, in that mansion foul,
\n<\/span>Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul.<\/span>
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
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XI.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came,
\n<\/span>Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand,
\n<\/span>To where he stood, hid from the torch\u2019s flame,
\n<\/span>Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond
\n<\/span>The sound of merriment and chorus bland:
\n<\/span>He startled her; but soon she knew his face,
\n<\/span>And grasp\u2019d his fingers in her palsied hand,
\n<\/span>Saying, \u201cMercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place;
\n<\/span>They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race!\u201d
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
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XII.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
\u201cGet hence! get hence! there\u2019s dwarfish Hildebrand;
\n<\/span>He had a fever late, and in the fit
\n<\/span>He cursed thee and thine, both house and land:
\n<\/span>Then there\u2019s that old Lord Maurice, not a whit
\n<\/span>More tame for his gray hairs\u2014Alas me! flit!
\n<\/span>Flit like a ghost away.\u201d\u2014\u201dAh, Gossip dear,
\n<\/span>We\u2019re safe enough; here in this arm-chair sit,
\n<\/span>And tell me how\u201d\u2014\u201dGood Saints! not here, not here;
\n<\/span>Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier.\u201d
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
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XIII.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
He follow\u2019d through a lowly arched way,
\n<\/span>Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume,
\n<\/span>And as she mutter\u2019d \u201cWell-a\u2014well-a-day!\u201d
\n<\/span>He found him in a little moonlight room,
\n<\/span>Pale, lattic\u2019d, chill, and silent as a tomb.
\n<\/span>\u201cNow tell me where is Madeline,\u201d said he,
\n<\/span>\u201cO tell me, Angela, by the holy loom
\n<\/span>Which none but secret sisterhood may see,
\n<\/span>When they St. Agnes\u2019 wool are weaving piously.\u201d
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
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XIV.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
\u201cSt. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes\u2019 Eve\u2014
\n<\/span>Yet men will murder upon holy days:
\n<\/span>Thou must hold water in a witch\u2019s sieve,
\n<\/span>And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays,
\n<\/span>To venture so: it fills me with amaze
\n<\/span>To see thee, Porphyro!\u2014St. Agnes\u2019 Eve!
\n<\/span>God\u2019s help! my lady fair the conjuror plays
\n<\/span>This very night: good angels her deceive!
\n<\/span>But let me laugh awhile, I\u2019ve mickle time to grieve.\u201d
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
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XV.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon,
\n<\/span>While Porphyro upon her face doth look,
\n<\/span>Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone
\n<\/span>Who keepeth clos\u2019d a wond\u2019rous riddle-book,
\n<\/span>As spectacled she sits in chimney nook.
\n<\/span>But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told
\n<\/span>His lady\u2019s purpose; and he scarce could brook
\n<\/span>Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold
\n<\/span>And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
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XVI.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose,
\n<\/span>Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart
\n<\/span>Made purple riot: then doth he propose
\n<\/span>A stratagem, that makes the beldame start:
\n<\/span>\u201cA cruel man and impious thou art:140<\/span>
\n<\/span>Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream
\n<\/span>Alone with her good angels, far apart
\n<\/span>From wicked men like thee. Go, go!\u2014I deem
\n<\/span>Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem.\u201d
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
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XVII.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
\u201cI will not harm her, by all saints I swear,\u201d
\n<\/span>Quoth Porphyro: \u201cO may I ne\u2019er find grace
\n<\/span>When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer,
\n<\/span>If one of her soft ringlets I displace,
\n<\/span>Or look with ruffian passion in her face:
\n<\/span>Good Angela, believe me by these tears;
\n<\/span>Or I will, even in a moment\u2019s space,
\n<\/span>Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen\u2019s ears,
\n<\/span>And beard them, though they be more fang\u2019d than wolves and bears.\u201d
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
\u00a0<\/address>\n
XVIII.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
\u201cAh! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul?
\n<\/span>A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing,
\n<\/span>Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll;
\n<\/span>Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening,
\n<\/span>Were never miss\u2019d.\u201d\u2014Thus plaining, doth she bring
\n<\/span>A gentler speech from burning Porphyro;
\n<\/span>So woful, and of such deep sorrowing,
\n<\/span>That Angela gives promise she will do
\n<\/span>Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
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XIX.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy,
\n<\/span>Even to Madeline\u2019s chamber, and there hide
\n<\/span>Him in a closet, of such privacy
\n<\/span>That he might see her beauty unespied,
\n<\/span>And win perhaps that night a peerless bride,
\n<\/span>While legion\u2019d fairies pac\u2019d the coverlet,
\n<\/span>And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed.
\n<\/span>Never on such a night have lovers met,
\n<\/span>Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
\u00a0<\/address>\n
XX.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
\u201cIt shall be as thou wishest,\u201d said the Dame:
\n<\/span>\u201cAll cates and dainties shall be stored there
\n<\/span>Quickly on this feast-night: by the tambour frame
\n<\/span>Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to spare,
\n<\/span>For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare
\n<\/span>On such a catering trust my dizzy head.
\n<\/span>Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in prayer
\n<\/span>The while: Ah! thou must needs the lady wed,
\n<\/span>Or may I never leave my grave among the dead.\u201d
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
\u00a0<\/address>\n
XXI.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear.
\n<\/span>The lover\u2019s endless minutes slowly pass\u2019d;
\n<\/span>The dame return\u2019d, and whisper\u2019d in his ear
\n<\/span>To follow her; with aged eyes aghast
\n<\/span>From fright of dim espial. Safe at last,
\n<\/span>Through many a dusky gallery, they gain
\n<\/span>The maiden\u2019s chamber, silken, hush\u2019d, and chaste;
\n<\/span>Where Porphyro took covert, pleas\u2019d amain.
\n<\/span>His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
\u00a0<\/address>\n
XXII.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
Her falt\u2019ring hand upon the balustrade,
\n<\/span>Old Angela was feeling for the stair,
\n<\/span>When Madeline, St. Agnes\u2019 charmed maid,
\n<\/span>Rose, like a mission\u2019d spirit, unaware:
\n<\/span>With silver taper\u2019s light, and pious care,
\n<\/span>She turn\u2019d, and down the aged gossip led
\n<\/span>To a safe level matting. Now prepare,
\n<\/span>Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed;
\n<\/span>She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray\u2019d and fled.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
\u00a0<\/address>\n
XXIII.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
Out went the taper as she hurried in;
\n<\/span>Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died:
\n<\/span>She clos\u2019d the door, she panted, all akin
\n<\/span>To spirits of the air, and visions wide:
\n<\/span>No uttered syllable, or, woe betide!
\n<\/span>But to her heart, her heart was voluble,
\n<\/span>Paining with eloquence her balmy side;
\n<\/span>As though a tongueless nightingale should swell
\n<\/span>Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
\u00a0<\/address>\n
XXIV.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
A casement high and triple-arch\u2019d there was,
\n<\/span>All garlanded with carven imag\u2019ries
\n<\/span>Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass,
\n<\/span>And diamonded with panes of quaint device,
\n<\/span>Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,
\n<\/span>As are the tiger-moth\u2019s deep-damask\u2019d wings;
\n<\/span>And in the midst, \u2018mong thousand heraldries,
\n<\/span>And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings,
\n<\/span>A shielded scutcheon blush\u2019d with blood of queens and kings.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
\u00a0<\/address>\n
XXV.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,
\n<\/span>And threw warm gules on Madeline\u2019s fair breast,
\n<\/span>As down she knelt for heaven\u2019s grace and boon;
\n<\/span>Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,
\n<\/span>And on her silver cross soft amethyst,
\n<\/span>And on her hair a glory, like a saint:
\n<\/span>She seem\u2019d a splendid angel, newly drest,
\n<\/span>Save wings, for heaven:\u2014Porphyro grew faint:
\n<\/span>She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
\u00a0<\/address>\n
XXVI.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
Anon his heart revives: her vespers done,
\n<\/span>Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;
\n<\/span>Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;
\n<\/span>Loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees
\n<\/span>Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees:
\n<\/span>Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed,
\n<\/span>Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees,
\n<\/span>In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed,
\n<\/span>But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
\u00a0<\/address>\n
XXVII.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest,
\n<\/span>In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex\u2019d she lay,
\n<\/span>Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress\u2019d
\n<\/span>Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away;
\n<\/span>Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day;
\n<\/span>Blissfully haven\u2019d both from joy and pain;
\n<\/span>Clasp\u2019d like a missal where swart Paynims pray;
\n<\/span>Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,
\n<\/span>As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
\u00a0<\/address>\n
XXVIII.
\n<\/span>Stol\u2019n to this paradise, and so entranced,
\n<\/span>Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress,
\n<\/span>And listen\u2019d to her breathing, if it chanced
\n<\/span>To wake into a slumberous tenderness;
\n<\/span>Which when he heard, that minute did he bless,
\n<\/span>And breath\u2019d himself: then from the closet crept,
\n<\/span>Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness,
\n<\/span>And over the hush\u2019d carpet, silent, stept,
\n<\/span>And \u2018tween the curtains peep\u2019d, where, lo!\u2014how fast she slept.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
\u00a0<\/address>\n
XXIX.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon
\n<\/span>Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set
\n<\/span>A table, and, half anguish\u2019d, threw thereon
\n<\/span>A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet:\u2014
\n<\/span>O for some drowsy Morphean amulet!
\n<\/span>The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion,
\n<\/span>The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet,
\n<\/span>Affray his ears, though but in dying tone:\u2014
\n<\/span>The hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
\u00a0<\/address>\n
XXX.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,
\n<\/span>In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender\u2019d,
\n<\/span>While he from forth the closet brought a heap
\n<\/span>Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd
\n<\/span>With jellies soother than the creamy curd,
\n<\/span>And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon;
\n<\/span>Manna and dates, in argosy transferr\u2019d
\n<\/span>From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one,
\n<\/span>From silken Samarcand to cedar\u2019d Lebanon.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
\u00a0<\/address>\n
XXXI.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
These delicates he heap\u2019d with glowing hand
\n<\/span>On golden dishes and in baskets bright
\n<\/span>Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand
\n<\/span>In the retired quiet of the night,
\n<\/span>Filling the chilly room with perfume light.\u2014
\n<\/span>\u201cAnd now, my love, my seraph fair, awake!
\n<\/span>Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite:
\n<\/span>Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes\u2019 sake,
\n<\/span>Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache.\u201d
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
\u00a0<\/address>\n
XXXII.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm
\n<\/span>Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream
\n<\/span>By the dusk curtains:\u2014\u2019twas a midnight charm
\n<\/span>Impossible to melt as iced stream:
\n<\/span>The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam;
\n<\/span>Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies:
\n<\/span>It seem\u2019d he never, never could redeem
\n<\/span>From such a stedfast spell his lady\u2019s eyes;
\n<\/span>So mus\u2019d awhile, entoil\u2019d in woofed phantasies.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
\u00a0<\/address>\n
XXXIII.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,\u2014
\n<\/span>Tumultuous,\u2014and, in chords that tenderest be,
\n<\/span>He play\u2019d an ancient ditty, long since mute,
\n<\/span>In Provence call\u2019d, \u201cLa belle dame sans mercy:\u201d
\n<\/span>Close to her ear touching the melody;\u2014
\n<\/span>Wherewith disturb\u2019d, she utter\u2019d a soft moan:
\n<\/span>He ceased\u2014she panted quick\u2014and suddenly
\n<\/span>Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone:
\n<\/span>Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
\u00a0<\/address>\n
XXXIV.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
Her eyes were open, but she still beheld,
\n<\/span>Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep:
\n<\/span>There was a painful change, that nigh expell\u2019d
\n<\/span>The blisses of her dream so pure and deep
\n<\/span>At which fair Madeline began to weep,
\n<\/span>And moan forth witless words with many a sigh;
\n<\/span>While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep;
\n<\/span>Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye,
\n<\/span>Fearing to move or speak, she look\u2019d so dreamingly.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
\u00a0<\/address>\n
XXXV.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
\u201cAh, Porphyro!\u201d said she, \u201cbut even now
\n<\/span>Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear,
\n<\/span>Made tuneable with every sweetest vow;
\n<\/span>And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear:
\n<\/span>How chang\u2019d thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear!
\n<\/span>Give me that voice again, my Porphyro,
\n<\/span>Those looks immortal, those complainings dear!
\n<\/span>Oh leave me not in this eternal woe,
\n<\/span>For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go.\u201d
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
\u00a0<\/address>\n
XXXVI.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
Beyond a mortal man impassion\u2019d far
\n<\/span>At these voluptuous accents, he arose,
\n<\/span>Ethereal, flush\u2019d, and like a throbbing star
\n<\/span>Seen mid the sapphire heaven\u2019s deep repose
\n<\/span>Into her dream he melted, as the rose
\n<\/span>Blendeth its odour with the violet,\u2014
\n<\/span>Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows
\n<\/span>Like Love\u2019s alarum pattering the sharp sleet
\n<\/span>Against the window-panes; St. Agnes\u2019 moon hath set.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
\u00a0<\/address>\n
XXXVII.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
\u2018Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet:
\n<\/span>\u201cThis is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!\u201d
\n<\/span>\u2018Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat:
\n<\/span>\u201cNo dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine!
\n<\/span>Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine.\u2014
\n<\/span>Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring?
\n<\/span>I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine
\n<\/span>Though thou forsakest a deceived thing;\u2014
\n<\/span>A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing.\u201d
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
\u00a0<\/address>\n
XXXVIII.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
\u201cMy Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride!
\n<\/span>Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest?
\n<\/span>Thy beauty\u2019s shield, heart-shap\u2019d and vermeil dyed?
\n<\/span>Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest
\n<\/span>After so many hours of toil and quest,
\n<\/span>A famish\u2019d pilgrim,\u2014saved by miracle.
\n<\/span>Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest
\n<\/span>Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think\u2019st well
\n<\/span>To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel.\u201d
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
\u00a0<\/address>\n
XXXIX.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
\u201cHark! \u2019tis an elfin-storm from faery land,
\n<\/span>Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed:
\n<\/span>Arise\u2014arise! the morning is at hand;\u2014
\n<\/span>The bloated wassaillers will never heed:\u2014
\n<\/span>Let us away, my love, with happy speed;
\n<\/span>There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see,\u2014
\n<\/span>Drown\u2019d all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead:
\n<\/span>Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be,
\n<\/span>For o\u2019er the southern moors I have a home for thee.\u201d
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
\u00a0<\/address>\n
XL.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
She hurried at his words, beset with fears,
\n<\/span>For there were sleeping dragons all around,
\n<\/span>At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears\u2014
\n<\/span>Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found.\u2014
\n<\/span>In all the house was heard no human sound.
\n<\/span>A chain-droop\u2019d lamp was flickering by each door;
\n<\/span>The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound,
\n<\/span>Flutter\u2019d in the besieging wind\u2019s uproar;
\n<\/span>And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
\u00a0<\/address>\n
XLI.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall;
\n<\/span>Like phantoms, to the iron porch, they glide;
\n<\/span>Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl,
\n<\/span>With a huge empty flaggon by his side:
\n<\/span>The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide,
\n<\/span>But his sagacious eye an inmate owns:
\n<\/span>By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide:\u2014
\n<\/span>The chains lie silent on the footworn stones;\u2014
\n<\/span>The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
\u00a0<\/address>\n
XLII.
\n<\/span><\/div>\n
And they are gone: ay, ages long ago
\n<\/span>These lovers fled away into the storm.
\n<\/span>That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe,
\n<\/span>And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form
\n<\/span>Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm,
\n<\/span>Were long be-nightmar\u2019d. Angela the old
\n<\/span>Died palsy-twitch\u2019d, with meagre face deform;
\n<\/span>The Beadsman, after thousand aves told,
\n<\/span>For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold.<\/span><\/div>\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

Image: “Madeline after Prayer” by Daniel Maclise. Oil on canvas, 1868.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The evening of this 20th of January brings St. Agnes Eve, another old and obscure holiday, and with St. Agnes Eve we begin to set our sights toward the romance that burgeons forth each Valentine\u2019s Day. For the old belief is that on St. Agnes Eve, young girls could expect to see visions of their […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[41],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.conviviobookworks.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8686"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.conviviobookworks.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.conviviobookworks.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.conviviobookworks.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.conviviobookworks.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=8686"}],"version-history":[{"count":17,"href":"http:\/\/www.conviviobookworks.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8686\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":8704,"href":"http:\/\/www.conviviobookworks.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8686\/revisions\/8704"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.conviviobookworks.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=8686"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.conviviobookworks.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=8686"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.conviviobookworks.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=8686"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}