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.”

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XV.

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 wondrous 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 painéd 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

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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;

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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.

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Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul?
A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, church-yard thing,

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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 woeful, and of such deep sorrowing,

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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 privacy

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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,

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Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt.

XX.

"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
For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare

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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."

XXI.

So saying she hobbled off with busy fear.
The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd;

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The dame return'd, and whisper'd in his ear
To follow her; with agéd eyes aghast

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From fright of dim espial. Safe at last,
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 faltering hand upon the balustrade,

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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 led
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:
She closed the door, she panted, all akin

To spirits of the air, and visions wide:

No utter'd syllable, or, woe betide!

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But to her heart, her heart was voluble,
Paining with eloquence her balmy side;

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As though a tongueless nightingale should swell

Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell.

XXIV.

A casement high and triple-arch'd there was,
All garlanded with carven imageries

Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass,
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,
And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings,

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A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings.

XXV.

Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,
And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast,
As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon;
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,
And on her silver cross soft amethyst,
And on her hair a glory, like a saint:

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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.

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XXVI.

Anon his heart revives: her vespers done,
Of all its wreathéd pearls her hair she frees;
Unclasps her warméd jewels one by one;
Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees:
Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed,
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees,
In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed,

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But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled.

XXVII.

Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest,
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay,
Urtil the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away;

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Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day :
Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain;
Clasp'd 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.

XXVIII.

Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced,
Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress,
And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanced

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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

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And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept,

And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo!-- how fast she

slept.

XXIX.

Then by the bedside, where the faded moon
Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set
A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon
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:
The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gone.

XXX.

And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,

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In blanchéd linen, smooth, and lavender'd,

While he from forth the closet brought a heap

Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd;

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With jellies soother than the creamy curd, And lucent syrups, tinct with cinnamon; Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd From Fez; and spicéd dainties, every one, From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon.

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