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;
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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.
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Full of
this whim was thoughtful Madeline
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Out went
the taper as she hurried in;
Its little smoke, in pallid
moonshine, died:
She clos'd 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;
As though a tongueless nightingale
should swell
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell.
A casement
high and triple arch'd there was,
All garlanded with carven
imag'ries
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, with
dim emblazonings,
A shielded 'scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings.
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:
She seem'd a splendid angel,
newly drest,
Save wings, for Heaven:—
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————Her
vespers done
Of all its wreathed pearls
her hair she frees;
Unclasps her warmed jewels
one by one;
Loosens her fragrant boddice;
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,
But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled.
Soon,
trembling in her soft and chilly nest,
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;
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.
