LXIII. And so she pined, and so she died forlorn, No heart was there in Florence but did mourn In pity of her love, so overcast. And a sad ditty of this story born From mouth to mouth through all the country pass'd: Still is the burthen sung--" O cruelty, To steal my Basil-pot away from me!" THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. I. ST. AGNES' Eve-Ah, bitter chill it was! The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass, Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death, Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. II. His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ; Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees : The sculptured dead, on each side, seem to freeze, Knights, ladies, praying in dumb oratʼries, 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 tongue Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve. IV. That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft ; The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide : Were glowing to receive a thousand guests: The carved angels, ever eager-eyed, Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests, With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts. V. 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. VI. 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. VII. Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline : But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere; VIII. She danced along, with vague, regardless eyes, Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort IX. So, purposing each moment to retire, She linger'd still. Meantime, aross the moors, 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. X. He ventures in: let no buzz'd whisper tell: Whose very dogs would execrations howl Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. |