XXXII. Thus whispering, his warm, unnervèd arm By the dusk curtains;-'t was a midnight charm The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam, XXXIII. Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,— Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth sculptured stone. XXXIV. Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, 66 XXXV. 'Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now How chang'd thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear!— Those looks immortal, those complainings dear; For if thou diest, my love, I know not where to go." XXXVI. Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far (15) Blendeth its odours 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. 'T is dark; quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet: "This is no dream; my bride, my Madeline!" 'T is dark the icèd gusts still rave and beat. 66 No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine; Porphyro will leave me here to rave and pine; XXXVIII. "My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest? Thy beauty's shield, heart-shap'd, and vermeil-dyed? (16) 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 nest, Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. XXXIX. "Hark! 't is an elfin storm from faery land, For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee." XL. She hurried at his words, beset with fears, And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. (17) XLI. They glide like phantoms into the wide hall; With a huge empty flagon by his side; The watchful blood-hound rose, and shook his hide, But his sagacious eye an inmate owns ; By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide: The chains lie silent on the foot-worn stones; The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans. XLII. And they are gone; ay, ages long ago, 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, (1) The Eve of St. Agnes. St. Agnes was a Roman virgin, who suffered martyrdom in the reign of Dioclesian. Her parents, a few days after her decease, are said to have had a vision of her, surrounded by angels and attended by a white lamb, which afterwards became sacred to her. In the Catholic Church, formerly, the nuns used to bring a couple of lambs to her altar during mass. The superstition is (for I believe it is still to be found), that, by taking certain measures of divination, damsels may get a sight of their future husbands in a dream. The ordinary process seems to have been by fasting. Aubrey (as quoted in Brand's Popular Antiquities) mentions another, which is, to take a row of pins, and pull them out one by one, saying a Paternoster; after which, upon going to bed, the dream is sure to ensue. Brand quotes Ben Jonson : And on sweet St. Agnes' night, Pleas'd you with the promis'd sight, (2) The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold. Could he have selected an image more warm and comfortable in itself, and, therefore, better contradicted by the season? We feel the plump, feathery bird, in his nook, shivering in spite of his natural household warmth, and staring out at the strange weather. The hare cringing through the chill grass is very piteous, and the "silent flock" very patient; and how quiet and gentle, as well as wintry, are all these circumstances, and fit to open a quiet and gentle poem! The breath of the pilgrim, likened to "pious incense," completes them, and is a simile in admirable "keeping," as the painters call it; that is to say, is thoroughly harmonious with itself and all that is going on. The breath of the pilgrim is visible, so is that of a censer; the censer, after its fashion, may be said to pray; and its breath, like the pilgrim's, ascends to heaven. Young students of poetry may, in this image alone, see what imagination is, under one of its most poetical forms, and how thoroughly it "tells." There is no part of it unfitting. It is not applicable in one point, and the reverse in another. (3) Past the sweet Virgin's picture, &c. What a complete feeling of winter-time is in this stanza, together with an intimation of those Catholic elegances, of which we are to have more in the poem ! (4) To think how they may ache, &c. The germ of the thought, or something like it, is in Dante, where he speaks of the figures that perform the part of sustaining columns in architecture. Keats had read Dante in Mr. Cary's translation, for which he had a great respect. He began to read him afterwards in |