The Penguin Book of English Verse

by Paul Keegan

  Like pious incense from a censer old,

  Seem’d taking flight for heaven, without a death,

  Past the sweet Virgin’s picture, while his prayer he saith.

  His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man;

  Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees,

  And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,

  Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees:

  The sculptur’d dead, on each side, seem to freeze,

  Emprison’d in black, purgatorial rails:

  Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat’ries,

  He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails

  To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.

  Northward he turneth through a little door,

  And scarce three steps, ere Music’s golden tongue

  Flatter’d to tears this aged man and poor;

  But no – already had his deathbell rung;

  The joys of all his life were said and sung:

  His was harsh penance on St. Agnes’ Eve:

  Another way he went, and soon among

  Rough ashes sat he for his soul’s reprieve,

  And all night kept awake, for sinners’ sake to grieve.

  That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft;

  And so it chanc’d, for many a door was wide,

  From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft,

  The silver, snarling trumpets ’gan to chide:

  The level chambers, ready with their pride,

  Were glowing to receive a thousand guests:

  The carved angels, ever eager-eyed,

  Star’d, where upon their heads the cornice rests,

  With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts.

  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.

  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.

  Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline:

  The music, yearning like a God in pain,

  She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine,

  Fix’d on the floor, saw many a sweeping train

  Pass by – she heeded not at all: in vain

  Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier,

  And back retir’d; not cool’d by high disdain,

  But she saw not: her heart was otherwise:

  She sigh’d for Agnes’ dreams, the sweetest of the year.

  She danc’d along with vague, regardless eyes,

  Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short:

  The hallow’d hour was near at hand: she sighs

  Amid the timbrels, and the throng’d resort

  Of whisperers in anger, or in sport;

  ‘Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn,

  Hoodwink’d with faery fancy; all amort,

  Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn,

  And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn.

  So, purposing each moment to retire,

  She linger’d still. Meantime, across the moors,

  Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire

  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.

  He ventures in: let not buzz’d whisper tell:

  All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords

  Will storm his heart, Love’s fev’rous citadel:

  For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes,

  Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords,

  Whose very dogs would execrations howl

  Against his lineage: not one breast affords

  Him any mercy, in that mansion foul,

  Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul.

  Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came,

  Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand,

  To where he stood, hid from the torch’s flame,

  Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond

  The sound of merriment and chorus bland:

  He startled her; but soon she knew his face,

  And grasp’d his fingers in her palsied hand,

  Saying, ‘Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place;

  ‘They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race!

  ‘Get hence! get hence! there’s dwarfish Hildebrand;

  ‘He had a fever late, and in the fit

  ‘He cursed thee and thine, both house and land:

  ‘Then there’s that old Lord Maurice, not a whit

  ‘More tame for his gray hairs – Alas me! flit!

  ‘Flit like a ghost away.’ ‘Ah, gossip dear,

  ‘We’re safe enough; here in this arm-chair sit,

  ‘And tell me how’ – ‘Good Saints! not here, not here;

  ‘Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier.’

  He follow’d through a lowly arched way,

  Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume,

  And as she mutter’d ‘Well-a – well-a-day!’

  He found him in a little moonlight room,

  Pale, lattic’d, chill, and silent as a tomb.

  ‘Now tell me where is Madeline,’ said he,

  ‘O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom

  ‘Which none but secret sisterhood may see,

  ‘When they St. Agnes’ wool are weaving piously.’

  ‘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.’

  Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon,

  While Porphyro upon her face doth look,

  Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone

  Who keepeth clos’d a wond’rous 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.

  Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose,

  Flushing his brow, and in his pained 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.’

  ‘I will not harm her, by
all saints I swear,’

  Quoth Porphyro: ‘O may I ne’er find grace

  ‘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;

  ‘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.’

  ‘Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul?

  ‘A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing,

  ‘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 woful, and of such deep sorrowing,

  That Angela gives promise she will do

  Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe.

  Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy,

  Even to Madeline’s chamber, and there hide

  Him in a closet, of such privacy

  That he might see her beauty unespied,

  And win perhaps that night a peerless bride,

  While legion’d fairies pac’d the coverlet,

  And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed.

  Never on such a night have lovers met,

  Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt.

  ‘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

  ‘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.’

  So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear.

  The lover’s endless minutes slowly pass’d;

  The dame return’d, and whisper’d in his ear

  To follow her; with aged eyes aghast

  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, pleas’d amain.

  His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain.

  Her falt’ring hand upon the balustrade,

  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.

  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, and 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: – Porphyro grew faint:

  She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.

  Anon his heart revives: 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.

  Stol’n to this paradise, and so entranced,

  Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress,

  And listen’d to her breathing, if it chanced

  To wake into a slumberous tenderness;

  Which when he heard, that minute did he bless,

  And breath’d himself: then from the closet crept,

  Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness,

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

  And ‘tween the curtains peep’d, where, lo! – how fast she slept.

  Then by the bed-side, 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.