XIV

120

"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."

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 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.

XVI

Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose,
Flushing his brow, and in his painèd heart

130

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

140

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
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,

150

Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears, And beard them, though they be more fanged than wolves and bears."

XVIII

"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 missed." 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.

XIX

Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy,
Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide
Him in a closet, of such privacy

160

That he might see her beauty unespied, And win perhaps that night a peerless bride, While legioned fairies paced 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.

170

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

Or

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,

may I never leave my grave among the dead."

180

XXI

So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear. The lover's endless minutes slowly passed; The dame returned, and whispered 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, hushed, and chaste; Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain. His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain.

XXII

Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade,
Old Angela was feeling for the stair,
When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmèd maid,
Rose, like a missioned spirit, unaware:
With silver taper's light, and pious care,
She turned, and down the aged gossip led
To a safe level matting. Now prepare,

190

Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed;

She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove frayed 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 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.

XXIV

A casement high and triple-arched there was,
All garlanded with carven imag'ries

200

Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, 210 And diamonded with panes of quaint device, Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, As are the tiger-moth's deep-damasked wings; And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries, And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, A shielded scutcheon blushed with blood of

queens

and

kings.