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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 bloodthirsty race !



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"s 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! Ait!
Flit like a ghost away,” — " Ah, Gossip dear,

105 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.”




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He follow'd through a lowly archéd 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, latticed, 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 agéd crone
Who keepeth closed a wondrous 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 painéd 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;

150 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


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"Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul ?
A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, church-yard 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 woeful, 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 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.



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 agéd 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, pleased amain.
His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain.




Her faltering hand upon the balustrade,
Old Angela was feeling for the stair,
When Madeline, St. Agnes' charméd 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 closed the door, she panted, all akin
To spirits of the air, and visions wide :
No utter'd 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 imageries
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,

215 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 wreathéd pearls her hair she frees;
Unclasps her warméd jewels one by one ;
Loosens her fragrant bodice; 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 soothéd limbs, and soul fatigued away;

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