LXII.

Piteous she looked on dead and senseless things,
Asking for her lost Basil amorously;
And with melodious chuckle in the strings
Of her lorn voice, she oftentimes would cry
After the pilgrim in his wanderings,

To ask him where her Basil was; and why Twas hid from her: "For cruel 'tis," said she, "To steal my Basil-pot away from me.'

LXIII.

And so she pined, and so she died forlorn,
Imploring for her Basil to the last.

No heart was there in Florence but did mourn
In pity of her love, so overcast.

And a sad ditty of this story borne

From mouth to mouth through all the country passed:

Still is the burden sung-"O cruelty,

To steal my Basil-pot away from me!"

ST

I.

T. AGNES' EVE-Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass,
And silent was the flock in woolly fold:

Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told
His rosary, and while his frosted breath,

Like pious incense from a censer old,

Seemed 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 ;
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees,
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees:

The sculptured dead, on each side, seemed to freeze,
Imprisoned 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.

III.

Northward he turneth through a little door, And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue Flattered to tears this aged man and poor; But no-already had his death-bell 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.

IV.

That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft;
And so it chanced, 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,

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 stuffed 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 winged 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 honeyed 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 :
The music, yearning like a God in pain,
She scarcely heard her maiden eyes divine
Fixed 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 retired; not cooled by high disdain,
But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere:
She sighed for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year.

VIII.

She danced along with vague, regardless eyes, Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short: The hallowed hour was near at hand; she sighs Amid the timbrels, and the thronged resort Of whisperers in anger, or in sport; 'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, Hoodwinked with fairy fancy: all amort, Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn, And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn.

P

IX.

So, purposing each moment to retire,

She lingered still. Meantime, across the moors
Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire
For Madeline. Beside the portal doors,
Buttressed 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 buzzed 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.

XI.

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 grasped his fingers in her palsied hand,

Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place; They are all here to night, the whole bloodthirsty race!