St Agnes was a Roman virgin and martyr during the reign of Diocletian (early 4th century.) At first condemned to debauchery in a public brothel before her execution, her virginity was preserved by thunder and lightning from Heaven. Eight days after her execution, her parents visited her tomb and were greeted by a chorus of angels, including Agnes herself, with a white lamb at her side.<\/p>\n
The Eve of St Agnes was written at Chichester and Bedhampton during the last half of January 1819. Perhaps Keats was inspired by the calendar – St Agnes’s feast is celebrated on 21 January. He revised the work at Winchester in September; it was first published in 1820.<\/p>\n
On the eve of St Agnes’s feast day (20 January), virgins used divinations to ‘discover’ their future husbands. As Keats writes: ‘[U]pon St Agnes’ Eve, \/ Young virgins might have visions of delight, \/ And soft adorings from their loves receive’. The poem tells the story of Madeline and her lover Porphyro. It is one of Keats’s best-loved works. It also inspired numerous pre-Raphaelite paintings.<\/p>\n
St Agnes’ Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was!
\nThe owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
\nThe hare limp’d trembling through the frozen grass,
\nAnd silent was the flock in woolly fold:
\nNumb were the Beadsman’s fingers, while he told
\nHis rosary, and while his frosted breath,
\nLike pious incense from a censer old,
\nSeem’d taking flight for heaven, without a death,
\nPast the sweet Virgin’s picture, while his prayer he saith.<\/p>\n
His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man;
\nThen takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees,
\nAnd back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,
\nAlong the chapel aisle by slow degrees:
\nThe sculptur’d dead, on each side, seem to freeze,
\nEmprison’d in black, purgatorial rails:
\nKnights, ladies, praying in dumb orat’ries,
\nHe passeth by; and his weak spirit fails
\nTo think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.<\/p>\n
Northward he turneth through a little door,
\nAnd scarce three steps, ere Music’s golden tongue
\nFlatter’d to tears this aged man and poor;
\nBut no—already had his deathbell rung
\nThe joys of all his life were said and sung:
\nHis was harsh penance on St. Agnes’ Eve:
\nAnother way he went, and soon among
\nRough ashes sat he for his soul’s reprieve,
\nAnd all night kept awake, for sinners’ sake to grieve.<\/p>\n
That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft;
\nAnd so it chanc’d, for many a door was wide,
\nFrom hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft,
\nThe silver, snarling trumpets ‘gan to chide:
\nThe level chambers, ready with their pride,
\nWere glowing to receive a thousand guests:
\nThe carved angels, ever eager-eyed,
\nStar’d, where upon their heads the cornice rests,
\nWith hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts.<\/p>\n
At length burst in the argent revelry,
\nWith plume, tiara, and all rich array,
\nNumerous as shadows haunting fairily
\nThe brain, new-stuff’d, in youth, with triumphs gay
\nOf old romance. These let us wish away,
\nAnd turn, sole-thoughted, to one lady there,
\nWhose heart had brooded, all that wintry day,
\nOn love, and wing’d St Agnes’ saintly care,
\nAs she had heard old dames full rnany times declare.<\/p>\n
They told her how, upon St Agnes’ Eve,
\nYoung virgins might have visions of delight,
\nAnd soft adorings from their loves receive
\nUpon the honey’d middle of the night,
\nIf ceremonies due they did aright;
\nAs, supperless to bed they must retire,
\nAnd couch supine their beauties, lily white;
\nNor look behind, nor sideways, but require
\nOf Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire.<\/p>\n
Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline:
\nThe music, yearning like a God in pain,
\nShe scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine,
\nFix’d on the floor, saw many a sweeping train
\nPass by—she heeded not at all: in vain
\nCame many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier,
\nAnd back retir’d; not cool’d by high disdain,
\nBut she saw not: her heart was otherwhere;
\nShe sigh’d for Agnes’ dreams, the sweetest of the year.<\/p>\n
She danc’d along with vague, regardless eyes,
\nAnxious her lips, her breathing quick and short:
\nThe hallow’d hour was near at hand: she sighs
\nAmid the timbrels, and the throng’d resort
\nOf whisperers in anger, or in sport;
\n‘Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn,
\nHoodwink’d with faery fancy; all amort,
\nSave to St Agnes and her lambs unshorn,
\nAnd all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn.<\/p>\n
So, purposing each moment to retire,
\nShe linger’d still. Meantime, across the moors,
\nHad come young Porphyro, with heart on fire
\nFor Madeline. Beside the portal doors,
\nButtress’d from moonlight, stands he, and implores
\nAll saints to give him sight of Madeline,
\nBut for one moment in the tedious hours,
\nThat he might gaze and worship all unseen;
\nPerchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss—in sooth such things have been.<\/p>\n
He ventures in: let no buzz’d whisper tell:
\nAll eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords
\nWill storm his heart, Love’s fev’rous citadel:
\nFor him, those chambers held barbarian hordes,
\nHyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords,
\nWhose very dogs would execrations howl
\nAgainst his lineage: not one breast affords
\nHim any mercy, in that mansion foul,
\nSave one old beldame, weak in body and in soul.<\/p>\n
Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came,
\nShuffling along with ivory-headed wand,
\nTo where he stood, hid from the torch’s flame,
\nBehind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond
\nThe sound of merriment and chorus bland.
\nHe startled her; but soon she knew his face,
\nAnd grasp’d his fingers in her palsied hand,
\nSaying, “Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place;
\n“They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race!<\/p>\n
“Get hence! get hence! there’s dwarfish Hildebrand;
\nHe had a fever late, and in the fit
\nHe cursed thee and thine, both house and land:
\nThen there’s that old Lord Maurice, not a whit
\nMore tame for his gray hairs—Alas me! flit!
\nFlit like a ghost away.”—“Ah, gossip dear,
\nWe’re safe enough; here in this arm-chair sit,
\nAnd tell me how”—“Good saints! not here, not here;
\nFollow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier.”<\/p>\n
He follow’d through a lowly arched way,
\nBrushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume,
\nAnd as she mutter’d “Well-a—well-a-day!”
\nHe found him in a little moonlight room,
\nPale, lattic’d, chill, and silent as a tomb.
\n“Now tell me where is Madeline”, said he,
\n“O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom
\nWhich none but secret sisterhood may see,
\n“When they St Agnes’ wool are weaving piously.”<\/p>\n
“St Agnes! Ah! it is St Agnes’ Eve—
\nYet men will murder upon holy days:
\nThou must hold water in a witch’s sieve,
\nAnd be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays
\nTo venture so: it fills me with amaze
\nTo see thee, Porphyro!—St Agnes’ Eve!
\nGod’s help! my lady fair the conjuror plays
\nThis very night: good angels her deceive!
\nBut let me laugh awhile, I’ve mickle time to grieve.”<\/p>\n
Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon,
\nWhile Porphyro upon her face doth look,
\nLike puzzled urchin on an aged crone
\nWho keepeth clos’d a wondrous riddle-book,
\nAs spectacled she sits in chimney nook.
\nBut soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told
\nHis lady’s purpose; and he scarce could brook
\nTears, at the thought of those enchantments cold
\nAnd Madeline asleep in lap of legends old.<\/p>\n
Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose,
\nFlushing his brow, and in his pained heart
\nMade purple riot: then doth he propose
\nA stratagem, that makes the beldame start:
\n“A cruel man and impious thou art:
\nSweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream
\nAlone with her good angels, far apart
\nFrom wicked men like thee. Go, go!—I deem
\nThou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem.”<\/p>\n
“I will not harm her, by all saints I swear,”
\nQuoth Porphyro: “O may I ne’er find grace
\nWhen my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer,
\nIf one of her soft ringlets I displace,
\nOr look with ruffian passion in her face:
\nGood Angela, believe me by these tears;
\nOr I will, even in a moment’s space,
\nAwake, with horrid shout, my foemen’s ears,
\nAnd beard them, though they be more fang’d than wolves and bears.”<\/p>\n
“Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul?
\nA poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing,
\nWhose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll;
\nWhose prayers for thee, each morn and evening,
\nWere never miss’d.” Thus plaining, doth she bring
\nA gentler speech from burning Porphyro;
\nSo woeful, and of such deep sorrowing,
\nThat Angela gives promise she will do
\nWhatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe.<\/p>\n
Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy,
\nEven to Madeline’s chamber, and there hide
\nHim in a closet, of such privacy
\nThat he might see her beauty unespied,
\nAnd win perhaps that night a peerless bride,
\nWhile legion’d fairies pac’d the coverlet,
\nAnd pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed.
\nNever on such a night have lovers met,
\nSince Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt.<\/p>\n
“It shall be as thou wishest,” said the Dame:
\n“All cates and dainties shall be stored there
\nQuickly on this feast-night: by the tambour frame
\nHer own lute thou wilt see: no time to spare,
\nFor I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare
\nOn such a catering trust my dizzy head.
\nWait here, my child, with patience; kneel in prayer
\nThe while: Ah! thou must needs the lady wed,
\nOr may I never leave my grave among the dead.”<\/p>\n
So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear.
\nThe lover’s endless minutes slowly pass’d;
\nThe Dame return’d, and whisper’d in his ear
\nTo follow her; with aged eyes aghast
\nFrom fright of dim espial. Safe at last
\nThrough many a dusky gallery, they gain
\nThe maiden’s chamber, silken, hush’d and chaste;
\nWhere Porphyro took covert, pleas’d amain.
\nHis poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain.<\/p>\n
Her falt’ring hand upon the balustrade,
\nOld Angela was feeling for the stair,
\nWhen Madeline, St Agnes’ charmed maid,
\nRose, like a mission’d spirit, unaware:
\nWith silver taper’s light, and pious care,
\nShe turn’d, and down the aged gossip led
\nTo a safe level matting. Now prepare,
\nYoung Porphyro, for gazing on that bed;
\nShe comes, she comes again, like dove fray’d and fled.<\/p>\n
Out went the taper as she hurried in;
\nIts little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died:
\nShe closed the door, she panted, all akin
\nTo spirits of the air, and visions wide:
\nNo utter’d syllable, or, woe betide!
\nBut to her heart, her heart was voluble,
\nPaining with eloquence her balmy side;
\nAs though a tongueless nightingale should swell
\nHer throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell.<\/p>\n
A casement high and triple-arch’d there was,
\nAll garlanded with carven imag’ries
\nOf fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass,
\nAnd diamonded with panes of quaint device,
\nInnumerable of stains and splendid dyes,
\nAs are the tiger-moth’s deep-damask’d wings;
\nAnd in the midst, ‘mong thousand heraldries,
\nAnd twilight saints, and dim emblazonings,
\nA shielded scutcheon blush’d with blood of queens and kings.<\/p>\n
Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,
\nAnd threw warm gules on Madeline’s fair breast,
\nAs down she knelt for heaven’s grace and boon;
\nRose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,
\nAnd on her silver cross soft amethyst,
\nAnd on her hair a glory, like a saint:
\nShe seem’d a splendid angel, newly drest,
\nSave wings, for heaven:—Porphyro grew faint:
\nShe knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.<\/p>\n
Anon his heart revives: her vespers done,
\nOf all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;
\nUnclasps her warmed jewels one by one;
\nLoosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees
\nHer rich attire creeps rustling to her knees:
\nHalf-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed,
\nPensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees,
\nIn fancy, fair St Agnes in her bed,
\nBut dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled.<\/p>\n
Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest,
\nIn sort of wakeful swoon, perplex’d she lay,
\nUntil the poppied warmth of sleep oppress’d
\nHer soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away;
\nFlown, like a thought, until the morrow-day;
\nBlissfully haven’d both from joy and pain;
\nClasp’d like a missal where swart Paynims pray;
\nBlinded alike from sunshine and from rain,
\nAs though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.<\/p>\n
Stol’n to this paradise, and so entranced,
\nPorphyro gazed upon her empty dress,
\nAnd listen’d to her breathing, if it chanced
\nTo wake into a slumbrous tenderness;
\nWhich when he heard, that minute did he bless,
\nAnd breath’d himself: then from the closet crept,
\nNoiseless as fear in a wide wilderness,
\nAnd over the hush’d carpet, silent, stept,
\nAnd ‘tween the curtains peep’d, where, lo!—how fast she slept!<\/p>\n
Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon
\nMade a dim, silver twilight, soft he set
\nA table, and, half anguish’d, threw thereon
\nA doth of woven crimson, gold, and jet:—
\nO for some drowsy Morphean amulet!
\nThe boisterous, midnight, festive clarion,
\nThe kettle-drum, and far-heard clarinet,
\nAffray his ears, though but in dying tone:—
\nThe hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone.<\/p>\n
And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,
\nIn blanched linen, smooth, and lavender’d,
\nWhile he from forth the closet brought a heap
\nOf candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd
\nWith jellies soother than the creamy curd,
\nAnd lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon;
\nManna and dates, in argosy transferr’d
\nFrom Fez; and spiced dainties, every one,
\nFrom silken Samarcand to cedar’d Lebanon.<\/p>\n
These delicates he heap’d with glowing hand
\nOn golden dishes and in baskets bright
\nOf wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand
\nIn the retired quiet of the night,
\nFilling the chilly room with perfume light.—
\n“And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake!
\nThou art my heaven, and I thine eremite:
\nOpen thine eyes, for meek St Agnes’ sake,
\nOr I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache.”<\/p>\n
Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm
\nSank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream
\nBy the dusk curtains:—’twas a midnight charm
\nImpossible to melt as iced stream:
\nThe lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam;
\nBroad golden fringe upon the carpet lies:
\nIt seem’d he never, never could redeem
\nFrom such a stedfast spell his lady’s eyes;
\nSo mus’d awhile, entoil’d in woofed phantasies.<\/p>\n
Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,—
\nTumultuous,—and, in chords that tenderest be,
\nHe play’d an ancient ditty, long since mute,
\nIn Provence call’d, “La belle dame sans mercy:”
\nClose to her ear touching the melody:—
\nWherewith disturb’d, she utter’d a soft moan:
\nHe ceased—she panted quick—and suddenly
\nHer blue affrayed eyes wide open shone:
\nUpon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone.<\/p>\n
Her eyes were open, but she still beheld,
\nNow wide awake, the vision of her sleep:
\nThere was a painful change, that nigh expell’d
\nThe blisses of her dream so pure and deep,
\nAt which fair Madeline began to weep,
\nAnd moan forth witless words with many a sigh;
\nWhile still her gaze on Porphyro would keep;
\nWho knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye,
\nFearing to move or speak, she look’d so dreamingly.<\/p>\n
“Ah, Porphyro!” said she, “but even now
\nThy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear,
\nMade tuneable with every sweetest vow;
\nAnd those sad eyes were spiritual and clear:
\nHow chang’d thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear!
\nGive me that voice again, my Porphyro,
\nThose looks immortal, those complainings dear!
\nOh leave me not in this eternal woe,
\nFor if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go.”<\/p>\n
Beyond a mortal man impassion’d far
\nAt these voluptuous accents, he arose,
\nEthereal, flush’d, and like a throbbing star
\nSeen mid the sapphire heaven’s deep repose
\nInto her dream he melted, as the rose
\nBlendeth its odour with the violet,—
\nSolution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows
\nLike Love’s alarum pattering the sharp sleet
\nAgainst the window-panes; St Agnes’ moon hath set.<\/p>\n
Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet:
\n“This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!”
\n‘Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat:
\n“No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine!
\nPorphyro will leave me here to fade and pine.—
\nCruel! what traitor could thee hither bring?
\nI curse not, for my heart is lost in thine
\nThough thou forsakest a deceived thing;—
\nA dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing.”<\/p>\n
“My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride!
\nSay, may I be for aye thy vassal blest?
\nThy beauty’s shield, heart-shap’d and vermeil dyed?
\nAh, silver shrine, here will I take my rest
\nAfter so many hours of toil and quest,
\nA famish’d pilgrim,—saved by miracle.
\nThough I have found, I will not rob thy nest
\nSaving of thy sweet self; if thou think’st well
\nTo trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel.<\/p>\n
“Hark! ’tis an elfin-storm from faery land,
\nOf haggard seeming, but a boon indeed:
\nArise—arise! the morning is at hand;—
\nThe bloated wassailers will never heed:—
\nLet us away, my love, with happy speed;
\nThere are no ears to hear, or eyes to see,—
\nDrown’d all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead:
\nAwake! arise! my love, and fearless be,
\nFor o’er the southern moors I have a home for thee.”<\/p>\n
She hurried at his words, beset with fears,
\nFor there were sleeping dragons all around,
\nAt glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears—
\nDown the wide stairs a darkling way they found.—
\nIn all the house was heard no human sound.
\nA chain-droop’d lamp was flickering by each door;
\nThe arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound,
\nFlutter’d in the besieging wind’s uproar;
\nAnd the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.<\/p>\n
They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall;
\nLike phantoms, to the iron porch, they glide;
\nWhere lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl,
\nWith a huge empty flagon by his side:
\nThe wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide,
\nBut his sagacious eye an inmate owns:
\nBy one, and one, the bolts fill easy slide:—
\nThe chains lie silent on the footworn stones,—
\nThe key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans.<\/p>\n
And they are gone: ay, ages long ago
\nThese lovers fled away into the storm.
\nThat night the Baron dreamt of many a woe,
\nAnd all his warrior-guests, with shade and form
\nOf witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm,
\nWere long be-nightmar’d. Angela the old
\nDied palsy-twitch’d, with meagre face deform;
\nThe Beadsman, after thousand aves told,
\nFor aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
St Agnes was a Roman virgin and martyr during the reign of Diocletian (early 4th century.) At first condemned to debauchery in a public brothel before her execution, her virginity was preserved by thunder and lightning from Heaven. Eight days after her execution, her parents visited her tomb and were greeted by a chorus of […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[8],"tags":[],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/englishhistory.net\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/154"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/englishhistory.net\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/englishhistory.net\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/englishhistory.net\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/englishhistory.net\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=154"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/englishhistory.net\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/154\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/englishhistory.net\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=154"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/englishhistory.net\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=154"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/englishhistory.net\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=154"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}