THE

EVE OF ST. AGNES.

I.

ST. Agnes' Eve-Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;

The hare limp'd 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,

Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death,
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith.

(1) Hunt, quoting the first line as an illustration for the paper A "Now," descriptive of a Cold Day in his London Journal for the 3rd of December 1834, changes the sex of the owl and reads

"The owl, with all her feathers, is a-cold,

or you think her so." In his comment on the whole stanza he again misquotes the line. He says, "What a complete feeling of wintertime is here, together with an intimation of those Catholic elegancies, of which we are to have more in the poem n!

The owl, with all his feathers, was a-cold.

Could he have selected an image more warm and comfortable in itself, and, therefore, better contradicted by the season? We feel the

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 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.

plump, feathery bird in his nook, shivering in spite of his natural household warmth, and staring out at the strange weather. The hare cringing through the chill grass is very piteous, and the 'silent flock' very patient; and how quiet and gentle, as well as winterly, are all these circumstances, and fit to open a quiet and gentle poem ! The breath of the pilgrim, likened to 'pious incense,' completes them, and is a simile in admirable 'keeping,' as the painters call it ; that is to say, is thoroughly harmonious with itself and all that is going on. The breath of the pilgrim is visible, so is that of a censer; his object is religious, and so is the use of the censer; the censer, after its fashion, may be said to pray, and its breath, like the pilgrim's, ascends to heaven. Young students of poetry may, in this image alone, see what imagination is, under one of its most poetical forms, and how thoroughly it' tells.' There is no part of it unfitting. It is not applicable in one point, and the reverse in another."

In the letter which Keats wrote to Taylor about an alteration made in stanza vii (which see) he explains that he used the word chill" to avoid the echo cold in the second line"; from which we may infer that the publisher had altered chill to cold! We may safely assume that the obsolete form a-cold was imported straight from Shakespeare, since in Keats's copy of the 1808 folio Scene IV of Act III of King Lear bears evidence of having been read shortly after Tom Keats's death; and the words poore Tom, in the immediate neighbourhood of Tom's a-cold, are underlined, the date Sunday evening, Oct. 4, 1818, being written alongside by Keats.

(11) Hunt says "The germ of the thought, or something like it, is in Dante, where he speaks of the figures that perform the part of sustaining columns in architecture. Keats had read Dante in Mr.

III.

Northward he turneth through a little door,

And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue

Carey's translation, for which he had a great respect. He began to read him afterwards in Italian, which language he was mastering with surprising quickness. A friend of ours has a copy of Ariosto, containing admiring marks of his pen. But the same thought may have originally struck one poet as well as another. Perhaps there are few that have not felt something like it in seeing the figures upon tombs. Here, however, for the first time, we believe, in English poetry, it is expressed, and with what feeling and elegance! Most wintry as well as penitential is the word 'aching,' in 'icy hoods and mails;' and most felicitous the introduction of the Catholic idea in the word 'purgatorial.' The very colour of the rails is made to assume a meaning, and to shadow forth the gloom of the punishment—

Imprisoned in black purgatorial rails."

The passage of Dante referred to is in Canto x of the Purgatorio, and relates to "the souls of those who expiate the sin of pride, and who are bent down beneath the weight of heavy stones". I quote the version of Cary, as that with which Keats was familiar :

As, to support incumbent floor or roof,

For corbel, is a figure sometimes seen,
That crumples up its knees unto its breast;
With the feign'd posture, stirring ruth unfeign'd
In the beholder's fancy; so I saw

These fashion'd, when I noted well their guise.

Each, as his back was laden, came indeed

Or more or less contracted; and it seem'd
As he, who show'd most patience in his look,
Wailing exclaim'd: "I can endure no more."

66

Cary adds the following note to this passage : Chillingworth, cap. vi. § 54, speaks of 'those crouching anticks, which seem in great buildings to labour under the weight they bear'. And Lord Shaftesbury has a similar illustration in his Essay on Wit and Humour, p. 4. § 3."

(III) Hunt italicizes and comments thus :

"Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.

This 'flattered' is exquisite. A true poet is by nature a metaVOL. II.

G

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.

physician; far greater in general than metaphysicians professed. He feels instinctively what the others get at by long searching. In this word 'flattered' is the whole theory of the secret of tears; which are the tributes, more or less worthy, of self-pity to self-love. Whenever we shed tears, we take pity on ourselves; and we feel, if we do not consciously say so, that we deserve to have the pity taken. In many cases, the pity is just, and the self-love not to be construed unhandsomely. In many others, it is the reverse; and this is the reason why selfish people are so often found among the tear-shedders, and why they seem never to shed them for others. They imagine themselves in the situation of the others, as indeed the most generous must, before they can sympathize; but the generous console as well as weep. Selfish tears are niggardly of everything but themselves. Flatter'd to tears.' Yes, the poor old man was moved, by the sweet music, to think that so sweet a thing was intended for his comfort as well as for others. He felt that the mysterious kindness of heaven did not omit even his poor, old, sorry case, in its numerous workings and visitations; and, as he wished to live longer, he began to think that his wish was to be attended to. He began to consider how much he had suffered-how much he had suffered wrongly and mysteriously—and how much better a man he was, with all his sins, than fate seemed to have taken him for. Hence, he found himself deserving of tears and self-pity, and he shed them, and felt soothed by his poor, old, loving self. Not undeservedly either; for he was a pains-taking pilgrim, aged, patient, and humble, and willingly suffered cold and toil, for the sake of something better than he could otherwise deserve; and so the pity is not exclusively on his own side: we pity him too, and would fain see him out of that cold chapel, gathered into a warmer place than a grave. But it was not to be. We must, therefore, console ourselves with knowing, that this icy endurance of his was the last, and that he soon found himself at the sunny gate of heaven."

IV.

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-ey'd,

Star'd, 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 faerily

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.

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 honey'd middle of the night,
If ceremonies due they did aright;
As, supperless to bed they must retire,
And couch supine their beauties, lilly white;
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require

Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire.