Selected Poems and Letters - John Keats

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in a lake,

      With the young ashen boughs, ’gainst which it rests,

      And th’ half seen mossiness of linnets’ nests.

      Ah! shall I ever tell its cruelty,

      When the fire flashes from a warrior’s eye,

      And his tremendous hand is grasping it,

      And his dark brow for very wrath is knit?

      Or when his spirit, with more calm intent,

      Leaps to the honors of a tournament,

      And makes the gazers round about the ring

      Stare at the grandeur of the balancing?

      No, no! this is far off: – then how shall I

      Revive the dying tones of minstrelsy,

      Which linger yet about lone gothic arches,

      In dark green ivy, and among wild larches?

      How sing the splendour of the revelries,

      When buts of wine are drunk off to the lees?

      And that bright lance, against the fretted wall,

      Beneath the shade of stately banneral,

      Is slung with shining cuirass, sword, and shield?

      Where ye may see a spur in bloody field.

      Light-footed damsels move with gentle paces

      Round the wide hall, and show their happy faces;

      Or stand in courtly talk by fives and sevens:

      Like those fair stars that twinkle in the heavens.

      Yet must I tell a tale of chivalry:

      Or wherefore comes that knight so proudly by?

      Wherefore more proudly does the gentle knight,

      Rein in the swelling of his ample might?

      Spenser! thy brows are arched, open, kind,

      And come like a clear sun-rise to my mind;

      And always does my heart with pleasure dance,

      When I think on thy noble countenance:

      Where never yet was ought more earthly seen

      Than the pure freshness of thy laurels green.

      Therefore, great bard, I not so fearfully

      Call on thy gentle spirit to hover nigh

      My daring steps: or if thy tender care,

      Thus startled unaware,

      Be jealous that the foot of other wight

      Should madly follow that bright path of light

      Trac’d by thy lov’d Libertas; he will speak,

      And tell thee that my prayer is very meek;

      That I will follow with due reverence,

      And start with awe at mine own strange pretence.

      Him thou wilt hear; so I will rest in hope

      To see wide plains, fair trees and lawny slope:

      The morn, the eve, the light, the shade, the flowers:

      Clear streams, smooth lakes, and overlooking towers.

       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.

      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.

      III.

      Northward he turneth through a little door,

      And scarce three steps, ere Music’s golden tongue

      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.

      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-eyed,

      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 fairily

      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, lily white;

      Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require

      Of

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