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A sudden brightness in his look appear'd,
A sudden vigour in his voice was heard;
She had been reading in the Book of Prayer.
And led him forth, and placed him in his chair;
Lively he seem'd, and spoke of all he knew,
The friendly many, and the favourite few;
Not one that day did he to mind recall

But she has treasured, and she loves them all;
When in her way she meets them, they appear
Peculiar people-death has made them dear.
He named his friend, but then his hand she press'd,
And fondly whisper'd, "Thou must go to rest!"
"I go," he said; but as he spoke she found
His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound!
Then gazed affrighten'd; but she caught a last,
A dying look of love, and all was past!

THE EVE OF ST. AGNES.

BY JOHN KEATS.-1
-1796-1820.

[JOHN KEATS was born in London, October 29, 1796, at the house of his grandfather, who kept a livery stable, in Moorfields. He was educated at Enfield, and at the age of fifteen was apprenticed to a surgeon. In 1818, he published his “Endymion,” a poem evincing rich imaginative powers. It was criticised so severely by the " Quarterly Review," that it is said the critique embittered his existence, and brought on a fatal disease. In 1820, Keats published a second volume, entitled "Lamia, Isabella, and other Poems," which was favourably received by the readers of poetry. He was now attacked with consumption, and to avert its fatal effects he resolved to try the milder climate of Italy; but no benefit resulted from the change, and on the 27th of December, 1820, he breathed his last in the city of Rome, in the arms of his faithful friend, Mr. Severn. ]

ST..

I.

T. 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:

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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 sculptured 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.

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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 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 sinner's 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 carvèd angels, ever eager-eyed,

Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests,

With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their

breasts.

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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 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,
Fix'd 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 cool'd by high disdain,

But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere;
She sigh'd 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 hallow'd hour was near at hand: she sighs
Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport;
'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn,
Hoodwink'd with faëry fancy; all amort,
Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn,
And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn.

IX.

So, purposing each moment to retire,

She linger'd still. Meantime, across the moors,

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