The Eve of St. Agnes

With a Chapter from The Mentor - Famous English Poets by Hamilton Wright Mabie

John Keats, Hamilton Wright Mabie

• Publisher: Read & Co. Books
• Year: 2020
• Print ISBN: 9781528715966
• eBook ISBN: 9781528790093
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: European Poetry
• Index: Literature

"The Eve of St. Agnes" is a Romantic narrative poem written by John Keats in 1819 and first published in 1820. Comprised of 42 Spenserian stanzas, it was considered one of his best poems by his contemporaries and remained influential well into the 19th century. John Keats (1795–1821) was an English Romantic poet and one of the most important figures in the second generation of Romantic poets, together with Percy Bysshe Shelley and Lord Byron. He died from tuberculosis at the age of 25, just four years after his work entered publication. Other notable works by this author include: "Ode to a Nightingale", "Sleep and Poetry", and "On First Looking into Chapman's Homer". A fantastic poem by a master Romantic poet that will appeal to all lovers of English poetry. This classic work is being republished now in a new edition complete with an introductory chapter from "The Mentor - Famous English Poets" by Hamilton Wright Mabie.

THE EVE OF ST. AGNES

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.

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.

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.

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.

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-...

Table of contents

• JOHN KEATS
• PREFACE
• THE EVE OF ST. AGNES