She’s known in the Catholic religion as the patron saint of young women. She is St. Agnes, who died in A. D. 304. On January 21st, her life is celebrated and remembered. But legend has it that on the eve of St. Agnes, January 20th, in medieval Europe, women were able to do a little magic that would help them to see the face of their intended. The magic is described in a poem by John Keats. The gist of the poem is about two lovers who elope on the night before St. Agnes Day, “The Eve of St. Agnes.” Some excerpts from the poem in this blog, including the magic you need to do on this night to apparently see your intended.
“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…”
It sets a scene just like tonight.. Bitterly cold and snowy. A patient, holy man goes about his prayers, but in those halls comes the music of celebrations..
“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 carv’d 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 fairly / 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 loved, and winged St. Agnes’ saintly care, …”
Women of the time had heard tell of the magic that could be performed on January 20th, the Eve of St. Agnes Day… That they might have “…visions of delight, / And soft adorings from their loves receive / Upon the honeyed middle of the night, / If ceremonies due they did aright; / As, supperless to bed they must retire, / And couch supine… / Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require / Of heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire.
“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, she saw many a sweeping train / Pass by–she heeded not at all: in vain / Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, / And back retir’d; 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.
“She danc’d along with vague, regardless eyes, / Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short: / The hallowed hour was near at hand: she sighs / Amid timbrels, and the thronged resort / Of whisperers in anger, or in sport; / ‘Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, / Hoodwink’d with fairy fancy; all amort, / Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn, / And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn.
“So, purposing each moment to retire, / She linger’d still. Meantime, across the moors, / Had come young Porphyro, withn heart on fire / For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, / Buttress’d from moonlight, stands he, and implores / All saints give to him sight of Madeline, / But for one moment in the tedious hours, / That he might gaze and worship all unseen; / Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss–in sooth such things have been.
“He ventures in: let no buzzed whisper tell: / All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords / Will storm his heart, love’s fev’rous citadel; …”
He hopes that no one will see him but he knows there is one who will help him in his quest. She is an elderly woman who is startled by his presence. She fears for his safety in this place. He and his family were cursed by one of the guests to the celebration. She leads him away from the jubilant party.
“He follow’d through a lowly arched way, / Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume; / And as she mutter’d ‘Well-a-well-a-day!’ / He found him in a little moonlight room, / Pale, lattic’d, chill, and silent as a tomb. / ‘Now tell me where is Madeline,’ said he, / ‘O tell me Angela, by the holy loom / Which none but secret sisterhood may see, / When they St. Agnes’ wool are weaving piously.’
“St. Agnes! Ah! It is St. Agnes’ Eve– / Yet men will murder upon holy days: / Thou must hold water in a witch’s sieve, / And be liege-lord of all the elves and fays, / To venture so: It fills me with amaze / To see thee, Porphyro!–St. Agnes’ Eve! / God’s help! My lady fair the conjurer plays / This very night: good angels her deceive! / But let me laugh awhile, I’ve mickle time to grieve!’”
Some lines later…
“But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told / His lady’s purpose; and he scarce could brook / Years, at the thought of those enchantments cold, / And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old.
“Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, / Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart / Made purple riot; then doth he propose / A strategem, ..” …that gave the old woman a start..
He asks that she spirit him into her quarters that he might be the first face she sees upon waking, so as to fulfill the magic of this special night..
“‘I will not harm her, by all saints I swear,’ / Quoth Prophyro: ‘O may I ne’er find grace / When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer, / If one of her soft ringlets I displace, / Or look with ruffian passion in her face: / Good Angela, believe me by these tears; / Or I will, even in a moment’s space, / Awake with horrid shout, my foeman’s ears, / And beard them, though they be more fang’d than wolves and bears.’”
Again, some lines later…
“–thus plaining, doth she bring / A gentler speech from burning Porphyro; / So woeful, and of such deep sorrowing, / That Angela gives promise she will do / Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe.”
Angela takes him to Madeline’s quarters that he might try to help the magic of this special night along…
…She stirs from her enchanted dreams…
“Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, – / Tumultuous,– and, in chords that tenderest be, / He play’d an ancient ditty, long since mute, / In Provence called, ‘La Belle Dame Sans Merci,’ / Close to her ear touching the melody; — / Wherewith disturb’d, she uttered a soft moan: / He ceased–and suddenly / Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone: / Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone.
“Here eyes were open, but she still beheld, / Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep: / There was a painful change, that night expell’d / The blisses of her dream so pure and deep, / At which fair Madeline began to weep, / And moan forth witless words with many a sigh; / While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep; / Who knelt with joined hands and pious eye, / Fearing to move or speak, she look’d so dreamingly.”
He proposes a lifetime together to her.. It is her dream fulfilled.. But they need to somehow escape together… He says,
“‘Hark! ‘Tis an elfin-storm from fairy land, /Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed: / Arise–arise! The morning is at hand;– / The bloated wassailers will never heed:– / Let us away, my love, with happy speed; / There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see,– / Drown’d all in … the sleepy mead: / Awake! Arise! My love, and fearless be, / For o’er the southern moors I have a home for thee.’
“She hurried at his words, beset with fears, / For there were sleeping dragons all around, / At glaring watch, perhaps with ready spears– / Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found.– / In all the house was heard no human sound. / A chain-drooped lamp was flickering by each door; / The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, / Fluttr’d in the beseiging wind’s uproar; / And along the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.
“They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall; / Like phantoms, to the iron porch they glide; / Where lay the porter, in an uneasy sprawl, / With a huge empty flagon by his side: / The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide, / But his sagacious eye an intimate owns: / By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide:– / The chains lie silent on the footworn stones;– / The key turns, and the door opens upon its hinges / Groans.
“And they are gone: ay, ages long ago / These lovers fled away into the storm. / That night the baron dreamt of many a woe, / And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form / Of witch, and demon, …/ Were long be-nightmar’d..”
Angela has since passed.. So, too, has the beadsman, by the end of the poem.. The lovers? We can only hope they lived a wonderful life together.. A life that was made real with the help of the dreams on the “Eve of St. Agnes.”
My radio show Monday night will feature a little more about St. Agnes Day …
May you have sweet dreams tonight…
***
Don Jackson
