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, this prayerful Rapaire        
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 asses sat he for his soul's reprieve,        
And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve.