Poems of John Keats. 191 



bring her future husband, whoever he might be, before her dreams. 

 On this Porphyro proposes a stratagem, which makes the beldame 

 start and angrily turn away from the youth, who could dare to har- 

 bour any ill thought towards so pure and beautiful a maiden as 

 Madeline. What that stratagem may be, let the reader guess from 

 the warm protestations of Porphyro : 



" ' I will not harm her, by all saints I swear/ 



Quoth Porphyro. ' Oh 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 on her face ; 



Good Angelo, believe me by these tears, 



Or I will even in a moment's space 



Awake with horrid shout my foemen's ears, [bears/ " 



And beard them, though they be more fanged than wolves or 



And what a stratagem it was! For the stiadow flitting before her 

 mind's eye, in the dim visions of St. Agnes eve, the loving and lovely 

 Madeline was to behold the substance; bolts and bars, and guardian 

 angels more impassable than either, that watch the chaste chamber 

 of a maiden, were to be charmed away for that night, and the very 

 being of all others, the gallant Porphyro, whom Madeline scarcely 

 dared to tell unto the winds of heaven that she loved, so cherished in 

 her heart of hearts was the precious thought, this being was to be 

 in her chamber, to kneel beside her couch, to hang over her pillow, 

 to pray for her, to bless her, and yet not to displace one small ringlet 

 of her unconscious tresses by a rude or impure emotion ! But Por- 

 phyro loved Madeline ; it was the soul of Porphyro that on this 

 mysterious evening was to embrace the pure soul of Madeline, and 

 what harm could a spirit ever entertain towards a kindred spirit? 

 No, if Juliet could chide the " lagging messengers of night" for not 

 bringing her beloved Romeo more speedily to her arms, and still be 

 the most spiritual, impassioned, and beautiful of Shakespeare's female 

 creations, so might Porphyro on this night throw off all conven- 

 tional forms of delicacy, prior to possessing his Madeline for ever! 

 Yet it must be admitted that, with all the "attraction of scenery and 

 circumstance, this was a most dangerous subject for a young poet to 

 have handled. One false expression, one misplaced idea, one 

 thought not in strict keeping and conformity with the spiritual yet 

 winning chasteness of this eve, might have spoilt the poem. Had 

 Keats been a Lord Byron or a Thomas Moore, he might have made 

 his work but a vain shadow of Beppo, Don Juan, or of the mere- 

 tricious sentiment of Lalla Rookh ; but his own pure imagination 

 was to carry him safely through the task, and to leave behind it 

 imagery that might rival the purest creations of Southey or even 

 Coleridge. 



The scene has again changed; after much reluctance the old 

 beldame, "a poor, weak, palsy-stricken, church-yard tiling," has 

 guided Porphyro to his lover's chamber, "silken, hushed, and chaste." 

 And where is Madeline ? As the beldame is returning down the 



