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:

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.

Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline

Out went the taper as she hurried in ;
Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died:
She clos'd the door, she panted, all akin
To spirits of the air, and visions wide
No uttered syllable, or, woe betide!
But to her heart, her heart was voluble,
Paining with eloquence her balmy side;

As though a tongueless nightingale should swell
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell.

A casement high and triple arch'd there was,
All garlanded with carven imag'ries

Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot grass,
And diamonded with panes of quaint device
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,
As are the tiger-moth's deep damask'd wings;
And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries,
And twilight saints, with dim emblazonings,
A shielded 'scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings.

Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,
And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast,
As down she knelt for Heaven's grace and boon;
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,
And on her silver cross soft amethyst,
And on her hair a glory, like a saint:
She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest,
Save wings, for Heaven :-

Her vespers done
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;
Unclasps her warmedjewels one by one;
Loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees.
Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed,
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees,
In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed,

But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled.

Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest,
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay,
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away;
Flown, like a thought, until the morrow day,
Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain;
Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray;
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.

He took her hollow lute,

Tumultuous, and, in chords that tenderest be,
He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute,
In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans mercy :"
Close to her ear touching the melody;-
Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft moan:
He ceas'd-she panted quick-and suddenly
Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone :

Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone.

Her eyes were open, but she still beheld,
Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep:
There was a painful change, that nigh 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 piteous eye,
Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly

Ah, Porphyro!" said she," but even now
Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear,
"Made tuneable with every sweetest vow;
"And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear:

"How chang'd thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear
"Give me that voice again, my Porphyro,

"Those looks immortal, those complainings dear!
"Oh, leave me not in this eternal woe,

"For if thou diest, my love, I know not where to go."

Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far

At these voluptuous accents, he arose,
Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star,
Seen 'mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose,
Into her dream he melted, as the rose
Blendeth its odour with the violet,-

Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows
Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet

Against the window-panes.

"Hark! 'tis an elfin-storm from faery land,
"Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed.
"Arise arise! the morning is at hand;—
"Let us away, my love, with happy speed.—

And they are gone: ay, ages long ago
These lovers fled away into the storm.

FLORAL DIRECTORY.

St. Fabian

Large Dead Nettle. Larnium garganicum:

chelor;" and yet, as it is sayd, the rynge secrated animals were afterwards shorn, is on the fynger of the ymage

In a Romish Missal printed at Paris, in
1520, there is a prayer to St. Agnes, re-
markably presumptive of her powers; it
is thus englished by Bp. Patrick :
Agnes, who art the Lamb's chaste spouse,
Enlighten thou our minds within;
Not only lop the spreading boughs,
But root out of us every sin.

O, Lady, singularly great,
After this state, with grief opprest
Translate us to that quiet seat
Above, to triumph with the blest.

From Naogeorgus, we gather that in St. Agnes' church at Rome, it was customary on St. Agnes' Day to bring two snow-white lambs to the altar, upon which they were laid while the Agnus was singing by way of offering. These con

and palls made from their fleeces; for each
of which, it is said, the pope exacted of
the bishops from eight to ten, or thirty
thousand crowns, and that the custom
originated with Limes, who succeeded the
apostle Peter: whereupon Naogeorgus
inquires,

But where was Agnes at that time?
who offred up, and how,

The two white lambes? where then was
Masse,

as it is used now?

Yea, where was then the Popish state,
and dreadfull monarchee?
Sure in Saint Austen's time, there were

no palles at Rome to see, &c.
In Jephson's" Manners, &c. of France
and Italy," there is one dated from Rome,
February, 14, 1793. That this ceremony
was then in use, is evident from the fol-
lowing lines:-

St. Agnes' Shrine.

Where each pretty Ba-lamb most gaily appears,
With ribands stuck round on its tail and its ears;

On gold fringed cushions they're stretch'd out to eat,
And piously ba, aud to church-musick bleat;

Yet to me they seem'd crying, alack, and alas!
What's all this white damask to daisies and grass?

Then they're brought to the Pope, and with transport they're kiss'd,
And receive consecration from Sanctity's fist.
Blessing of Sheep.

Stopford, in " Pagano-Papismus," re

cites this ceremony of the Romish church. The sheep were brought into the church, and the priest, having blessed some salt and water, read in one corner this gospel, "To us a child is born," &c. with the whole office, a farthing being laid upon the book, and taken up again; in the second corner he read this gospel, "Ye men of Galilee," &c. with the whole office, a farthing being laid upon the book, and taken up again; in the third corner he read this gospel," I am the good shepherd," &c. with the whole office, a farthing being laid upon the book, and taken up again; and in the fourth corner he read this gospel, "In these days," &c. with the whole office, a farthing being laid upon the book, and taken up again. After that, he sprinkled all the sheep with holy water, saying, "Let the blessing of God, the Father Almighty, descend and remain upon you; in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen." Then he signed all the sheep with the sign of the cross, repeated thrice some Latin verses, with the Paternoster and Ave-Marias,

sung the mass of the Holy Ghost, and at the conclusion, an offering of fourpence was for himself, and another of threepence was for the poor. This ceremony was adopted by the Romish church from certain customs of the ancient Romans, in their worship of Pales, the goddess of sheepfolds and pastures. They prayed her to bless the sheep, and sprinkled them with water. The chief difference between the forms seems to have consisted in this, that the ancient Romans let the sheep remain in their folds, while the moderns

drove them into the church.

FLORAL DIRECTORY.

Christmas Rose.

St. Agnes.

Helleborus niger flore albo.

THE CROCUS.

Dainty young thing

Of life!-Thou vent'rous flower,
Who growest through the hard, cold bower
Of wintry Spring :-

Thou various-hued,

Soft, voiceless bell, whose spire
Rocks in the grassy leaves like wire

In solitude: