Page:Keats - Poetical Works, DeWolfe, 1884.djvu/198



III. :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 death-bell 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 sinner's sake to grieve.

IV. :That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft;
 * And so it chanced, 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,
 * Stared, 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 fairily
 * 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,