Get out the microscope, because we’re going through this poem line-by-line.
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:
Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve,
And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve.
- Well at least our Beadsman's got some tunes, now: as he exits the chapel o' creepy statues, he's greeted with music—Music, actually—which has a golden tongue. (Music doesn't really have a tongue of course, so we get more personification here.) After the frigid, silent chapel with its "black, purgatorial rails," golden tongues sound pretty good to us.
- His enjoyment of the Music is cut off, though, because his death is approaching. Great. He's cold, tired, stuck praying for other people, and he's about to die. High fives all around, right?
- It gets better: he waits for his "soul's reprieve"—presumably his own death—while sitting in ashes. Good times.
- To top it all off, he's gotta keep at this penance thing all night long. And this is not his own penance, mind you.
- Remember that he's "grieving" for other sinners. Hmm, who are these people he's praying for? Let's see if we find out...