The Eve of St. Mark

The chilly sunset faintly told

Of unmatured green, valley cold,

Of the green thorny bloomless hedge,

Of rivers new with spring-tide sedge,

Of primroses by shelter'd rills,

And daisies on the aguish hills.

Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell:

The silent streets were crowded well

With staid and pious companies,

Warm from their fire-side orat'ries;

And moving, with demurest air,

To even-song, and vesper prayer.

Each arched porch, and entry low,

Was fill'd with patient folk and slow,

With whispers hush, and shuflfling feet,

While play'd the organ loud and sweet.

The bells had ceased, the prayers begun,

And Bertha had not yet half done

A curious volume, patch'd and torn,

That all day long, from earliest morn,

Had taken captive her two eyes,

Among its golden broideries;

Perplexed her with a thousand things,

The stars of Heaven, and angels' wings,

Martyrs in a fiery blaze,

Azure saints and silver rays,

Moses' breastplate, and the seven

Candlesticks John saw in Heaven,

The winged Lion of Saint Mark,

And the Covenantal Ark,

With its many mysteries.

Cherubim and golden mice.

Bertha was a maiden fair,

Dwelling in th' old minster-square;

From her fire-side she could see,

Sidelong, its rich antiquity,

Far as the Bishop's garden-wall;

Where sycamores and elm-trees tall,

Full-leaved, the forest had outstript,

By no sharp north-wind ever nipt,

So sheltered by the mighty pile.

Bertha arose, and read awhile,

With forehead 'gainst the window-pane.

Again she tried, and then again,

Until the dusk eve left her dark

Upon the legend of St. Mark.

From plaited lawn-frill, fine and thin,

She lifted up her soft warm chin,

With aching neck and swimming eyes,

And dazed with saintly imag'ries.

All was gloom, and silent all,

Save now and then the still foot-fall

Of one returning homewards late,

Past the echoing minster-gate.

The clamorous daws, that all the day

Above tree-tops and towers play,

Pair by pair had gone to rest,

Each in its ancient belfry-nest,

Where asleep they fall betimes,

To music and the drowsy chimes.

All was silent, all was gloom.

Abroad and in the homely room:

Down she sat, poor cheated soul!

And struck a lamp from the dismal coal;

Leaned forward, with bright drooping hair

And slant book, full against the glare.

Her shadow, in uneasy guise,

Hover'd about, a giant size,

On ceiling-beam and old oak chair,

The parrot's cage, and panel square;

And the warm angled winter-screen,

On which were many monsters seen,

Call'd doves of Siam, Lima mice,

And legless birds of Paradise,

Macaw, and tender Av'davat,

And silken-furr'd Angora cat.

Untired she read, her shadow still

Glower'd about, as it would fill

The room with wildest forms and shades,

As though some ghostly queen of spades

Had come to mock behind her back,

And dance, and ruffle her garments black.

Untired she read the legend page,

Of holy Mark, from youth to age,

On land, on sea, in pagan chains.

Rejoicing for his many pains.

Sometimes the learned eremite,

With golden star, or dagger bright,

Referred to pious poesies

Beneath the text; and thus the rhyme

Was parcell'd out from time to time:

——"Als writith he of swevenis,

Men han beforne they wake in bliss,

Whanne that hir friendes thinke him bound

In crimped shroude farre under grounde;

And how a litling child mote be

A saint er its nativitie,

Gif that the modre (God her blesse!)

Kepen in solitarinesse,

And kissen devoute the holy croce

Of Goddes love, and Sathan's force,—

He writith; and thinges many mo

Of swiche thinges I may not shew.

Bot I must tellen verilie

Somdel of Saintè Cicilie,

And chieflie what he auctorethe

Of Sainte Markis life and dethe:"

At length her constant eyelids come

Upon the fervent martyrdom;

Then lastly to his holy shrine

Exalt amid the taper's shine

At Venice,—

1819.