The Eve of St. Mark

Upon a Sabbath-day it fell;Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell,That call'd the folk to evening prayer;The city streets were clean and fairFrom wholesome drench of April rains;And, on the western window panes,The chilly sunset faintly toldOf unmatured green valleys cold,Of the green thorny bloomless hedge,Of rivers new with spring-tide sedge,10Of primroses by shelter'd rills,And daisies on the aguish hills.Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell:The silent streets were crowded wellWith staid and pious companies,Warm from their fireside 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,20With whispers hush, and shuffling feet,While play'd the organ loud and sweet.

The bells had ceased, the prayers begun,And Bertha had not yet half doneA curious volume, patch'd and torn,That all day long, from earliest morn,Had taken captive her two eyes,Among its golden broideries;Perplex'd her with a thousand things,—The stars of Heaven, and angels' wings,30Martyrs in a fiery blaze,Azure saints and silver rays,Moses' breastplate, and the sevenCandlesticks 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;40From her fireside 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 shelter'd by the mighty pile.Bertha arose, and read awhile,With forehead 'gainst the window-pane.Again she tried, and then again,50Until the dusk eve left her darkUpon 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-fallOf one returning homewards late,Past the echoing minster-gate.60The clamorous daws, that all the dayAbove 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;70Lean'd forward, with bright drooping hairAnd 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,80Macaw, and tender Avadavat,And silken-furr'd Angora cat.Untired she read, her shadow stillGlower'd about, as it would fillThe room with wildest forms and shades,As though some ghostly queen of spadesHad 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,90On land, on sea, in pagan chains,Rejoicing for his many pains.Sometimes the learned eremite,With golden star, or dagger bright,Referr'd to pious poesiesWritten in smallest crow-quill sizeBeneath the text; and thus the rhymeWas parcell'd out from time to time:——'Als writith he of swevenis,Men han beforne they wake in bliss,100Whanne that hir friendes thinke him boundIn crimped shroude farre under grounde;And how a litling child mote beA 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 moOf swiche thinges I may not show.110Bot I must tellen verilieSomdel of Saintè Cicilie,And chieflie what he auctoretheOf Saintè Markis life and dethe:'

At length her constant eyelids comeUpon the fervent martyrdom;Then lastly to his holy shrine,Exalt amid the tapers' shineAt Venice,—