THE EVE OF SAINT MARK

                                  1816

                         THE EVE OF SAINT MARK

                             by John Keats



    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 fair

    From wholesome drench of April rains;

    And, on the western window panes,

    The chilly sunset faintly told

    Of unmatur'd green vallies 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 shuffling feet,

    While play'd the organ loud and sweet.



    The bells had ceas'd, 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;

    Perplex'd her with a thousand things,-

    The stars of Heaven, and angels' wings,

    Martyrs in a fiery blaze,

    Azure saints in 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 the 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-leav'd, 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 try'd, 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 daz'd with saintly imageries.



    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 of 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;

    Lean'd 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 Avadavat,

    And silken-furr'd Angora cat.

    Untir'd 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.

    Untir'd 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,

    Referr'd to pious poesies

    Written in smallest crow-quill size

    Beneath the text; and thus the rhyme

    Was parcell'd out from time to time:

   "Gif ye wol stonden hardie wight-

    Amiddes of the blacke night-

    Righte in the churche porch, pardie

    Ye wol behold a companie

    Approchen thee full dolourouse

    For sooth to sain from everich house

    Be it in City or village

    Wol come the Phantom and image

    Of ilka gent and ilka carle

    Whom colde Deathe hath in parle

    And wol some day that very year

    Touchen with foule venime spear

    And sadly do them all to die-

    Hem all shalt thou see verilie-

    And everichon shall by thee pass

    All who must die that year Alas

    -Als writith he of swevenis

    Men han beforne they wake in bliss,

    Whanne that hir friendes thinke hem 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 show,

    Bot I must tellen verilie

    Somdel of Sainte 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 tapers' shine

    At Venice,-





                    THE END

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