Page:The complete poetical works and letters of John Keats, 1899.djvu/233

Rh 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 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,

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;

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.

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,

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:

'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 show.

Bot I must tellen verilie

Somdel of Saintè Cicilie,

And chieflie what he auctorethe

Of Saintè 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,—