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A Fragment
UPON 1 a Sabbath-day it fell; | |
| Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell, | |
| That call’d the folks to evening prayer; | |
| The city streets were clean and fair | |
| From wholesome drench of April rains; | 5 |
| And, on the western window panes, | |
| The chilly sunset faintly told | |
| Of unmatur’d green valleys cold, | |
| Of the green thorny bloomless hedge, | |
| Of rivers new with spring-tide sedge, | 10 |
| 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, | 15 |
| 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, | 20 |
| With whispers hush, and shuffling feet, | |
| While play’d the organ loud and sweet. | |
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| The bells had ceas’d, the prayers begun, | |
| And Bertha had not yet half done | |
| A curious volume, patch’d and torn, | 25 |
| 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, | 30 |
| Martyrs in a fiery blaze, | |
| Azure saints and silver rays, | |
| Moses’ breastplate, and the seven, | |
| Candlesticks John saw in Heaven, | |
| The winged Lion of St. Mark, | 35 |
| And the Covenantal Ark, | |
| With its many mysteries, | |
| Cherubim and golden mice. | |
| |
| Bertha was a maiden fair, | |
| Dwelling in th’ old Minster-square; | 40 |
| 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, | 45 |
| 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, | 50 |
| 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 arching neck and swimming eyes, | 55 |
| And daz’d with saintly imageries. | |
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| All was gloom, and silent all, | |
| Save now and then the still foot-fall | |
| Of one returning homewards late, | |
| Past the echoing minster-gate. | 60 |
| 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, | 65 |
| 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; | 70 |
| Lean’d forward, with bright drooping hair | |
| And slant look, full against the glare. | |
| Her shadow, in uneasy guise, | |
| Hover’d about, a giant size, | |
| On ceiling-beam and old oak chair, | 75 |
| 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, | 80 |
| 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, | 85 |
| 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, | 90 |
| 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 | 95 |
| Written in smallest crow-quill size | |
| Beneath the text: and thus the rhyme | |
| Was parcel’d out from time to time: | |
| ——‘Als writith he of swevenis, | |
| Men han beforne they wake in bliss, | 100 |
| Whanne that hir friendes thinke him bound | |
| In crimped shroude farre under grounde: | |
| And how a litling childe mote be | |
| A saint er its nativitie, | |
| Gif that the modre (God her blesse!) | 105 |
| 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. | 110 |
| 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 | 115 |
| Upon the fervent martyrdom; | |
| Then lastly to his holy shrine, | |
| Exalt amid the tapers’ shine | |
| At Venice,— | |
