# The complete poetical works and letters of John Keats/The Eve of St. Mark

THE EVE OF ST. MARK
A FRAGMENT
In a letter to George and Georgiana Keats, dated February 14, 1819, Keats says that he means to send them in the next packet 'The Pot of Basil,' 'St. Agnes' Eve,' and 'if I should have finished it a little thing called "The Eve of St. Mark."' He does not refer to the poem again directly, until writing from Winchester to the same, September 20, when he says: 'The great beauty of poetry is that it makes everything in every place interesting. The palatine Vienna and the abbotine Winchester are equally interesting. Some time since I began a poem called "The Eve of St. Mark," quite in the spirit of town quietude. I think I will give you the sensation of walking about an old country town in a coolish evening. I know not whether I shall ever finish it. I will give it as far as I have gone.' The poem appears never to have been finished, and was published in this fragmentary form in Life, Letters and Literary Remains.
Mr. Forman gives an interesting extract from a letter written him by Mr. Rossetti, which throws a possible light on the origin of the poem. He had been reading Keats's letters to Fanny Brawne, and writes: 'I should think it very conceivable—nay, I will say to myself highly probable and almost certain,—that the "Poem which I have in my head" referred to by Keats at page 106 was none other than the fragmentary "Eve of St. Mark." By the light of the extract, . . . I judge that the heroine—remorseful after trifling with a sick and now absent lover—might make her way to the minster-porch to learn his fate by the spell, and perhaps see his figure enter but not return.' The extract from Keats's letter is as follows: 'If my health would bear it, I could write a Poem which I have in my head, which would be a consolation for people in such a situation as mine. I would show some one in Love as I am, with a person living in such Liberty as you do.'
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 unmatured 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, 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,20 With 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 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,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 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;40 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,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 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.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, 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 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,80 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,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 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,100 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.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 Upon the fervent martyrdom; Then lastly to his holy shrine, Exalt amid the tapers' shine At Venice,—