SCENE II. - Another part of the Field

Trumpets sounding a Victory. Enter GLOCESTER, Knights, and Forces. Glocester. Now may we lift our bruised visors up,

And take the flattering freshness of the air,

While the wide din of battle dies away
Into times past, yet to be echoed sure
In the silent pages of our chroniclers.

1st Knight. Will Stephen's death be mark'd there, my good Lord, Or that we gave him lodging in yon towers? Glocester. Fain would I know the great usurper's fate.

Enter two Captains severally.

1st Captain. My Lord! 2d Captain.

2d Knight. From Stephen, my good Prince, Stephen! Stephen ! Glocester. Why do you make such echoing of his name?

2d Knight. Because I think, my lord, he is no man,

But a fierce demon, 'nointed safe from wounds,

And misbaptized with a Christian name.
Glocester. A mighty soldier!

still hold out?

Does he

2d Knight. He shames our victory. His

valour still

1st Captain. The King— 2d Captain. The Empress greets Glocester. What of the King?

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1st Captain. He sole and lone maintains A hopeless bustle 'mid our swarming arms, And with a nimble savageness attacks, Escapes, makes fiercer onset, then anew Eludes death, giving death to most that dare

Trespass within the circuit of his sword! He must by this have fallen. Baldwin is taken;

And for the Duke of Bretagne, like a stag He flies, for the Welsh beagles to hunt down.

God save the Empress !

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

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,
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.

...

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.'

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.

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50

60

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,
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,

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90

100

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 Sainte Markis life and dethe:'

IIC