THE PROPHECY OF SAINT MARK

Pale night upon its swift, aerial loom

Wove the soft, vaporous substance of the gloom.

The story-sculptured Gothic porch lay dim

And silent in drab haze with which the spring

Covers its carpentry of summer bloom.

A maiden stood within the porch's pale.

“It is the night,” she sighed, “Saint Marcus’ night

When ghosts of all foredoomed to sickness wing

Into the church to pray; so runs the tale.

Those who make no return shall feel the grim,

Fell scythe of Death within the year. The light

Must flicker up each face as past they sail.

But Gascon, O my Gascon, shalt thou die?

Year after year, I wait — Thy strong-wrought mail

Surely is sword-proof —” And a hovering sigh

Passed through her lips more still than silence, frail.

The lowering mist grew darker. From the womb

Of day, young night was born. The paling light

Was flecked with haze-clouds flickering in the gloom;

And to and fro in stately pageantry,

Strange shadow-shapes like liquid-silver spume

Charmed into lightness, formed an imagery

Of things half-human.

Still the maiden pale

Waited and hung upon each shadowy trail

Of lingering vapors fainting to and fro.

They took the shape of flitting forms in mail

Or monkish cowl. A Merlin-magic spell

Seemed laid upon her. “And art thou to go?”

She whispered as some well-known face amid

The rest swept by her through that portal fell.

And some, not marked for Death, returned again;

And some returned not. O'er the porch's rail,

Leant her light body as she scanned each form,

And tensely looked with terror anxious-eyed.

Why does she shrink with all-consuming pain,

And seek to gaze again? A blinding storm

Of anguish breaks upon her. “O what doom

Is this for thee and me? Why doest thou glide

Into this silent, terror-freighted tomb?”

Pale Gascon's figure fled along the tide —

Some forms not marked for Death returned again;

But his returned not. Ever anguish-eyed,

She paused and waited — waited in the gloom.

At last the flying cloud flakes ceased to come;

And stilly night arose. “My God, to whom

May I turn now? My richest Self is rent!”

Down from the carven doorway stumbling slow,

The maiden passed, silent with languishment.

Forth from the darkness stepped a man. All dumb,

She gazed in careless stupor such as woe

Stamps on the soul.

“My Lady, may I dare —”

He paused, and gazed, bowed sweepingly and low,

Then spoke again. She stood there sad and fair,

Quivering like a heat-cloud in the air.

“Lady, a traveler asks the way to where

He may find rest and lodgement.” One brief while,

She stayed herself in stupor;‘ tis but meet,

A soul come slowly from behind the veil.

“Come — come,” she said, upon her face a smile

Of sorrow blent with some strange joyance pale.

They passed along the quaintly cobbled street,

And then turned through a lane where high up-reared,

The gloomy oaks and hawthorne hedges greet

The eye on either hand. A cottage stood

With banks of sleepy flowers at its feet;

And all around, the giant, hoary wood

Frowned down its shadows on the garden's bloom,

Frowned down, a fateful harbinger of gloom.

Within the cottage, all was warmth and cheer.

There stayed the mother waiting the return

Of her sweet child. They entered. She did greet

Both with an all-inclusive smile, and clear,

Unchanging peace and kindliness that burn

Before a pure soul's shrine. “Whom have we here,

Marie?— Some houseless stranger gone astray?”

He doffed his feathered cap and bowed full low.

“After long twilight wanderings in despair

Of any hermitage for night, not far

From here, I prayed your daughter's guidance ere

The dark should leave me but a chance faint star

By which to fare.”

Beside the oaken board,

They sat and ate the rustic dishes there,

While young Sir Guy poured forth a glittering hoard

Of warriored stories gathered far away:

How one brave knight pierced twenty paynim through;

And how another fled from the affray

To be enslaved by Sarazain corsair.

The maiden hungered for each word. How frail

Be warriors’ lives! Upon the thought, she knew

A bitter memory of forecast's gloom.

Oh, she must fly. Oh, something must avail

To give her refuge from this festering sting.

She tried to turn her mind from sorrow's trail,

And gave her thoughts to the narrator's tale.

Now he was speaking of a lord who strove

To win his lady; but the Christian war

Called him to battle for his Faith. He clove

Damascus steel and clinking casques; but e'er

He could return — Sir Guy then ceased; for here

Arose a warning on the mother's brow.

She wished no bitter recollections. Fear

For Marie's plausance was her only care.

Soon all the cottage slept‘ mid the garden's bloom;

And fatefully the forest frowned its gloom.

The summer blossomed, faded, and then died;

And still as if enchanted, stayed he there.

They took long walks o'er lonely hill and dale,

And went across the fields with flowers pied.

At times their voices rang upon the air;

But ever when they came upon that vale

Where, in its flowery charm, the cottage stood,

Their talk would fail within the vasty wood.

Thus bathed their souls in summer's sultry tide

Like flashing moths upon the wind that ride.

And hectic autumn came and brought its charm

Of leafy brilliance heralding its death.

Beside the evening blaze, full many a tale

He told of knights in chivalrous career;

But never raised the fluttering alarm

Of the maiden's mother by the faintest breath

Of the warrior lord and his loved one dear.

Then hoary, chilling winter shrouded pale,

Came, and passed by: thus wandered on, the year.

The spring was coldly wrapped in sullen haze;

Even the mounting sun seemed scarce as warm

As during winter. Slowly passed the days

Until the Eve of blest Saint Marcus came.

Among the misty-shadowed forest ways,

Sir Guy did bring the maiden arm in arm.

How oft the times that they had done the same —

“I've lived a life, careless and debonair,

And know nor fettering bonds nor fear;

Yet would I leave it all without a care —”

She upward glanced and then glanced down as pale

As any flowing haze-wreath in the gloom.

“Oh, what is that?” she cried. The misty veil

Parted and showed a glimpse of rock-built wall.

“‘ Tis but the village kirk,” he said. A pall

Of haze enwrapped them like the Will of Doom.

She stood and faced him, quivering as a sail

That blows uncertain in a varying wind.

“Marie, Marie,” he faltered. Then a flare

Of passion burnt his soul out in his eyes.

Downward she glances seeming unaware;

But in her heart beneath the outward guise,

Warring emotions make her spirit quail.

Gascon's loved image into vision flies;

And yet her rising love, she cannot quell

For brave Sir Guy; and then, as when the flail

Lashes the chaff, dim mist before her flies

Into the church in Gascon's image pale.

The year is out. What then, should he avail?

“Marie —” Sir Guy is breathing on the air;

She reads the rest within his flaming eyes.

“Yes — yes,” she murmurs.

“O despair, despair!

I have no hope; you fell into the snare!”

His eyes dilated with mad light, he cries.

“I, I am Gascon whose memory you dare

To flout for any knight who stays a year

Within your sight! I am undone. My doom

Is set. These fateful forests be my bier!

Your lover is a wreath of shadowy air —

Go, search him in the western tempest's lair!

For me, I hasten from this mortal gloom,

Sound mine own knell, and say mine own last doom!”

She shrinks away, with inward tumult pale.

His voice is still. She hears a something fall.

With anguish in her eyes, she turns. There, all

Stretched out upon the ground, he lies. A well

Of ruby richness pulses with his frail,

Departing breath. In Merlin-magic spell

Of agony, she stares into the gloom.

Pale figures, children of the mist-waves’ womb

In through the church's doorway seem to sail;

Spectral, they vanish in their destined tomb.

She moves; she starts; she cries, as one to whom

Has come the horrid messenger of doom:

“Is that my figure floating in the gloom?

Shall my life fail; is this its funeral knell?”

Pale night upon his swift, aerial loom,

Wove the soft, vaporous substance of her doom.