36
MATINS AT ST. MARK'S.
The blast of the dread sirocco—
And away the good ship flew!
And away the good ship flew!
Into the blinding darkness,
Into the howling storm,
While the salt spray wreathed before her
A beckoning, demon form.
"Mary, have mercy!" the sailors
Shrieked as the masts went down;
"Bitter is death," sighed the nobles,
"So near to our glory's crown!'
Into the howling storm,
While the salt spray wreathed before her
A beckoning, demon form.
"Mary, have mercy!" the sailors
Shrieked as the masts went down;
"Bitter is death," sighed the nobles,
"So near to our glory's crown!'
Leaning over the bulwarks,
Richard, risen from rest,
With his white brow bared to the tempest,
And his blue eyes turned to the West,
Cried, in a voice of anguish
That rung o'er the foaming sea,
"Would God it were time for matins,
And the gray monks prayed for me!"
Richard, risen from rest,
With his white brow bared to the tempest,
And his blue eyes turned to the West,
Cried, in a voice of anguish
That rung o'er the foaming sea,
"Would God it were time for matins,
And the gray monks prayed for me!"
Meanwhile, on the fields of England
The dew distilled its balm,
And the lone Cistercian Abbey
Slept in the midnight calm—
Till the moon had passed the zenith,
And the watch of morning fell,
When, over meadow and moorland,
Rung clear the matin-bell.
The dew distilled its balm,
And the lone Cistercian Abbey
Slept in the midnight calm—
Till the moon had passed the zenith,
And the watch of morning fell,
When, over meadow and moorland,
Rung clear the matin-bell.
