MATINS AT ST. MARK'S.
37
Then, through the silent cloisters,
And under the arches dim,
Abbot, and monk, and prior,
Chanting a holy hymn,—
While the flame of the stone-hewn cressets
Flared with its rise and fall,
And the Virgin smiled serenely
From her niche in the lofty wall,—
And under the arches dim,
Abbot, and monk, and prior,
Chanting a holy hymn,—
While the flame of the stone-hewn cressets
Flared with its rise and fall,
And the Virgin smiled serenely
From her niche in the lofty wall,—
Entered the aisle to the altar,
And knelt with the fervent prayer
That still, for their Sovereign, Richard,
The winds might be soft and fair.
"Bless him, O Lord," quoth the Abbot,
"And bring him in peace again
With the sign of our faith triumphant!"
And the monks said low, "Amen!"
And knelt with the fervent prayer
That still, for their Sovereign, Richard,
The winds might be soft and fair.
"Bless him, O Lord," quoth the Abbot,
"And bring him in peace again
With the sign of our faith triumphant!"
And the monks said low, "Amen!"
That moment, over the tempest,
A lull stole out of the West,
And the ship rocked, light as a sea-bird
Asleep on the ocean's breast.
"Lord of my life," cried Richard,
"Thine shall the glory be!
I know 't is the hour for matins,
And the gray monks pray for me!"
A lull stole out of the West,
And the ship rocked, light as a sea-bird
Asleep on the ocean's breast.
"Lord of my life," cried Richard,
"Thine shall the glory be!
I know 't is the hour for matins,
And the gray monks pray for me!"
