Poems (Proctor)/The Virgin of St. Mark's

by Edna Dean Proctor

THE VIRGIN OF ST. MARK'S.⁶ (The Sacristan's Story.)

Hid in a secret recess
 Of our most holy shrine,
St. Mark's, the pride of Venice,
 Is a picture all divine,—
The Virgin and infant Jesus
 St. Luke, enraptured, wrought,
And Dandolo, the mighty Doge,
 Home from Byzantium brought;
Not the Madonna of the wall—
 That sad, enshrouded star—
But the gem the Cæesars bore afield
 In their imperial car!
Her eyes have the tint of olives;
 Her brow is fair as wheat;
And her snowy veil and violet robe
 Fall chastely to her feet,
As on the beaming, beauteous Babe
 She smiles celestial-sweet.

The Turks—a shameless, godless horde
 Doomed to eternal fire—
Say from Sophia's altar-screen
 They dragged it in the mire!
Say that beneath their horses' hoofs
 In scorn 't was trodden down
When fierce Mohammed sacked the church
 And seized Byzantium's crown!
They did not know that Dandolo,
 Two hundred years before,
Safe to St. Mark's of Venice
 The priceless Image bore;
And all the while Our Lady kept
 Beneath these domes her rest,—
The peace of God within her heart,
 The Babe upon her breast,
And only songs of praise to stir
 The violet of her vest.

But the spring that guards the treasure
 Nor priest nor Pope can find;
And here, while the ages pass, it lies
 In the gorgeous pile enshrined,—
The Virgin with eyes as olives dark,
 And brow as fair as wheat,
And veil and robe like angels' wings
 Folded down to her feet;
Pure as the whitest lily
 Blown in the heavenly garden,
Where the saints in perfect bliss do walk,
 And the Lord himself is warden!
Yet the chants and the blessed incense
 Steal to her secret door;
She hears the prayers at the altar
 Her gracious help implore;
And knows the lion of St. Mark
 Keeps watch forevermore!