The bells had ceas'd, the prayers begun, And Bertha had not yet half done A curious volume, patch'd and torn, That all day long, from earliest morn, Had taken captive her two eyes, Among its golden broideries; Perplex'd her with a thousand things,-- The stars of Heaven, and angels' wings, Martyrs in a fiery blaze, Azure saints and silver rays, Moses' breastplate, and the seven Candlesticks John saw in Heaven, The winged Lion of St. Mark, And the Covenantal Ark, With its many mysteries, Cherubim and golden mice. Bertha was a maiden fair, Dwelling in the 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-leav'd 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 try'd, 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 imageries. All was gloom, and silent all, Save now and then the still footfall 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 ancient belfry-nest, Where asleep they fall betimes, To music and the drowsy chimes.