'Twas the Eve of St. Mark, and she stood by the church,
And gazed with undaunted eye
On the ruin'd form of the ancient porch,
To mark what shades would pass by.

Twice before had she tried the spell,
And twice had she said the prayer ;
And now, the third and decisive time,
That Ladye was watching there.

For whoever will watch on the Eve of St. Mark,
Without a tremble or fear,
Shall see the forms pass thro' the church porch,
Of those who shall die in that year.

The moon was rising above the hill,
And her soft beam pensively smil'd,
And she look'd o'er the world that lay sleeping below,
Like a mother that hangs o'er her child.

The distant dog howl'd long and loud,
And shrilly whistled the blast,
And the Ladye stedfastly look'd around,
To mark each omen that pass'd.

Pale was her cheek in the pale moon-light,
And her lily brow lay bare,
And many a jewel and many a gem
Was sparkling amid'st her hair.

A light cloud rose in the Heaven's blue vault,
And the night-breezes bore it along,
And carried it wrapp'd in their viewless arms,
And sang it their evening song.

And they placed it before the pale moon-beams,
And it rested a moment there,
Like the fair lamp of brightest love,
Blotted by clouds of care.

The cloud pass'd away, and the moon again
Shone on the ivy-wrapt tower ;
And the wind died away to a murmuring moan,
And the dock toll'd the midnight hour.

The chill dew fell on the Ladye's brow,
As she sat on a broken stone,
And she whisper'd again the midnight spell,
And she fear'd not to sit there alone.

The Ladye turn'd and look'd on the church,
And as she gazed on that pile,
A rushing sound like the night-blast swept
Along the ruin'd aisle-











Not mine to tell what tale she heard,
Or to open the scroll of fate ;
But the Ladye was found at the blush of the morn,
A clay-cold corpse at the gate.