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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420730" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Legend of St. Mark</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The day is closing dark and cold,<br>With roaring blast and sleety showers;<br>And through the dusk the lilacs wear<br>The bloom of snow, instead of flowers.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I turn me from the gloom without,<br>To ponder o'er a tale of old;<br>A legend of the age of Faith,<br>By dreaming monk or abbess told.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">On Tintoretto's canvas lives<br>That fancy of a loving heart,<br>In graceful lines and shapes of power,<br>And hues immortal as his art.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In Provence (so the story runs)<br>There lived a lord, to whom, as slave,<br>A peasant-boy of tender years<br>The chance of trade or conquest gave.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Forth-looking from the castle tower,<br>Beyond the hills with almonds dark,<br>The straining eye could scarce discern<br>The chapel of the good St. Mark.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And there, when bitter word or fare<br>The service of the youth repaid,<br>By stealth, before that holy shrine,<br>For grace to bear his wrong, he prayed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The steed stamped at the castle gate,<br>The boar-hunt sounded on the hill;<br>Why stayed the Baron from the chase,<br>With looks so stern, and words so ill?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Go, bind yon slave! and let him learn,<br>By scath of fire and strain of cord,<br>How ill they speed who give dead saints<br>The homage due their living lord!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They bound him on the fearful rack,<br>When, through the dungeon's vaulted dark,<br>He saw the light of shining robes,<br>And knew the face of good St. Mark.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then sank the iron rack apart,<br>The cords released their cruel clasp,<br>The pincers, with their teeth of fire,<br>Fell broken from the torturer's grasp.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And lo! before the Youth and Saint,<br>Barred door and wall of stone gave way;<br>And up from bondage and the night<br>They passed to freedom and the day!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O dreaming monk! thy tale is true;<br>O painter! true thy pencil's art;<br>in tones of hope and prophecy,<br>Ye whisper to my listening heart!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Unheard no burdened heart's appeal<br>Moans up to God's inclining ear;<br>Unheeded by his tender eye,<br>Falls to the earth no sufferer's tear.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For still the Lord alone is God<br>The pomp and power of tyrant man<br>Are scattered at his lightest breath,<br>Like chaff before the winnower's fan.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not always shall the slave uplift<br>His heavy hands to Heaven in vain.<br>God's angel, like the good St. Mark,<br>Comes shining down to break his chain!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O weary ones! ye may not see<br>Your helpers in their downward flight;<br>Nor hear the sound of silver wings<br>Slow beating through the hush of night!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But not the less gray Dothan shone,<br>With sunbright watchers bending low,<br>That Fear's dim eye beheld alone<br>The spear-heads of the Syrian foe.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There are, who, like the Seer of old,<br>Can see the helpers God has sent,<br>And how life's rugged mountain-side<br>Is white with many an angel tent!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They hear the heralds whom our Lord<br>Sends down his pathway to prepare;<br>And light, from others hidden, shines<br>On their high place of faith and prayer.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Let such, for earth's despairing ones,<br>Hopeless, yet longing to be free,<br>Breathe once again the Prophet's prayer<br>'Lord, ope their eyes, that they may see!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Greenleaf+Whittier">John Greenleaf Whittier</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420730" data-title="The Legend of St. Mark de John Greenleaf Whittier" data-description="The day is closing dark and cold,
With roaring blast and sleety showers;
And through the dusk the lilacs wear
The bloom of snow, instead of flowers.

I turn me from the gloom without,
To ponder o'er a tale of old;
A legend of the age of Faith,
By ..."></div>
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