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!