III. In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, (3) And silent rows the songless gondolier; Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, And music meets not always now the ear: Those days are gone but Beauty still is here. States fall, arts fade-but Nature doth not die, Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy! IV. But unto us she hath a spell beyond Her name in story, and her long array Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond Above the dogeless city's vanish'd sway; Ours is a trophy which will not decay With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor, And Pierre, can not be swept or worn awayThe keystones of the arch! though all were o'er, For us repeopled were the solitary shore. V. The beings of the mind are not of clay; And more beloved existence: that which Fate Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied First exiles, then replaces what we hate; Watering the heart whose early flowers have died, And with a fresher growth replenishing the void. VI. Such is the refuge of our youth and age, And, may be, that which grows beneath mine eye : And the strange constellations which the Muse VII. I saw or dream'd of such,—but let them goThey came like truth, and disappear'd like dreams; And whatsoe'er they were-are now but so: I could replace them if I would; still teems My mind with many a form which aptly seems Such as I sought for, and at moments found; Let these too go for waking Reason deems Such over-weening phantasies unsound, And other voices speak, and other sights surround. VIII. I've taught me other tongues-and in strange eyes And seek me out a home by a remoter sea, IX. Perhaps I loved it well; and should I lay X. My name from out the temple where the dead Are honour'd by the nations-let it be And light the laurels on a loftier head! And be the Spartan's epitaph on me— "Sparta hath many a worthier son than he." (4) Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need; The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree I planted, they have torn me, and I bleed : I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed. XI. The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord; And, annual marriage now no more renew'd, The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored, Neglected garment of her widowhood! St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood (5) Stand, but in mockery of his wither'd power, Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued, And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour When Venice was a queen with an unequall'd dower. XII. The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns (6) An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt; Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains Clank over sceptred cities; nations melt From power's high pinnacle, when they have felt The sunshine for a while, and downward go Like lauwine loosen'd from the mountain's belt; Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo! (7) Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe. XIII. Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass, XIV. In youth she was all glory, a new Tyre,— The "Planter of the Lion," (9) which through fire XV. Statues of glass-all shiver'd—the long file But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile XVI. When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, Fall from his hands his idle scimitar Starts from its belt he rends his captive's chains, And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his strains. XVII. Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine, Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery wall. |