The lump of gold: and other poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Through the old city
The gondolas crawl,
Sable and doleful
And coffin-like all.
Bright though the sunshine,
And blue though the skies,
Deep over Venice
A shadow there lies.
Day cannot cover it,
Death watches over it,
With his dim eyes.

The broad Canalazzo
Is quiet as glass,
O'er its calm waters
The gondolas pass;

So dimly, so smoothly,
So sadly they go,
Wer't not for the morning
That glitters below,
You'd fancy Styx river
And Charons that row.

Each lordly palazzo
That borders the stream,
Like something remembered,
Or seen in a dream,
Stands lovely, but ghostlike,
And he who looks on
Imagines the vision
Must change, or be gone.
The ripple behind him,
Or plash of the oar,
Scarce breaks the reflexion
Of palace and shore.

It quivers a moment,
And sleeps as before,
So clear is the mirror,
That shadow and stone
Seem equally silent,
And lifeless, and lone.

And yet 'tis a holiday!
Hark to the bells
The old Campanile
With melody swells.
From pestilent alleys,
Dark, narrow, and warm,
Across the Rialto
The multitudes swarm.
The bridges—four hundred—
Are teeming with life,
The maid and the lover,
The husband and wife,

The master and servant,
The old and the young,
Come forth to the sunshine,
The joy-bells are rung;
St. Marc's fair piazza,
Feels warmth on its breast,
A flash of enjoyment
Comes breaking its rest.
The corpse has been quickened,
It stretches its limbs;
Float banners! sound music!
Swell—aves and hymns!

This hour, if no other,
Shall Venice be gay,
St. Marc is her patron,
And this is his day.
His temple and basilisk
Opens its doors,

And round the high altar
The multitude pours.
Be of it, and enter!
And leave until morn
The halls of the Doges
So dim and forlorn.
Why linger with shadows,
When substance is fled?
The living are with us—
Come out from the dead!

Vainly! oh, vainly!
Their works are around,
Their deeds and memorials
Encumber the ground.
Ten centuries whisper,
And start from the stones,
Greeks, Romans, Venetians,
Dominions and thrones.

Their heroes still scarlet,
With blood which they spilt,
Their doges empurpled
With glory and guilt,
Gleam out from the casement;
They stand by the wall,
They start from the Duomo,
They brood over all.

'Tis holiday! holiday!
Festival dear,
Beloved of the people,
And first of the year.
Old Venice rejoicing
Kneels down at the shrine,
And prays for protection
And favour divine;
Leaves trouble behind it—
Shuts business at home,

To hear the Archbishop
Sing mass in the Dome.

Archbishop and Cardinal—
Lo! he appears
Arrayed in his purple,
A king 'mid his peers—
But laden, deep laden,
O'erladen with years!
He totters, he trembles—
He creeps to his place,
His eighty dark winters
Beshading his face.
They robe him—and crown him;
They kneel at his feet,
And bishops and deacons
Their aves repeat.
Old, withered, and feeble,
They nod as they go,

100

Their eyes lacking lustre,
Their heads like the snow;
And incense is scattered,
And music is poured,
And voices are blended
In praise to the Lord.

Be calm, oh, my spirit!
What though at the shrine
The prayers which they utter
May differ from thine:
A thought may unite them—
A thought unexpress'd,
Inspiring and lifting,
And filling the breast.
The form of the worship
Is rind on the bole,
The fruit of religion
Is Love in the soul.

101

Oh! selfish and wayward!
Oh! fancy run wild,
That will not and may not
Be trained like a child,
But wanders and frolics,
Like breeze on the hill,
To cloudland or daisy,
Wherever it will!
It sails with the music
To seas without bound,
It floats in the sunshine,
In darkness is drowned;
It climbs the high organ
Up mountains of sound;
Now hears the white pinions
That ruffle the air,
And voices angelic
That mingle in prayer;
Then earthwards descending,
Goes gathering flowers,

102

And welcomes the cuckoo
Returned to her bowers;
Then launched upon waters,
Goes down on the streams,
To regions ecstatic
Of slumber and dreams.

Breathe gently, sweet music!
Sound faintly afar!
Fall, melody, softly,
Like light from a star!
Melt, harmonies, lovingly!
Fuse into one,
Like dew-drops on rose-leaves,
Like dawn in the sun;
Like friends re-united
When perils are pass'd;
Like lovers long parted,
Made happy at last;—
Dissever to mingle

103

Like fond lips, when coy,
And blend all your echoes
In Beauty and Joy!
In Beauty? aye—ever!
But Joy—nevermore!
The music is mournful
As waves on the shore,
As streams that are falling,
As moan of the wind,
Or whisper of angels
Who pity mankind.

Oh, music enchantress!
Thy magic instil!
I yield thee my spirit
To guide at thy will.
Thy thoughts shall impress me,
Thy meaning be mine,
Clear-voyant; deep-diving—
I see the Divine—

104

Time, Space, and Obstruction
No longer control,
And vision elysian
Comes down to my soul!

And what were thy visions,
Oh! dreamer of dreams?
The daylight came prying,
And dulled them with beams.
Too shapeless for Reason,
Though born in its light,
They paled into phantoms
In memory's night.
Dim phantoms of banners
For conquest unfurled,
Of brows bright with diamonds,
Of bosoms empearl'd,
Of Venice, the mistress
And Queen of the world;
Of argosies laden

105

With damask and gold,
Of tributes barbaric
From kingdoms grown old;
Of spousals fantastic
And rings in the tide;
Of Venice the bridegroom,
And Ocean the bride,
So mingled together
That nought could divide.

Then changing and fading,
And thawing to death,
'Mid tearful lamenting
And tardy repenting,
That struggled for breath.
'Mid sobbings of women
And voices of wail,
And grief-laden echoes
Borne far on the gale;
'Mid headless Falieros,

106

Each ghost in its shroud,
That paced round the Duomo,
Unseen of the crowd;
'Mid prisoners' clanking
Their chains as they crept,
And maids who dishevelled
Their hair as they wept;—
While louder and clearer,
And rising to fall,
A dirge and a requiem
Were heard over all;—
A dirge for dead Venice,
So fair in decay,
A sigh for the glory
Departed for aye—
Desolate! Desolate!
Faded away!

Venice, April, 1855.