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[On the Rialto, too, your steps have been]
On the Rialto, too, your steps have been
And press'd the stones that Shylock's garment swept,
What time, blood-thirsting, he the appointment kept
With him who spat upon his gabardine.
The white doge-haunted palace you have seen
Where Byron loved and wrote; your hearts have leapt,
Thinking, beneath those leads, what souls have wept
Whom from the awful Ten no love could screen.
And you have stilly cut her hush'd lagune,
Your gondolier low-chanting to the oar,
While the soft splendour of the quiet moon
Silver'd her palaces, peopled no more
With rule and grandeur. Friends, may God full soon
Unto her hands, freedom and strength restore.
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