University of Virginia Library

THE TIDES OF VENICE.

With a soft slow gentle motion
Swings the slow tide from the sea,
Swings the slow tide hushfully
From the distant restless ocean,
Through the sinuous canals,
Past the ancient wave-worn walls
That have seen the galleys sweep
With great captains of the deep,
Fresh from where the Moslem calls
The Muezzin from the steep
Temple-domes that face the sea.
With a slow and gentle motion,
Like low breathing, ceaselessly
The tide steals from the ocean,
As a cloud that thro' the sky
Ever draweth, draweth nigh,
Though its white wings seem to beat
No wind that blows at all,
But lie folded calm and sweet
By its soft immaculate side—
So moves the sleeping tide
Past bridge and palace wall.
And hung in purple heaven
God's footstool, fill'd with light
And wheel'd by spirits seven,
Seems the clear soul of night,
So pure, so soft, so bright—
The very soul it seems
Of Venice of the deep
Lying hush'd and still in sleep
'Neath the glory of her beams,
Dreaming, dreaming ancient dreams.
And like silver fires aglow
The panting planets shine
And search the waters far below,
The waters that with stilly flow
Come and go
Beyond the salt sea line.
A faint wind is playing
With the small sea-waves
Above the myriad graves
O'er which move swaying, swaying
The long green tangled reeds
And grasses of the sea,
And softly stir the slimy weeds
That cling to where the salt sea laves
The stairs of palaces that be
No longer great or free.
At times, the shadows leaving,
Black shapes leap forth and glide
Like great fish on the tide—
And singing side by side
The gondolieri, cleaving
With lithe and rhythmic oar
The waters slowly heaving,
Chant their old sea-born lore,
The old monotonous song
The tides have swept for long
Round the Adriatic shore.
The very soul of mystery
Seems brooding here alone:
Each bridge and pier and stone
Holds secrets of the sea;
The slow tide hushfully
Moves with a scarce heard moan
And soft caressing motion,
For their past to it is known,
To it and the silent ocean.
Hark! from you window singing,
Slowly, gently, singing,
A woman with a perfect face
Dreams out into the night,
Her low voice, bird-like winging
Faint o'er the watery ways;
Fashion'd with flawless grace,
Haloed with tender light,
She seems some angel pure and bright.
The sweet voice swelleth slowly
With music rich and deep;
Sweeter than when in sleep
The soul with earth-closed eyes
In a vision holy
Hears the strains of Paradise:
And gaining volume still doth rise
Till all the wild notes sweep
In full majestic song
The dim canals along,
And like a fading memory then dies.
I know that voice! 'Tis hers who came
To Venice with a singer's fame,
A voice God gave her as a sign
He gives sometimes what is divine,
A face for Dolorous Mary's shrine,
All loveliness the tongue can name,
A mind impervious to shame
And spirit of a concubine.
The gondolieri, as they pass
Her palace, mark it with a laugh:
The gamesters turn and quaff
Their wine to her whose heart of dust
Claims kinship with their own coarse lust.
So fair, so seeming holy,
As wrapt in some pure dream
Where heaven more near doth seem,
While the salt tides ebb, ebb slowly
With murmurs melancholy,
O harlot! is thy breath
But some sweet mask of death?
If this thy last great song should be
What shall come unto thee
Poor wreckage of life's sea!
O Venice, art thou such an one,
Thou who hast been
Crown'd as a queen
Amidst the nations! Hast thou won
The saffron robes that mark thee lost,
Thou whom the blue waves tossed
Around, when all thy flags unfurl'd
Waved defiance to the world;
Whom the fierce Turk strove in vain
To vanquish; who hast hurl'd
Thine omnipotence against the might of Spain,
Thou nursling of the wind
And playmate of the sea—
O! is the loveliness we find
Still clinging unto thee
A bitter mockery?
Art thou too dead and lonely,
Like her who ruled of old,—
Tyre, crown'd with ancient gold?
Or, art thou sleeping only
To wake some distant day,
To shake thy sea-blown hair again,
To snap thy rusted chain,
To see the world behold
The glory of thy sway?
O city of the sea
Laved by the salt sea-tides
That daily ebb and flow
With long wash ceaselessly
Around thy wave-worn sides,
Thou art as she who sang
With angel voice and heart of dust!
Thou too art cast aside of men,
Thy war-cries long since rang
Their last fierce clang,
Thou also art the sport of lust.
As mighty Tyre was, when
Her glory was a thing
To jeer at, and the owlet's wing
Haunted her palace walls,
So shalt thou, Venice, be
When all thy great canals,
What all thy lords possess
And thine own loveliness
Are levelled with the sea.
Slow, with a steadfast motion,
The salt tides ebb away,
Sweep hushfully away
Towards the silent ocean:
Ere long the sea-line grey
Far east will shake with gold,
And Venice, weary and old,
Will see another day
Make all her beauty fair
In the blue enfolding air.
Meanwhile past bridge and palace,
Past each carv'd wave-worn stone,
With low incessant moan
The tide flows forth alone
Its burdens to efface,
To whisper the disgrace
And all the shame and woe
To the sea where it doth flow.
O tides of life that wander
Led by some unseen hand
About our mortal strand,
As the salt sea-tides yonder
Ye, in your ebb and flow,
Gather our joy and woe;
And in your swift retreating
Surge joy and exaltation,
The wails of desolation,
Great hopes in strong hearts beating
Tears, laughter, prayers, and pain:
But ever back again
These come with ceaseless iteration.
O that your floods could bear
To some unmeasured sea
The long dull agony,
Grief, sorrow, anguish, care,
That fill men evermore,
Far from our human shore;
And bearing so could bring
When in your earthward flow
Instead of further woe
To each some fair sweet thing—
Some hope fulfill'd, some new desire,
Some rest for weary feet,
A spark of the immortal fire
Wherewith mankind can still aspire
To something nobler, grander, higher,
Some joy sad eyes to meet,
Some message sweet.
Hush! with what gentle swaying
The twilight waters go
As seaward still they flow;
A new-born wind is playing
And singing weird strange runes
Out on the grey lagunes;
And tolling to and fro,
With a music sad and slow,
A convent bell is ringing
O'er the cowled monks bent and singing—
Through the sinuous canals,
Past the ancient wave-worn walls
With a soft slow gentle motion
Swings the ebb-tide to the sea,
Swings the slow tide hushfully
To the distant restless ocean.