 | Venice |  |
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I. PART I.
Approach to Venice by night—allusion to her ancient greatness—her present degradation and beauty—effect on the mind of the vicinity of the mountains and sea.
I
Vanished the vine-clad level of the Lombard,The close ways opened on the glimmering Sea;
Along the horizon trembled lights unnumbered,
In conscious cowering glee!
In bright confusion they were blent
With stars that sky and sea besprent,
And throbbed above and streamed below
With restless rays and gladsome glow,
While distant bells that merry motion timed,
And hoarsely sweet in hollow peals, as gaily chimed!
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II
And here and there a large calm light appeared,And dodging slowly o'er the waters dark,
Betrayed, as waywardly it tacked and veered,
The fisher's lonely bark;—
But who that marked the sounds, the sights,
The pealing bells, the busy lights,
Had not believed that Venice shone,
Exulting as in ages gone!
In those high times of triumph, in the dew
Of Fame, when full of youth, the sea-born Osprey flew!
III
As when in hoary pomp her Doges soughtShrines roofed with gold to pour a victor's psalm—
As when Pisani, from a prison brought,
In chains sublimely calm
Came forth beneath the blue of heaven,
Revenge disdained and wrongs forgiven!
Or as when Zeno's fleet was seen
Shadowy on Ocean's edge to lean,
And Venice to annihilation nigh
Deprest, once more rebounded into victory!
Doria the Genoese admiral having taken Chiozza, and sworn to “curb the wild horses of St. Mark,” Vittor Pisani, who had been thrown into prison for suffering unavoidable defeat, was taken thence and raised to the command of the fleet, 1378. The Venetians then besieged the Genoese in Chiozza, but not being strong enough to keep their position or fight at sea, the senate resolved to migrate to Candia, and the Doge to raise the siege if succours did not arrive before the 1st of January, 1380. On that very day the fleet of Carlo Zeno appeared from the Levant.
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IV
—Unpitying Day lays Desolation bare!At morn a dying City we deplore,
Wasting in melancholy wanness there!
Sweet Venice! now no more
White flocks of winged vessels come
To nestle in their island-home!
Thy blackening palaces are made
The haunt of each ignoble trade,—
Each staring stranger, whom thy spectral Fame
Lights to thy fall, and ushers to the show of shame!
V
The stucco peels from every time-stained wall;O'er bridge and quay the grass unheeded grows;
Each palace piecemeal drops;—mart—mansion—hall—
In cold neglect repose.
The sluggish water sleeps below
Arched windows ne'er illumined now,
Or hangs with green and slimy tresses,
The stairs no festive footstep presses!
Where erst nice Luxury smiled, self-pleased, serene,
Unseemly Ruin droops with blank dejected mien!
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VI
A dumb Despair has struck thee to the core!List! as the sable water-hearse glides by,
The quiet plash of the deliberate oar
Falls like a stifled sigh!—
The life that feebly stirs around,
'Tis Death at work—that stilly sound!—
Thus stunned by woe too much to weep,
And mourning midway on the Deep,
Thou look'st, sad Venice, in thy voiceless care,
Like Ariadne dreaming 'mid the waters bare!
VII
She through the wave with frantic fondness rushingFirst sought to follow her Athenian chief,
Then all the dreary Truth her bosom crushing,
Stood stupified with grief!
The heedless waves around her danced
As statuelike she stood entranced,
With pale fixed brow—with floating hair,
In marble muteness of despair!
So dost thou languish for thy Lord, thy pride,
Lost Ocean, wedded to a mightier Island Bride!
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VIII
Yet still thy Lion spreads his wings in air,Still towers the Campanilè to the sky—
Those fairy pillars still like magic bear
Thy ducal halls on high!
Still shines St. Mark's—each eye admires
Its clustered domes, its crowded spires!
Yes! though dethroned, thou look'st a Queen,
Majestic is thy mournful mien!
Thy proud air lasts through prostrate years of ill,
Thy crown is reft away—thy brow is regal still!
IX
A queenly beauty in a slow decline,Too visibly thou witherest day by day;
No hectic mimicry of health is thine
To decorate decay!
For thee,—whose very voice so long
Was Music, all thy converse song,
No sounds of wail need Woe invent,
Thy silence is thy best lament!
And hushed are all thy chaunts—and all the daughters
Of Music are laid low by thy deserted waters!
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X
—From houses sad with sinking roof and rafter,From dank canals—how startling to behold The myriad dimples of that brilliant laughter
On Ocean's cheek of gold!
The waves around are playing, plashing,
With low and tinkling murmur dashing;
Fresh flows the wind and fanningly,
With saltweed scented, from the Sea!
England is in that odour!—Can it be
Such generous breezes blow on lands that are not free!
XI
Venice! that breeze with thrilling memories rife,Full of the might of the majestic main,
Methinks might rouse the very dead to life!
Ah, no! it blows in vain!—
There rise the Mountains—sternly proud—
Do they not hide their heads in cloud?
Methinks the Mountains tempest-worn
Should shrink away in shame and scorn
At sight of thee! Alas! in vain they soar—
For Freedom, Glory, Power, return to thee no more!
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