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106
LORD BYRON AT VENICE.
A saffron tint o'erspread the broad lagoon
Caught from the golden west, and as its flush
Deepened to crimson, and the crystal air
Beamed like a rainbow, sweetly was revealed
The secret of their art, whose magic hues
Still make the palace walls of Venice glow
With colors born in heaven.
Caught from the golden west, and as its flush
Deepened to crimson, and the crystal air
Beamed like a rainbow, sweetly was revealed
The secret of their art, whose magic hues
Still make the palace walls of Venice glow
With colors born in heaven.
Men of all climes
Cluster within her square—the passive Turk,
With jewelled turban, the mercurial Greek,
And sombre Jew, and, gliding with a step
Whose echo stirs the heart, fair shapes flit by,
Shrouded in black; yet evening wakes not there
The sounds that fill the cities of the land;
No rumbling wheel or tramp of passing steed
Drowns the low hum of voices as they rise;
But from her window, on a lone canal,
The fair Venetian hears the plash of oars,
The tide that ripples by the mossy wall,
Some distant melody or convent bell,
And cry of gondoliers, when their bright prows
Clash at an angle of the lonely street.
Cluster within her square—the passive Turk,
With jewelled turban, the mercurial Greek,
And sombre Jew, and, gliding with a step
Whose echo stirs the heart, fair shapes flit by,
Shrouded in black; yet evening wakes not there
The sounds that fill the cities of the land;
No rumbling wheel or tramp of passing steed
Drowns the low hum of voices as they rise;
But from her window, on a lone canal,
The fair Venetian hears the plash of oars,
The tide that ripples by the mossy wall,
107
And cry of gondoliers, when their bright prows
Clash at an angle of the lonely street.
From the deep shadow of the Ducal pile
Shot a dark barge, that floated gently on
Into the bosom of the quiet bay;
And springing lightly thence, a noble form
Revelled alone amid the sleeping waves;
Now, like an athlete, cleaving swift his way,
And now, the image of a sculptor's dream,
Pillowed upon the sea, gazing entranced
From that wild couch up to the rosy clouds;
And cradled thus, like her whom he adored,
Beauty's immortal goddess, at her birth,
His throbbing brow grew still, and his whole frame
Nerved with refreshing coolness, and the thirst
Of passion's fever vanished from his heart;
He turned from Venice, with a bitter smile,
To the vast firmament and waters pure,
And, eager for their clear tranquillity,
Sighed for a home in some far nook of earth,
Where to one true and genial soul allied,
His restless spirit might be fed with hope,
Till peace should steal upon him, like the calm
Of that delicious eve!
Shot a dark barge, that floated gently on
Into the bosom of the quiet bay;
And springing lightly thence, a noble form
Revelled alone amid the sleeping waves;
Now, like an athlete, cleaving swift his way,
And now, the image of a sculptor's dream,
Pillowed upon the sea, gazing entranced
From that wild couch up to the rosy clouds;
And cradled thus, like her whom he adored,
Beauty's immortal goddess, at her birth,
His throbbing brow grew still, and his whole frame
Nerved with refreshing coolness, and the thirst
Of passion's fever vanished from his heart;
He turned from Venice, with a bitter smile,
To the vast firmament and waters pure,
And, eager for their clear tranquillity,
Sighed for a home in some far nook of earth,
Where to one true and genial soul allied,
His restless spirit might be fed with hope,
Till peace should steal upon him, like the calm
Of that delicious eve!
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