 | The Poetical Works of (Richard Monckton Milnes) Lord Houghton |  |
II.
The Golden Book
Is now unwritten in, and stands unmoved,
Save when the curious traveller takes down
A random volume, from the dusty shelf,
To trace the progress of a bruited name;
The Bucentaur
Is shattered, and of its resplendent form
There is no remnant, but some splintered morsel,
Which in his cabin, as a talisman,
Mournfully hangs the pious Gondolier;
The Adrian sea
Will never have a Doge to marry more,—
The meagre favours of a foreign lord
Can hardly lead some score of humble craft
With vilest merchandize into the port,
That whilom held the wealth of half a world.
Thy Palaces
Are bartered to the careful Israelite,—
Or left to perish, stone by stone, worn down
In desolation,—solemn skeletons,
Whose nakedness some tufts of pitying grass,
Or green boughs trembling o'er the trembling wall,
Adorn but hide not.
Is now unwritten in, and stands unmoved,
Save when the curious traveller takes down
A random volume, from the dusty shelf,
To trace the progress of a bruited name;
The Bucentaur
Is shattered, and of its resplendent form
There is no remnant, but some splintered morsel,
Which in his cabin, as a talisman,
Mournfully hangs the pious Gondolier;
The Adrian sea
Will never have a Doge to marry more,—
The meagre favours of a foreign lord
Can hardly lead some score of humble craft
70
That whilom held the wealth of half a world.
Thy Palaces
Are bartered to the careful Israelite,—
Or left to perish, stone by stone, worn down
In desolation,—solemn skeletons,
Whose nakedness some tufts of pitying grass,
Or green boughs trembling o'er the trembling wall,
Adorn but hide not.
And are these things true,
Miraculous Venice? Is the charm then past
Away from thee? Is all thy work fulfilled,
Of power and beauty? Art thou gatherèd
To the dead cities? Is thy ministry
Made up, and folded in the hand of Thought?
Ask him who knows the meaning and the truth
Of all existence;—ask the Poet's heart:
Thy Book has no dead tome for him,—for him
Within St. Mark's emblazoned porticoes,
Thy old Nobility are walking still;—
The lowliest Gondola upon thy waters
Is worth to him thy decorated Galley;
He never looks upon the Adrian sea
But as thy lawful tho' too faithless Spouse;
And when, in the sad lustre of the moon,
Thy Palaces seem beautifully wan,
He blesses God that there is left on earth
So marvellous, so full an antidote,
For all the racks and toils of mortal life,
As thy sweet countenance to gaze upon.
Miraculous Venice? Is the charm then past
Away from thee? Is all thy work fulfilled,
Of power and beauty? Art thou gatherèd
To the dead cities? Is thy ministry
Made up, and folded in the hand of Thought?
Ask him who knows the meaning and the truth
Of all existence;—ask the Poet's heart:
Thy Book has no dead tome for him,—for him
Within St. Mark's emblazoned porticoes,
Thy old Nobility are walking still;—
The lowliest Gondola upon thy waters
Is worth to him thy decorated Galley;
He never looks upon the Adrian sea
But as thy lawful tho' too faithless Spouse;
And when, in the sad lustre of the moon,
Thy Palaces seem beautifully wan,
He blesses God that there is left on earth
So marvellous, so full an antidote,
71
As thy sweet countenance to gaze upon.
| The Poetical Works of (Richard Monckton Milnes) Lord Houghton | |