 | Fra Cipolla, and other poems |  |
73
DEATH OF THE VENETIAN JEW.
On the sands of the Lido, when wild waves are rolling
'Gainst the lone beach, and the thunder-bell tolling ,
Deep through the midnight from yonder proud city,
That the heavens may have mercy on those who've no pity;
'Gainst the lone beach, and the thunder-bell tolling ,
Deep through the midnight from yonder proud city,
That the heavens may have mercy on those who've no pity;
Oh, bury the outcast, the proud Christian spurneth
To rest with the Jew, when to dust he returneth;
With those of my nation my weary bones cover,
But far, far from Venice, my spirit shall hover.
To rest with the Jew, when to dust he returneth;
With those of my nation my weary bones cover,
But far, far from Venice, my spirit shall hover.
76
From the land where our masters no longer can task us,
I shall watch the grey olive-tree wave o'er Damascus;
From the peaks of high Lebanon, sacred and hoary,
I shall look o'er my country, and think of its glory.
I shall watch the grey olive-tree wave o'er Damascus;
From the peaks of high Lebanon, sacred and hoary,
I shall look o'er my country, and think of its glory.
Ye hate us, proud nobles, perchance we repay ye,
When we walk in your palaces masters, how say ye?
Then in vain ye may spell o'er each Visigoth letter
In your old titles, the usurer's better.
When we walk in your palaces masters, how say ye?
Then in vain ye may spell o'er each Visigoth letter
In your old titles, the usurer's better.
And when o'er your islands again grows the willow,
And the mud of their ruins shall stain the white billow,
The race ye have trampled, once more like the cedar,
Shall flourish in glory, with heaven to lead her.
And the mud of their ruins shall stain the white billow,
The race ye have trampled, once more like the cedar,
Shall flourish in glory, with heaven to lead her.
| Fra Cipolla, and other poems | |