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“Longe, sonantem natus ad Aufidum.”
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GONDOLIER'S SONG,
IN AN UNFINISHED MASK.
From Venice, while the moonlight falls
Brightest o'er her porphyry halls,
Gilding with unearthly ray,
Dome and column, worn and grey,
Till, as in a fairy dream,
Prouder, statelier, they seem
Brightest o'er her porphyry halls,
Gilding with unearthly ray,
Dome and column, worn and grey,
Till, as in a fairy dream,
Prouder, statelier, they seem
In the hour of their decay,
Than when from the Adrian shore,
First the breeze their banner bore,
Bless'd by mothers, many a one,
'Gainst the fiery Ottoman:
We are coming, never fear
Knew the joyous Gondolier.
Ne'er, where dance and song united,
Ne'er, where beauty's lamp was lighted,
Was he absent, hail our bark!
Ne'er the Lion of St. Mark
Flew on the Illyrian blast,
To his triumphs half so fast
As we've come o'er land and sea
To join in your festivity.
Than when from the Adrian shore,
First the breeze their banner bore,
Bless'd by mothers, many a one,
'Gainst the fiery Ottoman:
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Knew the joyous Gondolier.
Ne'er, where dance and song united,
Ne'er, where beauty's lamp was lighted,
Was he absent, hail our bark!
Ne'er the Lion of St. Mark
Flew on the Illyrian blast,
To his triumphs half so fast
As we've come o'er land and sea
To join in your festivity.
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ENTER MONKS.
FROM THE SAME.
Last night our Abbot blessed his saint
As he knelt before his tomb,
And tapers from the altar quaint,
Looked out o'er the cloister's gloom;
As he knelt before his tomb,
And tapers from the altar quaint,
Looked out o'er the cloister's gloom;
And every frere, with forehead bare,
And bent, his beads must tell,
And all the while, through the dusky aisle,
Echoed the sullen bell;
And bent, his beads must tell,
And all the while, through the dusky aisle,
Echoed the sullen bell;
And good St. Nicholas heard his prayer,
And gave a dispensation,
In case his winter's meagre fare
Required emendation.
And gave a dispensation,
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Required emendation.
A miracle! a miracle!
The holy father cried,
When he stood again within his cell,
And the almoner at his side.
The holy father cried,
When he stood again within his cell,
And the almoner at his side.
For golden flasks of Cyprus wine
In the water jugs were stored,
And venison sent a steam divine
From off the fasting board.
In the water jugs were stored,
And venison sent a steam divine
From off the fasting board.
And since that time, both eve and prime,
Right hard doth our Abbot pray,
'Fore a goodly haunch, to keep him staunch,
While his monks are far away.
Right hard doth our Abbot pray,
'Fore a goodly haunch, to keep him staunch,
While his monks are far away.
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And though, perchance, the mazy dance
Suits not with shaven frere,
If right I read yon gentle glance,
He'll not be useless there.
Suits not with shaven frere,
If right I read yon gentle glance,
He'll not be useless there.
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[Where thy fane, time-riven]
“Why, then, you may leave a casement of the great chamber
window open, and the moon may shine in at the casement.”
Midsummer Night's Dream.
Where thy fane, time-riven,
Crowns the marble hill,
And sailing up the heaven,
Thy crescent decks it still;
Though the Asian timbrel,
And the bounding foot,
And song, and Lesbian cymbal,
That hailed thee once, be mute;
A stranger of old days dreaming,
Alone at midnight hour,
When mystic stars are gleaming,
Diana, hails thy power.
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Of all the gods denied
To thee the gift another
Had, and in virgin pride
Bade thee spurn the myrtle,
Chaste, and cold, and true,
(Oh, in his nest the turtle
Wreaths cypress branches too) .
Yet the shining river,
And the waving tree,
Fresh and fair for ever,
Oh, gave she not to thee?
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Let thy horn rebound,
As in dreaming childhood
I've heard its silver sound,
Stealing far and faintly,
O'er wakened wold and wave,
While echo answered quaintly,
From out her star-lit cave.
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THE TRICOLOR.
The devil he marshalled his legions gay,
That he hoped would rule the world,
He dressed them all in bright array,
And then his flag unfurled.
That he hoped would rule the world,
He dressed them all in bright array,
And then his flag unfurled.
First came the blue,—'tis they who rack
Sir Robert's trimming brain,
And conjure all those visions back
He ne'er shall grasp again.
Sir Robert's trimming brain,
And conjure all those visions back
He ne'er shall grasp again.
The white, they in their livery dress,
Each ministry when new,
Till curious folks begin to guess
Some spots will soon show through.
Each ministry when new,
Till curious folks begin to guess
Some spots will soon show through.
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The red,—a gallant sight to see,
With trumpet, fife, and drum,
Bearing the standard martially,
In serried squadrons come.
With trumpet, fife, and drum,
Bearing the standard martially,
In serried squadrons come.
That flag has waved in every gale,
And threatened every shore;
But an English cheek shall ne'er turn pale
At the Frenchman's tricolor.
And threatened every shore;
But an English cheek shall ne'er turn pale
At the Frenchman's tricolor.
Paris, Dec. 20.
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PESCARA.
Haste! mother, haste! smoke blackens the blue sky,
Pescara comes, oh, whither shall we fly?
I see his band beyond those olive trees,
I hear his trumpets braying in the breeze;
There are none here beside but you and I—
Haste! mother, haste! oh, whither shall we fly!
Pescara comes, oh, whither shall we fly?
I see his band beyond those olive trees,
I hear his trumpets braying in the breeze;
There are none here beside but you and I—
Haste! mother, haste! oh, whither shall we fly!
Fear not, my daughter, 'tis our land to save
From foreign tyrants, that his banners wave;
To chase the French, that o'er our counties ride,
And sweep their lilies from our river's side:
They'll harm you not, and once you lov'd a lance,
And the gay greeting of a soldier's glance.
From foreign tyrants, that his banners wave;
To chase the French, that o'er our counties ride,
And sweep their lilies from our river's side:
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And the gay greeting of a soldier's glance.
Yes, but that lance ne'er rode in Spanish ranks,
'Tis all alike, while o'er our valley pranks
Frenchman or Spaniard, and our native lords
Whet for a stranger's vassalage their swords.
I'll to the mountain, his guerilla's there,
Let these avengers follow, if they dare.
'Tis all alike, while o'er our valley pranks
Frenchman or Spaniard, and our native lords
Whet for a stranger's vassalage their swords.
I'll to the mountain, his guerilla's there,
Let these avengers follow, if they dare.
THE END.
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