| |
| WHERE high above the silent street | |
| The Campanile springs, | |
| Where round St. Mark’s the angels still | |
| Poise their unfaded wings, | |
| I in my floating hearse dream on | 5 |
| While my old boatman sings. | |
| |
| Quick to that lonely Jesuit church | |
| Where the bronze charger stands; | |
| To that old house,—a palace once, | |
| Now spoiled by Austrian hands,— | 10 |
| Its marbles rent by heat and cold, | |
| Ill clamped with rusty bands. | |
| |
| O, not to-day the painting-school, | |
| Where dusky Titians glow, | |
| And where Bellini’s jewelled saints | 15 |
| All congregate below. | |
| No, not to-day the chapel dim, | |
| Half lit by silver lamps, | |
| Nor that old Doge’s nameless tomb, | |
| Defaced by carking damps. | 20 |
| |
| I go to muse away an hour | |
| O’er glories dead and past, | |
| O’er pride dethroned by cruel Time, | |
| That rude Iconoclast. | |
| O, how this city, Ocean’s Queen, | 25 |
| Is beggared now at last! | |
| |
| I pace the rooms where tapestry | |
| Still boasts its faded kings; | |
| Where, quaint and querulous with age, | |
| The old custode sings, | 30 |
| And feebly tries to reach the web | |
| Where the lean spider clings. | |
| |
| I seek the Council-room, whose walls | |
| Are stamped with globes and stars, | |
| And where above the throne of state, | 35 |
| Still glowers a painted Mars. | |
| Out on that curséd Austrian drum, | |
| Beneath the window-bars! | |
| |
| I love the chapel, though no priest | |
| Bends at the shrine, now bare, | 40 |
| No starry candles glimmer bright | |
| Through the dim, balmy air; | |
| And yet a halo seems to shine | |
| Round the one picture there. | |
| |
| Here once the Mocenigo lived, | 45 |
| Aping a royal pride, | |
| His golden wealth flashed lustre down | |
| Upon the passing tide, | |
| His purple gondolas long since | |
| A Tyrian glory dyed. | 50 |
| |
| The fount still plashes day by day | |
| Upon the old stained floor, | |
| Where stones turn emerald in the beams | |
| That through the vine-leaves pour; | |
| It ever falls, yet can’t efface | 55 |
| One blot of human gore. | |
| |
| There ’s blood upon the agate steps | |
| And on the marble stair, | |
| Where the quick lizard flits across, | |
| Fearing the very air. | 60 |
| A bad man’s conscience knew such fears, | |
| Long centuries since, just there. | |
| |
| It was a day of proud content: | |
| The Adriatic’s tide | |
| Had just received the ring that joined | 65 |
| The bridegroom to the bride; | |
| The golden barge with sails of silk | |
| Moved homeward o’er the tide; | |
| |
| The streets were full of silken cloaks, | |
| With gems the windows shone; | 70 |
| The poorest fishing-girl that day | |
| Her bridal dress had on; | |
| Flags shook from every roof,—the bells | |
| All day had madly gone. | |
| |
| Fresh from his prayers beneath the dome, | 75 |
| The perfumes on his cloak, | |
| Here the Doge sat, and heard the wave | |
| Moan as if one had spoke; | |
| And thought of how the gory rack | |
| Those pale lean limbs had broke. | 80 |
| |
| Thought of the Giant Stairs, where one | |
| Knelt down awhile to pray, | |
| Then stood erect and eyed the crowd | |
| Like a royal stag at bay, | |
| And smiled on doves that o’er him flew | 85 |
| To some isle far away. | |
| |
| He thought of that well-chamber, where | |
| A groaning man did lie, | |
| And of the burning roof, where one | |
| Prepared himself to die; | 90 |
| And e’en the strangler’s burly knave | |
| Had tear-drops in his eye; | |
| |
| Or dreamt of the Great Chamber where | |
| The Forty bend and write, | |
| Smiling so grimly when they hear | 95 |
| The brawny headsman smite.— | |
| His dream was broken by a star, | |
| That flashed across the night. | |
| |
| Slow past the marble stairs he saw | |
| A roll of paper float, | 100 |
| Dropped by that sable gondolier | |
| That turns yon corner,—note | |
| How pale his face turns,—“Doge, beware!” | |
| Upon his vision smote. | |
| |
| That night a deep and stifled cry | 105 |
| Rose to a window grate. | |
| The morning came; they found a plume | |
| Beside the water-gate; | |
| A letter torn, some drops of blood. | |
| The Doge had fled,—too late! | 110 |
| |
| Now back, old sturdy gondolier, | |
| My dream has passed away; | |
| Back with my floating hearse, and quick, | |
| Before that dying ray | |
| Leave the last roof, and darkness pall | 115 |
| The dead corse of the day. | |
| |
| The doves upon the copper dome | |
| Flutter at my wild cry, | |
| Now that I see yon saints look up | |
| Devoutly to the sky; | 120 |
| Where Christ upon a golden throne | |
| Is robed and crowned on high. | |
| |
| Yon pillars brave old Dandolo | |
| Brought from the Asian shore; | |
| Those are the brazen steeds the Greeks | 125 |
| Bridled in days of yore; | |
| Yonder the wingéd lion tries | |
| From his stone chains to soar. | |
| |
| But slaves sleep on the church’s steps; | |
| Slaves snore in every boat; | 130 |
| Slaves’ songs at night along the tide | |
| On these free breezes float; | |
| Slaves stab and gamble in the square, | |
| And tear poor Freedom’s throat. | |
| |
| The dead were great; their puny sons, | 135 |
| Unworthy such a home, | |
| Laugh, sing, and sleep beneath the shade | |
| Cast by their giant dome, | |
| Slaves of the butcher and the priest,— | |
| Of Austria and of Rome. | 140 |
| |
| Hark! now the brutal German drum | |
| Leads on the bayonets. See | |
| Insolent soldiers pacing round | |
| A city once so free. | |
| Rise, hero of yon lonely isle, | 145 |
| And give them liberty. | |
| |
