| |
I. NIGHT on the Adriatic, night! | |
| And like a mirage of the plain, | |
| With all her marvellous domes of light, | |
| Pale Venice looms along the main. | |
| |
| No sound from the receding shore, | 5 |
| No sound from all the broad lagoon, | |
| Save where the light and springing oar | |
| Brightens our track beneath the moon; | |
| |
| Or save where yon high campanile | |
| Gives to the listening sea its chime; | 10 |
| Or where those dusky giants wheel | |
| And smite the ringing helm of Time. | |
| |
| ’T is past,—and Venice drops to rest; | |
| Alas! hers is a sad repose, | |
| While in her brain and on her breast | 15 |
| Tramples the vision of her foes. | |
| |
| Erewhile from her sad dream of pain | |
| She rose upon her native flood, | |
| And struggled with the Tyrant’s chain, | |
| Till every link was stained with blood. | 20 |
| |
| The Austrian pirate, wounded, spurned, | |
| Fled howling to the sheltering shore, | |
| But, gathering all his crew, returned | |
| And bound the Ocean Queen once more. | |
| |
| ’T is past,—and Venice prostrate lies,— | 25 |
| And, snarling round her couch of woes, | |
| The watch-dogs, with the jealous eyes, | |
| Scowl where the stranger comes or goes. | |
| |
II. Lo! here awhile suspend the oar; | |
| Rest in the Mocenigo’s shade, | 30 |
| For Genius hath within this door | |
| His charmed, though transient, dwelling made. | |
| |
| Somewhat of “Harold’s” spirit yet, | |
| Methinks, still lights these crumbling halls; | |
| For where the flame of song is set | 35 |
| It burns, though all the temple falls. | |
| |
| O, tell me not those days were given | |
| To Passion and her pampered brood; | |
| Or that the eagle stoops from heaven | |
| To dye his talons deep in blood. | 40 |
| |
| I hear alone his deathless strain | |
| From sacred inspiration won, | |
| As I would only watch again | |
| The eagle when he nears the sun. | |
| |
III. O, would some friend were near me now, | 45 |
| Some friend well tried and cherished long, | |
| To share the scene; but chiefly thou, | |
| Sole source and object of my song. | |
| |
| By Olivola’s dome and tower, | |
| What joy to clasp thy hand in mine, | 50 |
| While through my heart this sacred hour | |
| Thy voice should melt like mellow wine. | |
| |
| What time or place so fit as this | |
| To bid the gondolier withhold, | |
| And dream through one soft age of bliss | 55 |
| The olden story, never old? | |
| |
| The domes suspended in the sky | |
| Swim all above me broad and fair; | |
| And in the wave their shadows lie,— | |
| Twin phantoms of the sea and air. | 60 |
| |
| O’er all the scene a halo plays, | |
| Slow fading, but how lovely yet; | |
| For here the brightness of past days | |
| Still lingers, though the sun is set. | |
| |
| Oft in my bright and boyish hours | 65 |
| I lived in dreams what now I live, | |
| And saw these palaces and towers | |
| In all the light romance can give. | |
| |
| They rose along my native stream, | |
| They charmed the lakelet in the glen; | 70 |
| But in this hour the waking dream | |
| More frail and dreamlike seems than then. | |
| |
| A matchless scene, a matchless night, | |
| A tide below, a moon above; | |
| An hour for music and delight, | 75 |
| For gliding gondolas and love! | |
| |
| But here, alas! you hark in vain,— | |
| When Venice fell her music died; | |
| And voiceless as a funeral train, | |
| The blackened barges swim the tide. | 80 |
| |
| The harp which Tasso loved to wake, | |
| Hangs on the willow where it sleeps, | |
| And while the light strings sigh or break | |
| Pale Venice by the water weeps. | |
| |
IV. ’T is past, and weary droops the wing | 85 |
| That thus hath borne me idly on; | |
| The thoughts I have essayed to sing | |
| Are but as bubbles touched and gone. | |
| |
| But, Venice, cold his soul must be, | |
| Who, looking on thy beauty, hears | 90 |
| The story of thy wrongs, if he | |
| Is moved to neither song nor tears. | |
| |
| To glide by temples fair and proud, | |
| Between deserted marble walls, | |
| Or see the hireling foeman crowd | 95 |
| Rough-shod her noblest palace halls; | |
| |
| To know her left to vandal foes | |
| Until her nest be robbed and gone; | |
| To see her bleeding breast, which shows | |
| How dies the Adriatic swan; | 100 |
| |
| To know that all her wings are shorn, | |
| That Fate has written her decree, | |
| That soon the nations here shall mourn | |
| The lone Palmyra of the sea, | |
| |
| Where waved her vassal flags of yore | 105 |
| By valor in the Orient won; | |
| To see the Austrian vulture soar, | |
| A blot against the morning sun; | |
| |
| To hear a rough and foreign speech | |
| Commanding the old ocean mart,— | 110 |
| Are mournful sights and sounds that reach, | |
| And wake to pity, all the heart. | |
| |
