XIL The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns- From power's high pinnacle, when they have felt The octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe. XIII. Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass, Their gilded collars glittering in the sun; But is not Doria's menace come to pass? Are they not bridled?—Venice, lost and won, Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done, Sinks, like a sea-weed, into whence she rose ! Better be whelm'd beneath the waves, and shun, Even in destruction's depth, her foreign foes, From whom submission wrings an infamous repose. XIV. In youth she was all glory, a new Tyre,— Her very by-word sprung from victory, The "Planter of the Lion," which through fire And blood she bore o'er subject earth and sea; Though making many slaves, herself still free, And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite; Witness Troy's rival, Candia! Vouch it, ye Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight! For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight. Statues of glass-all shiver'd-the long file Of her dead Doges are declined to dust; But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust; Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust, Have yielded to the stranger: empty halls, Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must Too oft remind her who and what enthrals, Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely walls. XVI. When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, Fall from his hands-his idle scimitar Starts from its belt-he rends his captive's chains, And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his strains. XVII. Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine, XVIII. I loved her from my boyhood-she to me Rising like water-columns from the sea, Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show. XIX. I can repeople with the past—and of The present there is still for eye and thought, And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought; From thee, fair Venice! have their colours caught: XX. But from their nature will the tannen grow And grew a giant tree;-the mind may grow the same. XXI. Existence may be borne, and the deep root XXII. All suffering doth destroy, or is destroy'd, XXIII. But ever and anon of griefs subdued There comes a token like a scorpion's sting, A tone of music,-summer's eve-or spring, A flower-the wind-the ocean-which shall wound, Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound; XXIV. And how and why we know not, nor can trace The blight and blackening which it leaves behind, The spectres whom no exorcism can bind, The cold-the changed-perchance the dead-anew, The mourn'd, the loved, the lost-too many!-yet how few! |