Unto thee, Venice, shall be my last song,
To thee the last kiss and the last tear belong.

In exile and lonely from home I depart,
But Venice forever shall live in my heart;
In its most sacred place Venice shall be
As was the vision of first love to me.

Lo, the wind rises, and over the pale
Face of its waters the deep sends a wail;
Breaking, the chords shriek, and the voice dies,
On the Lagoon Bridge the white banner flies!

Arnoldo Fusinato. Tr. W. D. Howells.

SUNRISE IN VENICE.

IGHT seems troubled and scarce asleep;

NIGHT

Her brows are gathered in broken rest;

Sullen old lion of grand St. Mark

Lordeth and lifteth his front from the dark,
And a star in the east starts up from the deep,
White as my lilies that grow in the west;

And the day leaps up with a star on his breast.
Hist! men are passing hurriedly.

I see the yellow wide wings of a bark

Sail silently over my morning-star.

I see men move in the moving dark,

Tall and silent as columns are,

Great sinewy men that are good to see,

With hair pushed back and with open breasts;
Barefooted fishermen seeking their boats,

Brown as walnuts and hairy as goats,

Brave old water-dogs, wed to the sea,

First to their labors and last to their rests.

Ships are moving! I hear a horn;
A silver trumpet it sounds to me,
Deep-voiced and musical, far a-sea
Answers back, and again it calls.

'Tis the sentinel-boats that watch the town
All night, as mounting her watery walls,
And watching for pirate or smuggler. Down
Over the sea, and reaching away,

And against the east, a soft light falls,
Silvery soft as the mist of morn,

And I catch a breath like the breath of day.

The east is blooming! Yea, a rose,
Vast as the heavens, soft as a kiss,
Sweet as the presence of woman is,
Rises and reaches and widens and grows
Right out of the sea, as a blooming tree;
Richer and richer, so higher and higher,
Deeper and deeper it takes its hue;
Brighter and brighter it reaches through
The space of heaven and the place of stars,
Till all is as rich as a rose can be,
And my rose-leaves fall into billows of fire.
Then beams reach upward as arms from a sea;
Then lances and arrows are aimed at me.
Then lances and spangles and spars and bars
Are broken and shivered and strewn on the sea;
And around and about me tower and spire
Start from the billows like tongues of fire.

Joaquin Miller.

VENICE.

I.

TIGHT on the Adriatic, night!

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,
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;
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
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.

The Austrian pirate, wounded, spurned, Fled howling to the sheltering shore,

But, gathering all his crew, returned
And bound the Ocean Queen once more.

'Tis past, — and Venice prostrate lies,
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,

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
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.

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,

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, 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
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.

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
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;
But in this hour the waking dream

More frail and dreamlike seems than then.