CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. CANTO IV. I. I STOOD in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; I saw from out the wave her structures rise Where Venice sate in state, thron'd on her hundred isles! II. She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from Ocean, powers: And such she was ;-her daughters had their dowers From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers. In purple was she robed, and of her feast Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity increas'd. In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, IV. But unto us she hath a spell beyond Her name in story, and her long array Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond Above the dogeless city's vanish'd sway; Ours is a trophy which will not decay With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor, And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn awayThe keystones of the arch! though all were o'er, For us repeopled were the solitary shore. V. The beings of the mind are not of clay; And multiply in us a brighter ray And more beloved existence: that which Fate Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied VI. Such is the refuge of our youth and age, And the strange constellations which the Muse VII. I saw or dreamed of such,—but let them goThey came like truth, and disappeared like dreams And whatsoe'er they were—are now but so: I could replace them if I would, still teems My mind with many a form which aptly seems Such as I sought for, and at moments found; Let these too go-for waking Reason deems Such over-weening phantasies unsound, And other voices speak, and other sights surround. .VIII. I've taught me other tongues-and in strange eyes Have made me not a stranger; to the mind Which is itself, no changes bring surprise; Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find A country with-ay, or without mankind; Yet was I born where men are proud to be, Not without cause ; and should I leave behind The inviolate island of the sage and free, And seek me out a home by a remoter sea, IX. Perhaps I loved it well: and should I lay fame should be, as my fortunes are, X. My name from out the temple where the dead Sparta hath many a worthier son than he. »> Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need; The thorns which I have reaped are of the tree I planted, they have torn me,-and I bleed: I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed. XI. The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord; 1 XH. The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns- Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe. Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass, In youth she was all glory,-a new Tyre,— ་ The Planter of the Lion, » (1) which through fire For ус are names no time nor tyranny can blight. (1) Plant the Lion- that is, the Lion of St. Mark, the standard of the republic, which is the origin of the word Pantaloon-Pianta-leone, Pantaleon, Pantaloon. |