Above the far Atlantic!-She has taught
Her Esau-brethren that the haughty flag,
The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag,
May strike to those whose red right hands have
bought
Rights cheaply earn'd with blood. Still, still for
Better, though each man's life-blood were a river,
That it should flow, and overflow, than creep
Through thousand lazy channels in our veins,
Damm'd like the dull canal with locks and
chains,
And moving, as a sick man in his sleep,
Three paces, and then faltering: better be
Where the extinguish'd Spartans still are free,
In their proud charnel of Thermopylae,
Than stagnate in our marsh,—or o'er the deep
Fly, and one current to the ocean add,
One spirit to the souls our fathers had,
One freeman more, America! to thee!
'Tis midnight-but it is not dark
Within thy spacious place, Saint Mark!
The Lights within, the Lamps without,
Shine above the revel rout.
The brazen Steeds are glittering o'er
The holy building's massy door,
Glittering with their collars of gold,
The goodly work of the days of old-
And the winged Lion stern and solemn
Frowns from the height of his hoary column,
Facing the palace in which doth lodge
The ocean-city's dreaded Doge.
The palace is proud-but near it lies,
Divided by the 'Bridge of Sighs,'
The dreary dwelling where the State
Enchains the captives of their hate:
These-they perish or they pine;
But which their doom may none divine:
Many have pass'd that Arch of pain,
But none retraced their steps again.
It is a princely colonnade!
And wrought around a princely place,
When that vast edifice display'd
Looks with its venerable face
Over the far and subject sea,
Which makes the fearless isles so free!
And 'tis a strange and noble pile,
Pillar'd into many an isle:
Every pillar fair to see,
Marble-jasper-and porphyry—
The church of Saint Mark—which stands hard by
With fretted pinnacles on high,
And Cupola and minaret;
More like the mosque of orient lands,
Than the fanes wherein we pray,
And Mary's blessèd likeness stands.—
On rosy Venice' breast
The gondola's at rest;
No fisher is in sight,
Not a light.
Lone seated on the strand,
Uplifts the lion grand
His foot of bronze on high
Against the sky.
As if with resting wing
Like herons in a ring,
Vessels and shallops keep,
Their quiet sleep,
Upon the vapoury bay;
And when the light winds play,
Their pennons, lately whist,
Cross in the mist.
The moon is now concealed,
And now but half revealed,
Veiling her face so pale
With starry veil.
In convent of Sainte-Croix
Thus doth the abbess draw
Her ample-folded cape
Round her fair shape.
The palace of the knight,
The staircases so white,
The solemn porticos
Are in repose.
Each bridge and thoroughfare,
The gloomy statues there,
The gulf which trembles so
When the winds blow,
All still, save guards who pace,
With halberds long, their space,
Watching the battled walls
Of arsenals.
(Translated by C. F. BATES).
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