And then of the dark, swanlike gondolas

We talked; and how, midst crumbling palaces, Great churches, richly inlaid mosques and columns, Each step an ample field for history,

And under bridges mossed with dripping sea-weed (A thousand silvery lights reflected from

The rippling waters, upwards on the arches
Playing fondly, like glad insects in the sun),
The dark-clad gondola went gurgling by,
Its inmate lost in sweetest meditation, –
Went gurgling by, went gurgling by.

Arthur Helps.

VENICE.

WITH talons terrible, for slaughter spread,

On wings that made a tempest of their way, Down darting from the Alps, by vengeance led, The Hungarian falcon pounced upon his prey. From wrath and rapine, trembling with dismay, The Italian doves before the spoiler sped, And wide o'er vales and mountains driven astray, Far from their ravaged homes forever fled. Then found the wiser halcyon's lovely brood (Scared from their country ruined and opprest) A safe asylum on the rolling flood; By worth upheld, by liberty caresst: Midst thrones in ashes, cities sunk in blood, Ages on ages past, — behold the beauteous nest. Saverio Bettinelli. Tr. James Montgomery.

VENICE BY DAY.

THE splendor of the Orient, here of old
Throned with the West, upon a waveless sea,
Her various-vested, resonant jubilee

Maintains, though Venice hath been bought and sold.
In their high stalls of azure and of gold

Yet stand, above the servile concourse free,
Those brazen steeds, - the Car of Victory

Hither from far Byzantium's porch that rolled.
The wingéd Lions, Time's dejected thralls,

Glare with furled plumes. The pictured shapes that glow

Like sunset clouds condensed upon the walls,

Still boast old wars, or feasts of long ago;
And still the sun his amplest glory pours

On all those swelling domes and watery floors.

Aubrey de Vere.

A

VENICE IN THE EVENING.

LAS! mid all this pomp of the ancient time, And flush of modern pleasure, dull Decay O'er the bright pageant breathes her shadowy gray. As on from bridge to bridge I roam and climb, It seems as though some wonder-working chime (Whose spell the vision raised and still can sway) To some far source were ebbing fast away; As though, by man unheard, with voice sublime

It bade the sea-born Queen of Cities follow
Her sire into his watery realm far down,
Beneath my feet the courts sound vast and hollow;
And more than evening's darkness seems to frown
On sable barks that, swift yet trackless, fleet
Like dreams o'er dim lagune and watery street.

Aubrey de Vere.

VENICE.

NIGHT

TIGHT in her dark array
Steals o'er the ocean,

And with departed day

Hushed seems its motion.
Slowly o'er you blue coast
Onward she's treading,
Till its dark line is lost,
'Neath her veil spreading.
The bark on the rippling deep
Hath found a pillow,

And the pale moonbeams sleep

On the green billow.

Bound by her emerald zone

Venice is lying,

And round her marble crown

Night-winds are sighing.
From the high lattice now

Bright eyes are gleaming,
That seem on night's dark brow,

Brighter stars beaming.
Now o'er the blue lagune

Light barks are dancing,
And 'neath the silver moon
Swift oars are glancing.
Strains from the mandolin
Steal o'er the water,
Echo replies between

To mirth and laughter.
O'er the wave seen afar

Brilliantly shining,

Gleams like a fallen star

Venice reclining.

Frances Anne Kemble.

H

THE PIAZZA OF ST. MARK AT MIDNIGHT.

[USHED is the music, bushed the hum of voices;

Gone is the crowd of dusky promenaders,

Slender-waisted, almond-eyed Venetians,

Princes and paupers. Not a single footfall
Sounds in the arches of the Procuratie.

One after one, like sparks in cindered paper,
Faded the lights out in the goldsmiths' windows.
Drenched with the moonlight lies the still Piazza.

Fair as the palace builded for Aladdin,
Yonder St. Mark uplifts its sculptured splendor, -
Intricate fretwork, Byzantine mosaic,

Color on color, column upon column,
Barbaric, wonderful, a thing to kneel to!
Over the portal stand the four gilt horses,

Gilt hoof in air, and wide distended nostril,
Fiery, untamed, as in the days of Nero.
Skyward, a cloud of domes and spires and crosses;
Earthward, black shadows flung from jutting stone-work.
High over all the slender Campanile

Quivers, and seems a falling shaft of silver!

Hushed is the music, hushed the hum of voices.
From coigne and cornice and fantastic gargoyle,
At intervals the moau of dove or pigeon,
Fairily faint, floats off into the moonlight.
This, and the murmur of the Adriatic,
Lazily restless, lapping the mossed marble,
Staircase or buttress, scarcely break the stillness.
Deeper each moment seems to grow the silence,
Denser the moonlight in the still Piazza.
Hark! on the Tower above the ancient gateway,
The twin bronze Vulcans, with their ponderous hammers,
Hammer the midnight on their brazen bell there!

Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

SAINT CHRISTOPHER.

N the narrow Venetian street,

IN

On the wall above the garden gate

(Within the breath of the rose is sweet,

And the nightingale sings there, soon and late),

Stands Saint Christopher, carven in stone,

With the little child in his huge caress,