Yet there are things whose strong reality Outshines our fairy-land; in shape and hues And the strange constellations which the Muse VII. I saw or dream'd of such,-but let them go,- I could replace them if I would; still teems VIII. I've taught me other tongues, and in strange eyes Have made me not a stranger; to the mind And seek me out a home by a remoter sea, IX. Perhaps I loved it well; and should I lay My ashes in a soil which is not mine, X. My name from out the temple where the dead Are honour'd by the nations-let it be— And be the Spartan's epitaph on me- 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; The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored, Neglected garment of her widowhood! St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood Stand, but in mockery of his wither'd power, Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued, And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour When Venice was a queen with an unequall'd dower. XII. The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns- Like lauwine loosened from the mountain's belt; Th' 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 seaweed, 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; Though making many slaves, herself still free, XV. 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 XVI. When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, And fetter'd thousands bore the yoke of war, Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse, Her voice their only ransom from afar : See! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car Of the o'ermaster'd victor stops, the reins 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. |