VI.

And the Rialto's Bridge is left behind,

Ere the recovered mind can disenthrall

The past—and to the present feel resigned;
Ere startled Meditation can recall,

Fair Venice, as she filled the interval

Of thirteen hundred years; behold where stands
The Bridge where first with Freedom's coronal
She bound her brows: when her devoted bands

Of patriots pitched their tents upon the shifting sands.

VII.

Vainly the Waves roared and the Tempests dashed Round that last stand-no further could they flee; Vain from the shore the Tyrants' faulchions flashed, They looked to heaven, and felt that they were free! And to the answering God of Liberty

They did devote themselves in that wild hour,

On Freedom's shrine-the boundless, chainless Sea! Want led to enterprize, to wealth, to power;

The Ocean's harvest theirs, the East and West, their

dower.

VIII.

Daughter of Rome! of thy great Sire, sole heir,

Hath not thy records proved thine origin?

The same stern will to suffer and to dare:

Thou, who from that heaped sand-bank, didst begin To cope with mightiest empires, and to win

Homage from all: thou saw'st their rise and fall;

Roman, Frank, Khalif, Goth, and Saracen ;
Byzantium's friend or foe: until thy thrall

The East obeyed, and sunk before thy watery wall.

IX.

The past-the present, all is here a dream:

An unreality: what? can it be

That thou didst head the Italian League supreme?

Regenerator thou of Italy?

That kings, and greater, Venice! knelt to thee,
Owning thee sovereign umpire of their fates?

That thou, sole Champion wert of Liberty,

Then, when pale Europe shook through all her states: When, conquest-flushed, the Turk first thundered at

her gates.

X.

O relique of gone-by magnificence!
Of a departed glory lingering yet

Around thee-hallowing what was so intense,
That the mind, dwelling there, doth all forget,
Yea, even thy beauty in its vain regret!
Yet, how thou diest, Venice! day by day:

As fades the twilight of thy suns when set,

So thou, declining, but with slow decay,

Shed'st round a mournful light which hath not passed

away!

XI.

So he who dwells upon thy beautiful,

Thy outward form, where but repose is seen;
Where, if of parted passion aught o'er-rule,
'Tis in the speaking languor of that mien,
Which but implores for peace—for a serene,
And calm departure while thy Life ebbs forth,

Feels but thy SPIRIT only: what hath been,

Thy dark and hidden deeds, thy crimes and worth,

Are known to Him alone who weighs the dust of earth.

XII.

Rome of the Ocean! thou thy Carthage foe

Had'st also, and thy Dorian Hannibal:

Till haughty Genoa was taught to know,

Given as thy right, was Victory's coronal;

That Glory kept for thee her festival;

And who could claim a loftier wreath than thine?

Oh! long as History is truth's Oracle,

Pisani's fame shall brighten in thy line;

Leader of chiefs presiding, star-like, o'er thy shrine.

XIII.

For oh! while Freedom fired thy answering breast,

With what heroic virtue was it fraught!

What deeds of heroism shone confessed!

What patriot acts of rival worth were wrought

When Fortune frowned! and oh, how proud thy lot, Then, when first planted in Constantine's hall, Thy winged Lion by thy hand was brought, Was't not enough thou first didst lead o'er all? That Chivalry herself obeyed thy trumpet-call?

XIV.

Bear witness, no !—thou who didst mount on--on—

As thou the Sun all eagle-like would'st claim,
Aspiring loftier o'er each triumph won;
Cyprus-Lepanto-Troy-like Candia-Fame!
How could'st thou circle with a brighter flame
Fair Venice? then, her glory should have set
Ere Fortune's self grew wearied of her name:
So from her zenith did she sink, ere yet
Applauding nations could her memories forget.

XV.

Yet wherefore wert thou crushed at once? thy shield
Braced on, thy hand armed, and thy bulwarks round,
By foemen never entered?-didst thou yield
Without one stroke? thy foe thou didst astound;
Until contempt the soldiers' bosom found

For those, who, crouching, dared not wake his ire!
Where was that pride which Genoa could not bound?

Oh! where that soul of valour, that, like fire,

In the Morèa blazed for ever to expire?