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Hangs in the TREVISAN, that thus the steward,
Dolphins and boys, and shells and fruits and flowers:
The song that pleased her. While I stood and looked,
The steward went on. "She had ('t is now long since)
None so admired, beloved. They had grown up
The name of The White Lady. But the day
In that chair
Some say he came and crossed it at the time),
Baying as still he does (oft is he heard,
"No blood was spilt; no instrument of death Lurked or stood forth, declaring its bad purpose; Nor was a hair of her unblemished head
Hurt in that hour. Fresh as a flower just blown,
Then closed again, and done to line and rule.
As in the narrow niche, when smooth and fair,
Glimmered and went there, nightly at that hour, (Thou smil'st, and would it were an idle tale!) In her white veil and vesture white she stands Shuddering her eyes uplifted, and her hands Joined as in prayer; then, like a blessed soul Bursting the tomb, springs forward, and away Flies o'er the woods and mountains. Issuing forth, The hunter meets her in his hunting-track; 51 The shepherd on the heath, starting, exclaims (For still she bears the name she bore of old) "T is the White Lady!'"'
THERE is a glorious city in the sea.
The fronts of some, though Time had shattered them, Still glowing with the richest hues of art,
As though the wealth within them had run o'er.
Thither I come, and in a wondrous ark (That, long before we slipt our cable, rang As with the voices of all living things), From PADUA, where the stars are, night by night, Watched from the top of an old dungeon-tower, Whence blood ran once, the tower of Ezzelin Not as he watched them, when he read his fate And shuddered. But of him I thought not then, Him or his horoscope; far, far from me The forms of Guilt and Fear; though some were there, Sitting among us round the cabin-board,
Some who, like him, had cried, "Spill blood enough!"
-'T is a grave personage, an old macaw, Perched on her shoulder. But who leaps ashore, And with a shout urges the lagging mules; Then climbs a tree that overhangs the stream, And, like an acorn, drops on deck again? 'Tis he who speaks not, stirs not, but we laugh; That child of fun and frolic, Arlecchino.57 And mark their poet with what emphasis He prompts the young soubrette, conning her part! Her tongue plays truant, and he raps his box, And prompts again; forever looking round As if in search of subjects for his wit,
His satire; and as often whispering
I would portray the Italian. —Now I cannot.
Of Love, of Hate, forever in extremes;
Gentle when unprovoked, easily won,
But quick in quarrel — through a thousand shades
The eye of the observer.
At length we leave the river for the sea.
At length a voice aloft proclaims "Venezia !"
A few in fear, Flying away from him whose boast it was That the grass grew not where his horse had trod, Gave birth to VENICE. Like the water-fowl, They built their nests among the ocean-waves And where the sands were shifting, as the wind Blew from the north or south where they that came Had to make sure the ground they stood upon,
Rose, like an exhalation from the deep,
A vast metropolis, with glistering spires,
A scene of light and glory, a dominion,
And whence the talisman, whereby she rose,
Towering? 'T was found there in the barren sea.
Want led to Enterprise; and, far or near,