Silent, grass-grown-adventurer-like I launched Into the deep, ere long discovering
Isles such as cluster in the Southern seas,
All verdure. Every where, from bush and brake, The musky odour of the serpents came;
Their slimy track across the woodman's path Bright in the moonshine; and, as round I went, Dreaming of GREECE, whither the waves were gliding, I listened to the venerable pines
Then in close converse, and, if right I guessed, Delivering many a message to the Winds, In secret, for their kindred on Mount IDA.* Nor when again in VENICE, when again
In that strange place, so stirring and so still, Where nothing comes to drown the human voice But music, or the dashing of the tide, Ceased I to wander. Now a JESSICA Sung to her lute, her signal as she sate
At her half-open window. Then, methought, A serenade broke silence, breathing hope
Thro' walls of stone, and torturing the proud heart
Of some PRIULI. Once, we could not err,
(It was before an old Palladian house, As between night and day we floated by) A Gondolier lay singing; and he sung, As in the time when VENICE was Herself, Of TANCRED and ERMINIA.† On our oars
*For this thought I am indebted to some unpublished travels by the Author of Vathek.
+ Goldoni, describing his excursion with the Passalacqua, has left us a lively picture of this class of men.
"We were no sooner in the middle of that great lagoon which encircles the City, than our discreet Gondolier drew
We rested; and the verse was verse divine! We could not err-Perhaps he was the last- For none took up the strain, none answered him; And, when he ceased, he left upon my ear A something like the dying voice of VENICE !
The moon went down; and nothing now was seen Save where the lamp of a Madonna shone Faintly-or heard, but when he spoke, who stood Over the lantern at the prow and cried, Turning the corner of some reverend pile, Some school or hospital of old renown,
Tho' haply none were coming, none were near, 'Hasten or slacken.' * But at length Night fled; And with her fled, scattering, the sons of Pleasure. Star after star shot by, or, meteor-like,
Crossed me and vanished-lost at once among Those hundred Isles that tower majestically, That rise abruptly from the water-mark, Not with rough crag, but marble, and the work Of noblest architects. I lingered still; Nor sought my threshold,† till the hour was come And past, when, flitting home in the grey light, The young BIANCA found her father's door,+
the curtain behind us, and let us float at the will of the waves. At length night came on, and we could not tell where we were. 'What is the hour?' said I to the Gondolier -'I cannot guess, Sir; but, if I am not mistaken, it is the lover's hour.'-'Let us go home,' I replied; and he turned the prow homeward, singing, as he rowed, the twenty-sixth strophe of the sixteenth canto of the Jerusalem Delivered." * Premi o stali.
At Venice, if you have la riva in casa, you step from your boat into the hall.
Bianca Capello. It had been shut, if we may believe the Novelist Malespini, by a baker's boy, as he passed by at day
That door so often with a trembling hand, So often-then so lately left ajar,
Shut; and, all terror, all perplexity,
Now by her lover urged, now by her love,
Fled o'er the waters to return no more.
Ir was St. Mary's Eve, and all poured forth For some great festival. The fisher came From his green islet, bringing o'er the waves His wife and little one; the husbandman From the Firm Land, with many a friar and nun, And village-maiden, her first flight from home, Crowding the common ferry. All arrived; And in his straw the prisoner turned to hear, So great the stir in VENICE. Old and young Thronged her three hundred bridges; the grave Turk Turbaned, long-vested, and the cozening Jew In yellow hat and thread-bare gaberdine, Hurrying along. For, as the custom was, The noblest sons and daughters of the State,
break; and in her despair she fled with her lover to Florence, where he fell by assassination. Her beauty, and her loveadventure as here related, her marriage afterwards with the Grand Duke, and that fatal banquet at which they were both poisoned by the Cardinal, his brother, have rendered her history a romance.
* This circumstance took place at Venice on the first of February, the eve of the feast of the Purification of the Virgin, A.D. 994, Pietro Candiano, Doge.
Whose names are written in the Book of Gold, Were on that day to solemnize their nuptials.
At noon a distant murmur through the crowd Rising and rolling on, proclaimed them near; And never from their earliest hour was seen Such splendour or such beauty.* Two and two, (The richest tapestry unrolled before them) First came the Brides; each in her virgin-veil, Nor unattended by her bridal maids, The two that, step by step, behind her bore The small but precious caskets that contained The dowry and the presents. On she moved In the sweet seriousness of virgin-youth; Her eyes cast down, and holding in her hand A fan, that gently waved, of ostrich-plumes. Her veil, transparent as the gossamer,+ Fell from beneath a starry diadem; And on her dazzling neck a jewel shone, Ruby or diamond or dark amethyst; A jewelled chain, in many a winding wreath, Wreathing her gold brocade.
Before the Church, That venerable structure now no more ‡
On the sea-brink, another train they met,
No strangers, nor unlooked for ere they came,
* E'l costume era, che tutte le novizze con tutta la dote loro venissero alla detta chiesa, dov' era il vescovo con tutta la chieresia.'-A. NAVAGIERO.
Among the Habiti Antichi, in that admirable book of woodcuts ascribed to Titian (A.D. 1590), there is one entitled, 'Sposa Venetiana à Castello.' It was taken from an old painting in the Scuola di S. Giovanni Evangelista, and by the Writer is believed to represent one of the Brides here described.
San Pietro di Castello, the Patriarchal Church of Venice.
Brothers to some, still dearer to the rest; Each in his hand bearing his cap and plume, And, as he walked, with modest dignity Folding his scarlet mantle. At the gate They join; and slowly up the bannered aisle Led by the choir, with due solemnity
Range round the altar. In his vestments there The Patriarch stands; and, while the anthem flows, Who can look on unmoved-the dream of years Just now fulfilling! Here a mother weeps, Rejoicing in her daughter. There a son Blesses the day that is to make her his; While she shines forth through all her ornament, Her beauty heightened by her hopes and fears.
At length the rite is ending. All fall down, All of all ranks; and, stretching out his hands, Apostle-like, the holy man proceeds
To give the blessing-not a stir, a breath; When hark, a din of voices from without,
And shrieks and groans and outcries as in battle! And lo, the door is burst, the curtain rent, And armed ruffians, robbers from the deep, Savage, uncouth, led on by BARBERIGO And his six brothers in their coats of steel, Are standing on the threshold! Statue-like Awhile they gaze on the fallen multitude, Each with his sabre up, in act to strike; Then, as at once recovering from the spell, Rush forward to the altar, and as soon Are gone again-amid no clash of arms Bearing away the maidens and the treasures.
Where are they now?-ploughing the distant waves,
« PreviousContinue » |