From the glory of her beauty in its prime;
And the knowledge grows upon us that the dance
Is no play

"Twixt the pale, mysterious lover and the fay-
But the whirl of fate and chance.

Where the tide

Of the broad lagoon sinks plumb into the sea,
There the mystic gondolier hath won his bride.
Hark, one helpless, stifled scream!

Must it be?

Mimes and minstrels, flowers and music, where are

ye?

Was all Venice such a dream?

Emma Lazarus.

THE DECAY OF VENICE

THE glowing pageant of my story lies,
A shaft of light, across the stormy years,
When, 'mid the agony of blood and tears,
Or pope or kaiser won the mournful prize,
Till I, the fearless child of ocean, heard

The step of doom, and trembling to my fall,
Remorseful knew that I had seen unstirred

Proud Freedom's death, the tyrant's festival;

Whilst that Italia which was yet to be, And is, and shall be, sat, a virgin pure, High over Umbria on the mountain slopes,

And saw the failing fires of liberty

Fade on the chosen shrine she deemed secure, When died for many a year man's noblest hopes. SILAS WEIR MITCHELL.

VENETIAN NIGHT

HER eyes in the darkness shone, in the twilight shed

By the gondola bent like the darkness over her

head.

Softly the gondola rocked, lights came and went;
A white glove shone as her black fan lifted and

leant

Where the silk of her dress, the blue of a bittern's

wing,

Rustled against my knee, and, murmuring

The sweet slow hesitant English of a child,

Her voice was articulate laughter, her soul smiled.
Softly the gondola rocked, lights came and went;
From the sleeping houses a shadow of slumber
leant

Over our roads like a wing, and the dim lagoon,
Rustling with silence, slumbered under the moon.

Softly the gondola rocked, and a pale light came Over the waters, mild as a silver flame;

She lay back, thrilling with smiles, in the twilight shed

By the gondola bent like the darkness over her head;

I saw her eyes shine subtly, then close awhile:

I remember her silence, and, in the night, her smile. ARTHUR SYMONS.

DAWN AT VENICE

ONE burnished cloud first turned a jagged prow—
The waking water nestled deep among

Her murky gondolas, that bow on bow
Freighted with shadows at the molo swung.

Soon palace and canal paled into sight,
Fainting as watchers whose long vigil wanes;
Till Dawn's approach across the waves of night
Flushed the rose blood in sleeping Venice' veins.

Then up the dazzling steps that lead to God,
One radiant sunbeam and a lone white dove
Santa Maria's holy threshold trod,

A shrine of morning lit by Light and Love!

Loud warned the chime to mass o'er quay and

home,

Calling soft flocks of doves to greet the day

'Mid sculptured saints and angels round the dome While market-women followed in to pray.

MARTHA GILBERT DICKINSON.

VENICE

OUT of the land and in the sea,
Venice is all the world to me.

All is quaint and queer and quiet,
Naught of trade's annoying riot;
Neigh of nag and noise of car
From this region banished are;
Only horses of Saint Mark,
Motionless in metal dark;
Harmless necessary cat

Dodges not the fell brickbat;
Here no curs disturb our ease,
Nor communicate their fleas;
Naught is heard but roar of tongue
Gay and careless crowds among,
And the clangs of bells at night,
Ringing till the east is bright,
And the tinkle of guitar

To the sound of voices far,

In the amorous serenade
Under latticed window played.

Crooked, stony, filthy alleys,
Black and graceful darting galleys,
Boatmen chaffing, swearing, steering
With a skill no danger fearing;
Every colour under heaven,
Rivaling the rainbow seven,
On the stone or stuccoed walls
When the slanting sunshine falls;
Or forbidding shadows lurk
In the alleys, somber, murk,
Or the bashful, crescent moon,
Ripening into roundness soon,
Lights the water's gentle ripple
Which the evening breezes stipple.

Windows showing shell and coral, Prints of ballet girls immoral, Antique paintings made to order, Cotton scarfs with gorgeous border, Silver filigree and paste,

Fans for every age and taste,

Ivories in rare devices

Which they sell for twenty prices,

Glass of every form and hue

Which the ancient workmen blew.