And as tho' nothing had been done or thought of, The stone-work rose before her till the light Glimmered and went-there, nightly, at that hour (You smile, and would it were an idle story! Would we could say so!) at that hour she stands Joined as in prayer; then, like a Blessed Soul Flies o'er the woods, the mountains. Issuing forth, The hunter meets her in his hunting track; The shepherd on the heath, starting, exclaims (For still she bears the name she bore of old) ""Tis the White Lady!" XI. THERE is a glorious City in the Sea. The Sea is in the broad, the narrow streets, Ebbing and flowing; and the salt sea-weed Clings to the marble of her palaces. No track of men, no foot-steps to and fro, Lead to her gates. The path lies o'er the Sea, Invisible; and from the land we went, As to a floating City-steering in, And gliding up her streets as in a dream, The statues ranged along an azure sky; By many a pile in more than Eastern splendour, Of old the residence of merchant-kings; The fronts of some, tho' Time had shattered them, Still glowing with the richest hues of art, As though the wealth within them had run o'er. Thither I came, in the great passage-boat, 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 EzzelinoNot 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!" And could shake long at shadows. They had played Their parts at PADUA, and were now returning; A vagrant crew, and careless of to-morrow, Careless and full of mirth. Who, in that quaver, Sings "Caro, Caro!"-"Tis the Prima Donna, And to her monkey, smiling in his face. Who, as transported, cries, "Bravo! Ancora!" 'Tis a grave personage, an old macaw, Perched on her shoulder. But mark him who leaps Ashore, and with a shout urges along The lagging mules; then runs and climbs a tree That with its branches 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. 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; for ever looking round As if in search of subjects for his wit, His satire; and as often whispering Things, tho' unheard, not unimaginable. Had I thy pencil, CR - BBE (when thou hast done, Late may it be.. it will, like Prospero's staff, I would portray the Italian-Now I cannot. Of Love, of Hate, for ever in extremes; Gentle when unprovoked, easily won, But quick in quarrel-thro' a thousand shades |