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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 footsteps 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,
So smoothly, silently—by many a dome,
Mosque-like, and many a stately portico,
The statues ranged along an azure sky;
By many a pile in more than Eastern pride,
Of old the residence of merchant-kings ;
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 came, 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 ;t far, far from me

Now an Observatory. On the wall there is a long inscription: ‘Piis carcerem adspergite lacrymis,' &c.

Ezzelino is seen by Dante in the river of blood,

+ Bonatti was the great astrologer of that day; and all the little Princes of Italy contended for him. It was from the top

The forms of Guilt and Fear; tho' 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 floating home,
Careless and full of mirth; to-morrow a day
Not in their Calendar. *-Who in a strain
To make the hearer fold his arms and sigh,
Sings, ' Caro, Caro 1'—'Tis the Prima Donna,
And to her monkey, smiling in his face.
Who, as transported, cries, · Brava! Ancora!'
'Tis a grave personage, an old macaw,
Perched on her shoulder.—But who leaps ashore,
And with a shout urges the lagging mules ; †

of the tower of Forli that he gave his signals to Guido Novello. At the first touch of a bell the Count put on his armour; at the second he mounted his horse, and at the third marched out to battle. His victories were ascribed to Bonatti; and not perhaps without reason. How many triumphs were due to the Soothsayers of old Rome!

*“ Douze personnes, tant acteurs qu' actrices, un souffleur, un machiniste, un garde du magasin, des enfans de tout âge, des chiens, des chats, des singes, des perroquets; c'étoit l'arche de Noé.—Ma prédilection pour les soubrettes m'arrêta sur Madame Baccherini.”


+ The passage-boats are drawn up and down the Brenta.

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.
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, though unheard, not unimaginable.

Had I thy pencil, CRABBE (when thou hast done, Late

may it be .. it will, like PROSPERO's staff,
Be buried fifty fathoms in the earth)
I would portray the Italian-Now I cannot.
Subtle, discerning, eloquent, the slave
Of Love, of Hate, for ever in extremes;
Gentle when unprovoked, easily won,
But quick in quarrel—through a thousand shades
His spirit flits, cameleon-like; and mocks
of the observer.

Gliding on,
At length we leave the river for the sea.
At length a voice aloft proclaims ó Venezia !'

And, as called forth, She comes.

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, t with glistering spires,

* Attila.

“I love,” says a traveller, “ to contemplate, as I float along, that multitude of palaces and churches, which are congregated and pressed as on a vast raft.”—And who can forget his walk through the Merceria, where the nightingales give you their melody from shop to shop, so that, shutting your eyes, you would think yourself in some forest-glade, when indeed you are all the while in the middle of the sea? Who can forget his prospect from the great tower, which once, when gilt, and when the sun struck upon it, was to be descried by ships afar off; or his visit to St. Mark's church, where you see nothing, tread on nothing, but what is precious; the floor all agate, jasper ; the roof mosaic; the aisle hung with the banners of the subject cities the front and its five domes affecting you as the work of some unknown people ? Yet all this may presently pass away; the waters may close over it; and they, thatcome, row about in vain to determine exactly where it stood.

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