THERE is a glorious City in the Sea. No track of men, no footsteps to and fro, As to a floating City-steering in, Of old the residence of merchant-kings; The fronts of some, though Time had shattered them, As though the wealth within them had run o'er. (That, long before we slipt our cable, rang From PADUA, where the stars are, night by night, Not as he watched them, when he read his fate And shuddered. Him or his horoscope;† 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, Some who, like him, had cried,' Spill blood enough!" To make the hearer fold his arms and sigh, 6 Sings, Caro, Caro !'-'Tis the Prima Donna, And to her monkey, smiling in his face. Who, as transported, cries, Brava! Ancora!' Perched on her shoulder. But who leaps ashore, 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." GOLDONI. + The passage-boats are drawn up and down the Brenta. Then climbs a tree that overhangs the stream, 'Tis he who speaks not, stirs not, but we laugh; And mark their Poet-with what emphasis He prompts the young Soubrette, conning her part! As if in search of subjects for his wit, Things, though unheard, not unimaginable. Had I thy pencil, CRABBE (when thou hast done, I would portray the Italian-Now I cannot. Of Love, of Hate, for ever in extremes; But quick in quarrel-through a thousand shades The eye of the observer. Gliding on, At length we leave the river for the sea. At length a voice aloft proclaims ' 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, They built their nests among the ocean-waves; And where the sands were shifting, as the wind A vast Metropolis,† with glistering spires, * ATTILA. 66 + "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 Mercerìa, 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, that come, row about in vain to determine exactly where it stood. |