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· The Cypriot. Ministers from distant Courts
Beset his doors, long ere his rising-hour;
His the Great Secret! Not the golden house
Of Nero, nor those fabled in the East,
Rich though they were, so wondrous rich as his !
Two dogs, coal-black, in collars of pure gold,
Walk in his footsteps-Who but his familiars ?
They walk, and cast no shadow in the sun !

And mark Him speaking. They, that listen, stand
As if his tongue dropped honey; yet his glance
None can endure! He looks nor young nor old ;
And at a tourney, where I sat and saw,
A very child (full threescore years are gone)
Borne on my father's shoulder thro' the crowd,
He looked not otherwise. Where'er he stops,
Tho' short the sojourn, on his chamber-wall,
Mid many a treasure gleaned from many a clime,
His portrait hangs—but none must notice it;
For Titian glows in every lineament,
(Where is it not inscribed, The work is his !)
And Titian died two hundred years ago.'
-Such their discourse. Assembling in St. Mark's,
All nations met as on enchanted ground !

What tho' a strange mysterious Power was there,

Moving throughout, subtle, invisible,
And universal as the air they breathed;
A Power that never slumbered, nor forgave,
All eye, all ear, no where and every where,
Entering the closet and the sanctuary,
No place of refuge for the Doge himself;
Most present when least thought of-nothing dropt
In secret, when the heart was on the lips,
Nothing in feverish sleep, but instantly
Observed and judged-a Power, that if but named
In casual converse, be it where it might,
The speaker lowered at once his

his voice,
And pointed upward as to God in Heaven -
What tho' that Power was there, he who lived thus,
Pursuing Pleasure, lived as if it were not.
But let him in the midnight-air indulge
A word, a thought against the laws of Venice,
And in that hour he vanished from the earth!



Boy, call the Gondola; the sun is set.-
It came, and we embarked; but instantly,
As at the waving of a magic wand,
Though she had stept on board so light of foot,
So light of heart, laughing she knew not why,
Sleep overcame her; on my arm she slept.
From time to time I waked her; but the boat
Rocked her to sleep again. The moon was now
Rising full-orbed, but broken by a cloud.
The wind was hushed, and the sea mirror-like.
A single zephyr, as enamoured, played
With her loose tresses, and drew more and more
Her veil across her bosom. Long I lay
Contemplating that face so beautiful,
That rosy mouth, that cheek dimpled with smiles,
That neck but half-concealed, whiter than snow.
'Twas the sweet slumber of her early age.

I looked and looked, and felt a flush of joy
I would express but cannot. Oft I wished
Gently -- by stealth -- to drop asleep myself,
And to incline yet lower that sleep might come;
Oft closed my eyes as in forgetfulness.
Twas all in vain. Love would not let me rest.

But how delightful when at length she waked !
When, her light hair adjusting, and her veil
So rudely scattered, she resumed her place
Beside me; and, as gaily as before,
Sitting unconsciously nearer and nearer,
Poured out her innocent mind!

So, nor long since,
Sung a Venetian; and his lay of love, *
Dangerous and sweet, charmed Venice. For myself,
(Less fortunate, if Love be Happiness)
No curtain drawn, no pulse beating alarm,
I went alone beneath the silent moon;
Thy square, St. MARK, thy churches, palaces,
Glittering and frost-like, and, as day drew on,
Melting away, an emblem of themselves.

Those Porches passed, thro' which the water-breeze

* La Biondina in Gondoletta.

Plays, though no longer on the noble forms
That moved there, sable-vested and the Quay,
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.f

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

* «C'était sous les portiques de Saint-Marc que les patriciens se réunissaient tous les jours. Le nom de cette promenade indiquait sa destination; on l'appellait il Broglio.'-DARU.

+ For this thought I am indebted to some unpublished travels by the Author of Vathek.

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