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And reading, in the eyes that sparkled round, The thousand love-adventures written there.
Can I forget-no never, such a scene So full of witchery! Night linger'd still, When, with a dying brecze, I left Bellaggio; But the strain follow'd me; and still I saw Thy smile, Angelica ; and still I heard Thy voice-once and again bidding adicu.
Rise like a curtain; now the sun looks out,
Here I received from thee, Filippo Mori,
May thy vats
In a strange land
Toe song was one that I had heard before,
many a titter on the stairs was heard, And Barbara's
When 't was done,
story. 'Twins they were,
May they live
But who now
'Lago di Garda.
Brushing the floor with what was once a hat
And through the ranks, from wing to wing, are seen Of ceremony. Gliding on, he comes,
Moving as once they were--instead of rage
Breathing deliberate valour.
COLL'ALTO. • 'T is my necessity!, he stops and speaks, Screwing a smile into his dinnerless face.
In this neglected mirror (23) (the broad frame
Of massive silver serves to testify « I am a Poet, Signor:-give me leave
That many a noble matron of the house
From that time
The bat came hither for a sleeping-place; As well indeed she may! But I transgress :
And be, who cursed another in his heart, I too have known the weight of praise, and ought Said, « Be thy dwelling through the day, the night, To spare another.
Shunn'd like Coll'alto. ’T was in that old Castle, Saying so, he laid
Which flanks the cliff with its grey battlements His sonnet, an impromptu, on my table,
Flung here and there, and, like an cagle's nest, And bow'd and left me; in his hollow hand
Hangs in the Trevisan, that thus the Steward, Receiving my small tribute, a zecchino,
Shaking his locks, the few that Time had left him, Unconsciously, as doctors do their fees.
Address 'd me, as we enter'd what was call'd
My Lady's Chamber.. On the walls, the chairs, My omelet, and a flagon of lill-wine,
Much yet remain'd of the rich tapestry; . The very best in Bergamo!, had long
Much of the adventures of Sir Lancelot Fled from all eves; or, like the young
In the green glades of some enchanted forest. De Santillanc, I had perhaps been seen
The toilet-table was of massive silver, Bartering my bread and salt for empty praise.
Florentine Art, when Florence was renown'd ;
A gay confusion of the elements,
Dolphins and boys, and shells and fruits and flowers :
And from the ceiling, in his gilded cage,
llung a small bird of curious workmanship, Am I in Italy? Is this the Mincius ?
That, when his Mistress bade him, would unfold Are those the distant turrets of Verona?
(So said at least the babbling Dame, Tradition) And shall I sup where Juliet at the Masque (20) Ilis emerald-wings, and sing and sing again Saw her loved Montague, and now sleeps by bim? The song that pleased her. While I stood and look'd, Such questions hourly do I ask myself ; (21)
A gleam of day yet lingering in the West, And not a finger-post by the road-side
The Steward went on. • To Mantua To Ferrara - but excites
« She had ('t is now long since) Surprise, and doubt. and self-congratulation.
A gentle serving-maid, the fair Cristina,
Fair as a lily, and as spotless too; O Italy, how beautiful thou art!
Nonc so admired, beloved. They had grown up Yet I could weep-for thou art lying, alas!
As play-fellows; and some there were, who said, Low in the dust; and they who come, adınire thee Some who knew much, discoursing of Cristina, As we admire the beautiful in death.
She is not what she secms.' When unrequired, Thine was a dangerous gift, the gift of Beauty.
She would steal forth ; her custom, her deliglit, Would thou hadst less, or wert as once thou wast, To wander through and throngh an ancient grove Inspiring awe in those who now enslave thee!
Self-planted half-way down, losing herself
Ever as surely as the hours came round,
The name of The White Lady. But the day
Is gone, and I delay you. Watch with quick eye, and strike and strike again
In that chair If but a sinew vibrate, shall confess
The Countess, as it might be now, was sitting, Their wisdom folly. Even now the flame
ller gentle serving-maid, the fair Cristina, Bursts forth where once it burnt so gloriously,
Combing her golden hair; and, through this door And, dying, left a splendour like the day,
The Count, her lord, was hastening, call’d away That like the day diffused itself, and still
By leiters of great urgency to Venice; Blesses the earth-the light of genius, virtue,
When in the glass she saw, as she believed, Greatness in thought and act, contempt of death,
('T was an illusion of the Evil SpiritGod-like example. Echoes that have slept
Some say he came and cross'd it at the instant) Since Athens, Lacedemon, were themselves,
|A smile, a glance at parting, given and answer'd, Since men invoked « By Those in Marathon!»
| That turn'd her blood to gall. That very night Awake along the Fycan; and the dead,
The deed was done. That night, cre vet the Moon They of that sacred shore, have heard the call,
Was np op Monte Calvo, and the wolf
Baying as still he does (oft do I hear him,
A vagrant crew, and careless of to-morrow, (28) An hour and more by the old turret-clock)
Careless and full of mirth. Who, in that
quaver, They led her forth, the unhappy lost Cristina,
Sings « Caro, Caro?:—'T is the Prima Donna, Helping her down in her distress-to die.
And to her monkey, smiling in his face.
Who, as transported, cries, << Brava! Ancora ?» • No blood was spilt; no instrument of death "T is a grave personage, an old macaw, Lurked - or stood forth, declaring its bad purpose ; Perch'd on her shoulder. But mark him who leaps Nor was a hair of her unblemish'd head
Ashore, and with a shout urges along Hurt in that hour. Fresh as a flower ungather'd, The lagging mules; (29) then runs and climbs a tree And warm with life, her youthful pulses playing,
That with its branches overhangs the stream, She was wall’d up within the Castle-wall. (24)
And, like an acorn, drops on deck again. The wall itself was hollow'd to receive her;
'T is he who speaks not, stirs not, but we laugh ; Then closed again, and done to line and rule.
That child of fun and frolic, Arlecchino. (30) Would you descend and see il ?- 'T is far down; And mark their Poct-with what emphasis And many a stair is gone. 'T is in a vault
He prompts the young Soubrette, copping her part ! Under the Chapel: and there nightly now,
ller tongue plays truant, and he raps his box, As in the narrow niche, when smooth and fair,
prompts again; for ever looking round And as though nothing had been done or thought of, As if in search of subjects for his wit, The stone-work rose before her, till the light
His satire; and as often whispering Glimmer'd and went-there, nightly, at that hour Things, though unheard, not unimaginable. (You smile, and would it were an idle tale! Would we could say so !) at that hour she stands Had I thy pencil, Crabbe (when thou hast done, Shuddering-her eyes uplifted, and her hands
may it be-it will, like Prospero's staff, Join'd as in prayer; then, like a Blessed Soul
Be buried fifty fathoms in the earth),
I would portray the Italian-Now I cannot.
Of Love, of Hate, for ever in extremes;
Gentle when unprovoked, easily won, (For still she bears the name she bore of old)
But quick in quarrel-through a thousand shades "'T is the White Lady'!,
llis spirit flits, cameleon-like; and mocks
of the observer.
At length we leave the river for the sea.
At length a voice aloft proclaims « Venezia !»
And, as callid forth, it comes. The Sea is in the broad, the narrow streets,
A few in fear, Ebbing and flowing; and the salt sea-weed
Flying away from him whose boast it was, Clings to the marble of her palaces.
grass grew not where his horse had trod, No track of men, no footsteps to and fro,
Gave birth to Venice. Like the water-fowl, Lead to her gates. The path lies o'er the Sca,
They built their nests among the ocean-waves ; Invisible; and from the land we went,
And, where the sands were shifting, as the wind As to a floating City--steering in,
Blew from the north, the south; where they that came, And gliding up her streets as in a dream,
Vad to make sure the ground they stood upon, So smoothily, silently-by many a dome
Rose, like an exhalation, from the deep, Mosque-like, and many a stately portico,
A vast Metropolis, (31) with glittering spires,
With theatres, basilicas adorn'd;
That has endured the longest among men.
And whence the talisman, by which she rose, As though the wealth within them had run o'er. Towering ? 'T was found there in the barren sea.
Want led to Enterprise; and, far or near, Thither I came, and in a wondrous Ark,
Who met not the Venetian ?-now in Cairo; (That, long before we slipt our cable, rang
Ere the Califa came, (32) listening to hear As with the voices of all living things)
Its bells approaching from the Red-Sea coast;
In converse with the Persian, with the Russ,
Pearls from the gulph of Ormus, gems from Bagdad; And shudder'd. But of him I thought not then, Eyes brighter yet, that shed the light of love, llim or his horoscope; far, far from me
From Georgia, from Circassia. Wandering round, The forms of Guilt and Fear; though some were there,
When in the rich bazaar he saw, display'd,
Treasures from unknown climes, away he went,
From the well-head, supplying all below;
If we turn
Thus did Venice rise, Thus flourish, till the unwelcome tidings came, That in the Tagus liad arrived a fleet From India, from the region of the Sun, Fragrant with spices-that a way was found, A channel open'd, and the golden stream Turn’d to enrich another. Then she felt Her strength departing, and at last she fell, Fell in an instant, blotted out and razed ; She who had stood yet longer than the longest Of the Four Kingdoms-who, as in an Ark, Had floated down, amid a thousand wrecks, Uninjured, from the Old World to the New, From the last trace of civilized life-to where Light shone again, and with unclouded splendour.
He who is on his travels and loves ease,
Through many an age in the mid-sea She dwelt,
First didst thou practise patience in Bologna,
Many a year is gone
The monk, the nun, the holy legate mask'd !
To-morrow came the scaffold and the heads-man;
And he died there by torch-light, bound and gage'd, ST MARK'S PLACE.
Whose name and crime they knew not. Underneath
Where the Archangel, turning with the wind,
Blesses the City from the topmost-tower,
His arms extended-there continually
Two phantom-shapes were sitting, side by side,
Or up, and, as in sport, chasing each other;
Horror and Mirth. Both vanish'd in one hour!
Enter the Palace by the marble stairs!
Down which the grizzly head of old Faliero
Rolld from the block. (40) Pass onward through the
Where, among all drawn in their ducal robes,
But one is wanting-where thrown off in heat,
A short inscription on the Doge's chair
Led to another on the wall yet shorter; (41)
Rung through the fretted roof, cedar and gold,
Step into darkness; and be told, « 'T was here,
Trusting, deceived, assembled but to die,
To take a long embrace and part again,
Carrara and his valiant sons were strangled;
He first,—then they, whose only crime had been
So soon to cry, smiting his brow, «l'm lost!»
Was shown, and with all courtesy, all honour,
The great and noble captain, Carmagnola.— (42) · Surely those aged limbs have need of rest !.
That deep descent (thou canst not yet discern
Under the flood, where light and warmth came never!
Leads to a cover'd Bridge, the Bridge of Sighs ;
And to that fatal closet at the foot,
Lurking for prey, which, when a victim enter'd,
Forcing out life.-But let us to the roof,
And, when thou hast survey'd the sea, the land,
As in a place of tombs. They had their tenants,
And each supplied with sufferings of his own.
There burning suns beat unrelentingly,
Turning all things to dust, and scorching up
The brain, till Reason fled, and the wild yell
And wilder laugh burst out on every side,
Answering each other as in mockery!
Though many came and left it in an hour.
(For three-and-thirty years his uncle kept
The water-gate below, but seldom spoke,
Though much was on his mind), most nights arrived
The prison-boat, that boat with many oars,
And bore away as to the Lower World,
Disburdening in the Canal Orfano, (43)
Summer or Winter, death the penalty;
And where a secret, once deposited,
Scala de' Giganti.