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But is not Doria's menace come to pass ? 8
Are they not bridled ?VENICE , lost and won,
Her thirteen hundred years of freedom doné,
Sinks, like a sea-weed, into whence she rose ,
Better be whelm'd beneath the waves , and shun,

Even in destruction's depth , her foreign foes.
From whom submission wrings, an infamous repose,

In youth she was all glory ,-a new TYRE,
Her very by-word sprung from victory,
The » PLANTER OF THE LION, » * which through fire
And blood she bore o’er subject earth and sea ;
Though making many slaves, herself still free,
And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite;
Witness Tróy's rival, Candia ! Vouch it, ye

Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight!
For ye are names, no time, nor tyranny can blight,

Statues of glass-all shiver'd—the long file
Of her dead Doges are declin’d to dust;
But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile
Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust;
Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust,

* Plant the Lion that is, the Lion of St. Mark, the standard of the republic, which is the origin of the word Pantaloon - Pianta-leone, Pantaleon, Pantaloon.

Have yielded to the stranger : empty halls,
Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must
Too oft remind her who and what enthrals, 9
Have flung a desolate cloud, o'er VENICE' lovely walls.

When Athens' armies fell at SYRACUSĖ,
And fetter'd thousands bore the yoke of war,
Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse , * :
Her voice their only ransom from afar :
See ! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car
Of the o’ermaster'd victor stops, the reins
Fall from his hands his idle scimitar

Starts from its belt-he rends his captive's chains ,
And bids him thank the bard , for freedom and his strains.

Thus, VENICE, if no stronger claim were thine ,
Were all thy proud historic, deeds forgot ,
Thy choral memory of the Bard divine,
Thy love of Tasso , should have cut the knot
Which ties thee to thy tyrants; and thy lot
Is shameful to the nations,-most of all,
ALBION ! to thee: the Ocean queen should not
Abandon Ocean's children; in the fall


* The story is told in Plutarch's life of Nicias.

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I lov’d her from my boyhood—she to me
Was as a fairy city of the heart;
Rising like water-columns from the sea,
Of joy the sojurn, and of wealth the mart;
And Otway , Ratcliff , Schiller , Shakspeare's art, *
Had stamp'd her image in me, and even so,
Although I found her thus, we did not part,

Perchance even dearer in her day of woe,
Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show.

I can repeople with the past—and of
The present there is still for eye and thought,
And meditation chasten'd down, enough:
And more , it may be, than I hoped or sought;
And of the happiest moments which were wrought
Within the web of my existence, some
From thee, fair Venice ! have their colours caught :

There are some feelings Time can not benumb,
Nor Torture shake, or mine would now be cold and dumb.

But from their nature will the tannen grow 10
Loftiest on loftiest and least shelter'd rocks;
Rooted in barreness , where nought below

* Venice Preserved ; Mysteries of Udolpho; the Ghost-seer, or Armenian ; the Merchant of Venice ; Olhel.

Of soil supports them 'gainst the Alpine shocks
Of eddying storms ; yet springs the trunk, and mocks
The howling tempest , till its height and frame
Are worthy of the mountains from whose blocks
Of bleak, grey, granite, into life it came,
And grew a giant tree;-the mind may grow the same.

Existence may be borne, and the deep root
Of life and sufferance makes its firm abode
In bare and desolated bosoms : mute
The camel labours with the heaviest load,
And the wolf dies in silence ,-not bestow’d
In vain should such example be; if they,
Things of ignoble or of savage mood,

Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay
May temper it to bear ,-it is but for a day.

XXII. All suffering doth destroy, or is destroy’d, Even by the sufferer; and, in each event Ends :-Some, with hope replenish'd and rebuoy'd Return to whence they came_with like intent, And weave their web again; some, bow'd and bent, Wax grey and ghastly, withering ere their time, And perish with the reed on which they leant;

Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime, According as their souls, were form’d to sink or climb :

But ever and anon of griefs subdued
There comes a token like a scorpion's sting,
Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued;
And slight withal may be the things which bring
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling
Aside for ever : it may be a sound
A tone of music,-summer's eve-or spring,

A flower—the wind—the Ocean—which shall wound, Striking the electric chain, wherewith we are darkly bound;

And how and why we know not, nor can trace
Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind ,
But feel the shock renew'd, nor can efface
The blight and blackening which it leaves behind,
Which out of things familiar, undesign'd,
When least we deem of such, calls up to view
The spectres whom no exorcism can bind,

The cold—the changed-perchance the dead-anew,
The mourn'd, the loved, the lost-too many !-yel how lew!

But my soul wanders; I demand it back
To meditale amongst decay and stand
A ruin amidst ruins; there to track
Fall'n states and buried greatness, o’er a land
Which was the mightiest in its old command,
And is the loveliest, and must ever be

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