VENICE.
IN domes of dim and ancient gold,
In cloisters, where the lightning plays,
Where gleam the gorgeous saints of old
In aisles of jade and chrysoprase,
In halls that wave like waving water,
Still moves the voice of Ocean's daughter.
Venice! What siren music then
Stirred on the shoals and shallow sea,
When that small band of wandering men
First in their dreams imagined thee,
And hung that lyric splendour high
Between the water and the sky!
What Triton strains in other days
Were heard, when, on a sea of flame,
Thy battlefleet swung through the haze,
And homeward in her glory came,
Bearing the beauty of the East
To make Thy happy saint a feast.
Now, though that sceptre-hand be cold,
Those argent argosies no more
Their Tyrian-tinted wings unfold
From Cyprus unto Elsinore;
With broken sword, and banner furled,
How dies the Siren of the world?
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