The many pictures* of the beautiful,
The brave, the noble, who were once Venetians:
But hourly doth the damp destroy their colours,
And Titian's hues are faded as the face
From which he painted. With a downcast brow,
Drawing his dark robe round him, which no more
Hides the rich silk or gems,† walks the Venetian;
Proud with a melancholy pride which dwells
Only upon the glories of the dead;
And humble with a bitter consciousness
Of present degradation.
These are the things that tame the pride of man—
The spectral writings on the wall of Time–
Warnings from the Invisible to show
Man's destiny is not in his own hands.
Cities and nations, each are in their turn
The mighty sacrifice which Time demands,
And offers up at the eternal throne—
Signs of man's weakness and man's vanity.
* Lord Byron, in one of his letters, alludes to the numberless splendid pictures mouldering in the Venetian palaces, whose inhabitants refuse to sell the portraits of their ancestors, almost the sole memorials of their former splendour.
† Though the use of the same dark robe was prescribed to all Venetian noblemen, they used to outvie each other in the magnificence of the under garments which it concealed.
