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VENICE.
No more the waves are cumbered
With her galleys bold and free;
For her days of pride are numbered,
And she rules no more the sea.
Her sword has left her keeping,
Her prows forget the tide,
And the Adriatic weeping
Wails round his mourning bride.
VIII.
Gloomy, the proud Venetian
Surveys his father's halls,
Where the fading hues of Titian
Yet light the mouldering walls.
For they look reproach and sorrow,
They dreamed not the disgrace
That would darken o'er the morrow
Of the once Patrician race.
In those straits is desolation,
And darkness and dismay—
Venice, no more a nation,
Has owned the stranger's sway.
