’Tis gone the life of Venice with its pride—
No songs are heard, nor seen are lights of balls,
On marble stairs, on portals, in the halls,
The moon’s pale rays alone all whitening glide.
In the canals Oceanus wailing calls…
He only will forever young abide,
Fain would he give life’s breath to his sweet bride,
His sounding waves are beating mouldering walls.
A churchyard silence o’er the town doth lower.
A priest whom ages left in his old fane,
St Mark strikes sinister the midnight hour.
In rhythmic numbers, softly, in deep strain,
In language sibylline sounds from the tower:
„The dead do not awake—it is in vain.“
(Posthumous)
How terrible the ocean’s wrath can be!
He roars with rage and foaming arms will send
To rule the world and to the clouds ascend,
Till spent by storm he sinks back sullenly.
How vainly frightful thunderbolts defend
The heaven… In the blue vault he doth see
His palace, a strong fortress, on which he
With grim assault his power would extend.
By lightning wounded, down he seems to fall,
With whispered tales a breeze his anger stills,
And in his depth is mirrored heaven’s high hall.
What he had so desired a dream fulfils:
They are now his, the moon, the stars and all,
He murmurs happily, with joy he thrills.
