Poems (Hale)/The Marriage of the Adriatic

by Mary Whitwell Hale

THE MARRIAGE OF THE ADRIATIC.

 

At the time when Venice was at the height of her glory, a ceremony was annually performed by the Doge of that Republic, called the Marriage of the Adriatic. It was celebrated for many years, but, like the glory of the Republic, it has long since passed away.

Morn—and the island city lies
 Proudly beneath her glorious sky:
Around, her towers in grandeur rise;
 How brightly shines her sun on high!
See, here the conquered banners wave
 Above San Marco's ancient walls,
And there the rippling waters lave
 Each proud palazzo's regal halls.

And noiseless all. No sound of care
 Breaks in upon this soft repose;
But Nature, calm, and bright, and fair,
 Around her robe of silence throws.
Hark! hark! a proud, triumphal peal
 Is ringing from each lofty tower;
Calls it proud man in prayer to kneel?
 Is it devotion's sacred hour?

No, not to prayer. The bugle's note,
 The trumpet's thrilling tones are here,
And softer sounds of music float
 In gentle murmurs to the ear.
And look, the idle and the gay,
 And beauty's form pass lightly by;
It is their monarch's bridal day;
 Should not the heart with joy beat high?

O! many a heart beats gaily here,
 Within this favored, sunny clime;
Nor deems a darker day is near
 Proud Venice, in this glorious time.
Noon,—and the sun's meridian rays
 Still beam on lofty tower and dome:
Mid gorgeous pomp and jewel's blaze,
 The idle throng still gaily roam.

Gaze further. On the glittering stream,
 What glorious object meets the view?
Is it the pageant of a dream,
 Illumed by Fancy's magic hue?
It comes. That train moves slowly on,
 Beneath the heaven's refulgent light;
Never the sun, in splendor shone
 Upon a scene more proudly bright.

All silent is the gentle lay;
 The warlike strain is heard no more:
Mid this magnificent array,
 Those lofty, thrilling strains are o'er.
Silent as death's calm, noiseless sleep,
 Venice, is now thy giddy throng;
Nor would thy children idly weep,
 Were those last sounds thy parting song.

Yes, glorious were it now to die,
 Free as thy sires thy birthright gave;
And proud, beneath a freeman's sky,
 To find a freeman's hallowed grave.
The glittering pledge of faith is given:
 The monarch weds the yielding sea;
And loud, beneath the arch of heaven,
 Proud bride! arise those shouts for thee.

That bridal pageant was the last,
 That ever here thy eye beheld;
Those varied strains for aye have passed,
 That richly on the soft air swelled.
Venice, thy palmy days are o'er.
 What art thou, City of the Isles?
Upon this festal pomp, no more
 The sun in pride and glory smiles.

Yet, beautiful in ruins stand,
 To mark thy former glorious hour,
And, sadly, to each listening land,
 Thy lesson teach of truth and power.
And may our nation learn from thee
 What gives alone immortal fame;
Our strength alone in virtue be,
 Our pride alone,—a freeman's name.