XI

Hurled to the dust is now that Freedom, broken
And thunder-torn her banner once flung high
O'er those red columns as a rainbow token,
When wilder grew the tempest and the sky;
And they, the brave who in their agony
Fought round it, rallied, struggled, bled, and died,
Sleep with it now, forgot like victory!
Their shouts that rang along those halls of pride
Are in a stillness hushed that ever shall abide:

XII

Till the Archangel's trump shall wake the dead,
And call from their all-dreamless sleep the brave,
The freemen who like sacrifices bled,
Upon their country's altar-place, their grave
The battle-field, where laurels o'er them wave
Hallowed by tears and triumphs unforgot;
Until the immortal memories they gave
Were their sons' inspirations; until thought
Bodies forth mighty deeds such as their fathers wrought.

XIII

Her Adrian-rule and sceptre of the sea
Are torn from her, her eastern diadem
Is shivered, melted to a memory;
Scorn of the foemen when she bowed to them,
Cast to the Austrian as a worthless gem,
Most in her fall the impotence was shown
Of the clay-idol; pause ere ye condemn,
Remorseless in her hate to foes alone,
With a stern jealous love the Parent watched her own.

XIV

Yea, all is here romantic, strange and wild,
And mystical, and dreamlike; lo, the square
Where domes, and spires, and minarets are piled,
The ducal hall's barbaric splendour there;
The steeds of bronze that glitter in the air
Bridled; the towering Campanile's height
Where Galileo fixed his starry chair;
And yonder triple shrine that fills the sight
With a strange sense of awe, of marvel, yet delight.

XV

The Saracenic, Greek, and Goth are twined;
On gilded cupolas, spires flashing rear
Their points, the front with myriad columns lined;
Behold, undisciplined by art severe,
The poetry of architecture here,
Heaped up, and, as a conqueror's spoil displayed,
The o'er-crowded wealth of either hemisphere.
Enter, a Spirit doth the place pervade,
Religion hath her own the sanctuary made.

XVI

Yet the rich spoils which round those alters shine,
Seem more the stores that Mammon's den conceals,
Gorgeous, yet dark, than Jesus' blessed shrine;
But oh, what groups yon casement's light reveals
As through the shadowy depths beneath it steals,
Shedding its last decaying hues upon
Grey age that there in rapt devotion kneels;
As if it were a ray from God that shone,
The visible sign and type of their acceptance won.

XVII

And the deep silence and half-stifled breath
Of those who, shade-like, tread, as if they feared
To wake the slumbers of the dead beneath;
Or as they felt the Eternal Being heard
Each voice within his sanctuary preferred;
Lo, where yon contrite pours on bended knee
To the confessional each slow-wrung word;
The Magdalen of grief! fair woman, she
More erred against than erring still her lot to be.

XVIII

And never yet, fair Venice! shone the sun
Where life did changes like thine own avow.
Even on this spot what laurels have been won,
Witness of all thy triumphs, when thy brow
Was raised as proudly as 'tis fallen now.
Here where thou sat'st upon thy jealous throne,
The mart, the carnival, the masque below;
With morn, the corpse by yon red columns thrown
Of some pale headless wretch, his name, life, crime unknown.

XIX

But when the stars pale o'er the dazzling lights
Of the Piazza's arcades, when the sound
Of music, dancing, revelry invites
Greek, Turk, or Persian stretched along the ground
When the tale-teller hath his circle found,
Then with light veil and flexile step steals by
Venetian beauty! earth shows nought around
Like the dark heaven of that all-speaking eye,
Its passionate records past, its future prophecy.

XX

Then when the Italian lover from beneath
Touched the light chord that told his presence near,
Breathing the lay whose deep and passionate breath
Was more than eloquence to woman's ear,
Till all but feeling slumbered, even fear
Lulled into rest where nought but love awoke;
Ah, well for her at morn she did not hear
The sullen plunge, the cry suppressed that broke,
As the hired bravo's dagger dealt its murderous stroke!