Brushing the floor with what was once a hat And through the ranks, from wing to wing, are seen
Of ceremony. Gliding on, he comes,

Moving as once they were—instead of rage
Slipshod, ungarter'd; his long suit of black Breathing deliberate valor.
Dingy and thread bare, though renew'd in patches
Till it has almost ceased to be the old one.

X.
At length arrived, and with a shrug that pleads

COLL'ALTO. “ 'Tis my necessity !” he stops and speaks, Screwing a smile into his dinnerless face.

In this neglected mirror (23) (the broad frame

Of massive silver serves to testify “I am a Poet, Signor :--give me leave

That many a noble matron of the house
To bid you welcome. Though you shrink from notice. Has sate before it) once, alas, was seen
The splendor of your name has gone before you; What led to many sorrows. From that time
And Italy from sea to sea rejoices,

The bat came hither for a sleeping-place;
As well indeed she may! But I transgress : And he, who cursed another in his heart,
I too have known the weight of praise, and ought Said, “Be thy dwelling through the day, the night,
To spare another.”

Shunn'd like Coil'alto," "T was in that old Castle, Saying so, he laid

Which flanks the cliff with its grey battlements His sonnet, an impromptu, on my table,

Flung here and there, and, like an eagle's nest, And bow'd and left me ; in his hollow hand Hangs in the Trevisan, that thus the Steward, Receiving my small tribute, a zecchino,

Shaking his locks, the few that Time had left him, Unconsciously, as doctors do their fees.

Address'd me, as we enter'd what was calid

• My Lady's Chamber.” On the walls, the chairs, My omelet, and a flagon of hill-wine,

Much yet remain'd of the rich tapestry ; “ The very best in Bergamo!" had long

Much of the adventures of Sir Lancelot
Fled from all eyes; or, like the young Gil Blas In the green glades of some enchanted forest.
De Santillane, I had perhaps been seen

The toilet-table was of massive silver, Bartering my bread and salt for empty praise. Florentine Art, when Florence was renown'd;

A gay confusion of the elements,
IX.

Dolphins and boys, and shells and fruits and flowers:
ITALY.

And from the ceiling, in his gilded cage,

Hung a small bird of curious workmanship, Am I in Italy? Is this the Mincius ?

That, when his Mistress bade him, would unfold Are those the distant turrets of Verona ?

(So said at least the babbling Dame, Tradition) And shall I sup where Juliet at the Masque (20) His emerald-wings, and sing and sing again Saw her loved Montague, and now sleeps by him? The song that pleased her. While I stood and look'd, Such questions hourly do I ask myself; (21) A gleam of day yet lingering in the West, And not a finger-post by the road-side

The Steward went on. “ To Mantua”-“ To Ferrara”—but excites

She had ('t is now long since) Surprise, and doubt, and self-congratulation. A gentle serving-maid, the fair Cristina,

Fair as a lily, and as spotless 100; O Italy, how beautiful thou art!

None so admired, beloved. They had grown up Yet I could weep-for thou art lying, alas! As play-fellows; and some there were, who said, Low in the dust; and they who come, admire thee Some who knew much, discoursing of Cristina, As we admire the beautiful in death.

She is not what she seems.' When unrequired, Thine was a dangerous gift, the gift of Beauty. She would steal forth ; her custom, her delight, Would thou hadst less, or wert as once thou wast, To wander through and through an ancient grove Inspiring awe in those who now enslave thee! Self-planted half-way down, losing herself

-But why despair? Twice hast thou lived already, Like one in love with sadness; and her veil
Twice shone among the nations of the world, (22) And vesture white, seen ever in that place,
As the sun shines among the lesser lights

Ever as surely as the hours carne round,
Of heaven; and shalt again. The hour shall come, Among those reverend trees, gave her below
When they who think to bind the ethereal spirit, The name of The White Lady. But the day
Who, like the eagle cowering o'er his prey, Is gone, and I delay you.
Watch with quick eye, and strike and strike again

In that chair
If but a sinew vibrate, shall confess

The Countess, as it might be now, was sitting, Their wisdom folly. Even now the flame

Her genile serving-maid, the fair Cristina, Bursts forth where once it burnt so gloriously, Combing her golden hair; and, through this door And, dying, left a splendor like the day,

The Count, her lord, was hastening, call'd away That like the day diffused itself, and still

By letters of great urgency to Venice; Blesses the earth—the light of genius, virtue, When in the glass she saw, as she believed, Greatness in thought and act, contempt of death, ("T was an illusion of the Evil Spirila Godlike example. Echoes that have slept Some say he came and cross'd it at the instant) Since Athens, Lacedaemon, were themselves, A smile, a glance at parting, given and answer'd, Since men invoked " By Those in Marathon!" That turn'd her blood to gall. That very night Awake along the Ægean; and the dead,

The deed was done. That night, ere yet the Moon They of that sacred shore, have heard the call, Was up on Monte Calvo, and the wolf

66

Baying as still he does (oft do I hear him,

A vagrant crew, and careless of to-morrow, (28) An hour and more by the old turret-clock), Careless and full of mirth. Who, in that quaver, They led her forth, the unhappy lost Cristina, Sings “Caro, Caro ?"-"T is the Prima Donna, Helping her down in her distress—to die. And to her monkey, smiling in his face,

Who, as transported, cries, “ Brava! Ancora ?” "No blood was spilt; no instrument of death *T is a grave personage, an old macaw, Lurk'dor stood forth, declaring its bad purpose ; Perch'd on her shoulder. But mark him who leaps Nor was a hair of her unblemish'd head

Ashore, and with a shout urges along Hurt in that hour. Fresh as a flower ungather'd, The lagging mules ; (29) then runs and climbs a tree And warin with life, her youthful pulses playing, That with its branches overhangs the stream, She was wall'd up within the Castle-wall. (24) And, like an acorn, drops on deck again. The wall itself was hollow'd to receive her; "T is he who speaks not, stirs not, but we laugh ; Then closed again, and done to line and rule. That child of fun and frolic, Arlecchino. (30) Would you descend and see it !-"T is far down; And mark their Poet-with what emphasis And many a stair is gone. "T is in a vault

He prompts the young Soubrette, conning her part! Under the Chapel: and there nightly now, Her tongue plays truant, and he raps his box, As in the narrow niche, when smooth and fair, And prompts again; for ever looking round And as though nothing had been done or thought of, As if in search of subjects for his wit, The stone-work rose before her, till the light His satire; and as often whispering Glimmer'd and went—there, nightly, at that hour Things, though unheard, not unimaginable. (You smile, and would it were an idle tale! Would we could say so !) at that hour she stands Had I thy pencil, Crabbe (when thou hast done, Shaddering—her eyes uplifted, and her hands Late

may

it be-it will, like Prospero's staff, Join'd as in prayer; then, like a Blessed Soul Be buried fifty fathoms in the earth), Bursting the tomb, springs forward, and away I would portray the Italian-Now I cannot. Flics o'er the woods, the mountains. Issuing forth, (25) Subtle, discerning, eloquent, the slave The hunter meets her in his hunting track; Of Love, of Hate, for ever in extremes ; The shepherd on the heath, starting, exclaims Gentle when unprovoked, easily won, (For still she bears the name she bore of old) But quick in quarrel—through a thousand shades Tis the White Lady'!"

From the well-head, supplying all below;

XII.
Making the Imperial City of the East,

LUIGI.
Herself, his tributary.
If we turn

He who is on his travels and loves ease,
To the black forests of the Rhine, the Danube, Ease and companionship, should hire a youth,
Where o'er each narrow glen a castle hangs, Such as thou wert, Luigi. Thee I found,
And, like the wolf that hunger'd at his door, Playing at Mora (33) on the cabin-roof
The baron lived by rapine-there we meet, With Pulcinella—crying, as in wrath,
In warlike guise, the Caravan from Venice; “ Tre! Quattro! Cinque!"- 't is a game to strike
When on its march, now lost and now emerging, Fire from the coldest heart. What then from thine!
A glittering file, the trumpet heard, the scout And, ere the twentieth throw, I had resolved,
Sent and recallid--but at a city-gate

Won thy looks. Thou wert an honest lad; All gaiety, and look'd for ere it comes ;

Wert generous, grateful, not without ambition. Winning its way with all that can attract, Had it depended on thy will and pleasure, Cages, whence every wild cry of the desert, Thou wouldst have number'd in thy family Jugglers, stage-dancers. Well might Charlemain, At least six Doges and twelve Procurators. (34) And his brave peers, each with his visor up, But that was not to be. In thee I saw On their long lances lean and gaze awhile, The last of a long line of Carbonari, When the Venetian to their eyes disclosed

Who in their forest, for three hundred years, The Wonders of the East! Well might they then Had lived and labor'd, cutting, charring wood ; Sigh for new Conquests!

Discovering where they were, to those astray,
Thus did Venice rise,

By the

e-echoing stroke, the crash, the fall, Thus flourish, till the unwelcome tidings came, Or the blue wreath that travell'd slowly up That in the Tagus had arrived a fleet

Into the sky. Thy nobler destinies From India, from the region of the Sun,

Led thee away to justle in the crowd; Fragrant with spices—that a way was found, And there I found thee—by thy own prescription A channel open'd, and the golden stream

Crossing the sea to try once more a change Turn'd to enrich another. Then she felt

Of air and diet, landing and as gaily, Her strength departing, and at last she fell, Near the Dogana-on the Great Canal, Fell in an instant, blotted out and razed ;

As though thou knewest where to dine and sleep. She who had stood yet longer than the longest Of the Four Kingdoms—who, as in an Ark,

First didst thou practise patience in Bologna, Had floated down, amid a thousand wrecks, Serving behind a Cardinal's gouty chair, Uninjured, from the Old World 10 the New, Laughing at jests that were no laughing matter; From the last trace of civilized life-to where Then teach the Art to others in Ferrara Light shone again, and with unclouded splendor. - At the Three Moors—as Guide, as Cicerone

Dealing out largely in exchange for pence Though many an age in the mid-sea She dwelt,

Thy scraps of knowledge—through the grassy street From her retreat calmly contemplating

Leading, explaining—pointing to the bars
The changes of the Earth, herself unchanged. Of Tasso's dungeon, and the Latin verse,
Before her pass'd, as in an awful dream,

Graven in the stone, that yet denotes the door
The mightiest of the mighty. What are these, Of Ariosto.
Clothed in their purple? O’er the globe they fling

Many a year is gone
Their monstrous shadows; and, while yet we speak, Since on the Rhine we parted; yet, methinks,
Phantom-like, vanish with a dreadful scream! I can recall thee to the life, Luigi;
What—but the last that styled themselves the In our long journey ever by my side,
Cæsars?

O'er rough and smooth, o'er apennine, maremma; And who in long array (look where they come; Thy locks jet-black, and clustering round a face Their gestures menacing so far and wide)

Open as day and full of manly daring. Wear the green turban and the heron's plume ? Thou hadst a hand, a heart for all that came, Who-but the Caliphs ? follow'd fast by shapes Herdsman or pedlar, monk or muleteer; As new and strange Emperor, and King, and Czar, And few there were, that met thee not with smiles. And Soldan, each, with a gigantic stride,

Mishap passid o'er thee like a summer-cloud. Trampling on all the flourishing works of peace Cares thou hadst none; and they, who stood to hear To make his greatness greater, and inscribe

thee, His name in blood—some, men of steel, steel-clad; Caught the infection and forgot their own. Others, nor long, alas, the interval,

Nature conceived thee in her merriest mood,
In light and gay attire, with brow serene

Her happiest—not a speck was in the sky;
Wielding Jove's thunder, scattering sulphurous fire And at thy birth the cricket chirp'd, Luigi,
Mingled with darkness; and, among the rest, Thine a perpetual voice-at every turn
Lo, one by one, passing continually,

A larum to the echo. In a clime,
Those who assume a sway beyond them all ; Where all the world was gay, thou wert the gayest.
Men grey with age, each in a triple crown, And, like a babe, hush'd only by thy slumbers,
And in his tremulous hands grasping the keys Up hill and down, morning and noon and night,
That can alone, as he would signify,

Singing or talking ; singing to thyself Unlock Heaven's gate.

When none gave ear, but to the listener talking.

The monk, the nun, the holy legate mask'd !
XIII.

To-morrow came the scaffold and the heads-man;

And he died there by torch-light, bound and gagg’d, ST. MARK'S PLACE.

Whose name and crime they knew not. Underneath

Where the Archangel, turning with the wind, OTER how many tracts, vast, measureless, Blesses the City from the toprnost-tower, Nothing from day to day, from year to year, His arms extended—there continually Passen, save now and then a cloud, a meteor, Two phantom-shapes were sitting, side by side, A fainish'd eagle ranging for his prey;

Or up, and, as in sport, chasing each other; While on this spot of earth, the work of man, Horror and Mirth. Both vanish'd in one hour! How much has been transacted! Emperors, Popes, But Ocean only, when again he claims Warriors, from far and wide, laden with spoil, His ancient rule, shall wash away their footsteps. Landing, have here perform'd their several parts, Then left the stage to others. Not a stone

Enter the Palace by the marble stairs In the broad pavement, but to him who has

Down which the grizzly head of old Faliero An eye, an ear for the Inanimate World,

Roll'd from the block. (40) Pass onward through the Tell of Past Ages.

Chamber,
In that temple-porch

Where, among all drawn in their ducal robes, (The brass is gone, the porphyry remains), (35) But one is wanting—where, thrown off in heat, Did Barbarossa fling his mantle off,

A short inscription on the Doge's chair And, kneeling, on his neck receive the foot Led to another on the wall yet shorter ;(41) or the proud Pontiff (36)—thus at last consoled And thou wilt track them-wilt from halls of state, For flight, disguise, and many an aguish shake Where kings have feasted, and the festal song On his stone pillow. In that temple-porch, Rung through the fretted roof, cedar and gold, Old as he was, so near his hundredth year, Step into darkness; and be told, “ 'T was here, And blind-his eyes put out—did Dandolo Trusting, deceived, assembled but to die, Sinnd forth, displaying on his ducal crown To take a long embrace and part again, The Cross just then assumed at the high altar. Carrara and his valiant sons were strangled; There did he stand, erect, invincible,

He first—then they, whose only crime had been Though wan his cheeks, and wet with many tears, Struggling to save their Father.—Through that door, For in his prayers he had been weeping much ; So soon to cry, smiting his brow, “ I'm lost!” And now the pilgrims and the people wept Was shown, and with all courtesy, all honor, With admiration, saying in their hearts,

The great and noble captain, Carmagnola.—(42) "Surely those aged limbs have need of rest!” That deep descent (thou canst not yet discern -There did he stand, with his old armor on, Aught as it is) leads to the dripping vaults Ere, gonfalon in hand, that stream'd aloft,

Under the flood, where light and warmth came never! As conscious of its glorious destiny,

Leads to a cover'd Bridge, the Bridge of Sighs; So soon to float o'er mosque and minaret,

And to that fatal closet at the foot, He sail'd away, five hundred gallant ships, Lurking for prey, which, when a victim enter'd, Their lofty sides hung with emblazon'd shields, Grew less and less, contracting to a span; Following his track to Glory. He returned not; An iron door, urged onward by a screw, But of his trophies four arrived ere-long,

Forcing out life.—But let us to the roof, Snatch'd from destruction—the four steeds divine, And, when thou hast survey'd the sea, the land, That strike the ground, resounding with their feet,(37) Visit the narrow cells that cluster there, And from their nostrils snort ethereal flame As in a place of tombs. They had their tenants, Over that very portal—in the place

And each supplied with sufferings of his own. Where in an after-time Petrarch was seen

There burning suns beat unrelentingly,
Sitting beside the Doge, on his right hand, Turning all things to dust, and scorching up
Amid the ladies of the court of Venice,

The brain, till Reason Aed, and the wild yell
Their beauty shaded from the setting sun And wilder laugh burst out on every side,
By many-color'd hangings; while, beneath, Answering each other as in mockery!
Knights of all nations, some from merry England,(38) -Few Houses of the size were better fill'd;
Their lances in the rest, charged for the prize. Though many came and left it in an hour.

“Most nights," so said the good old Nicolo Here, among other pageants, and how oft

(For three-and-thirty years his uncle kept It came, as if returning to console

The water-gate below, but seldom spoke, The leust, instruct the greatest, did the Doge,

Though much was on his mind), “ most nights arrived Himself

, go round, borne through the gazing crowd, The prison-boat, that boat with many oars, Once in a chair of state, once on his bier.

And bore away as to the Lower World,
They were his first appearance, and his last.

Disburdening in the Canal Orfano, (43)
That drowning-place, where never net was thrown,

Summer or Wintor, death the penalty ;
The sea, that emblem of uncertainty,

And where a secret, once deposited, Changed not so fast for many and many an age, Lay till the waters should give up their dead.” As this small spot. Today 't was full of maskers ; And lo, the madness of the Carnival, (39) 8

1 Scala de' Giganti.

Yet what so gay as Venice ? Every gale But broken by a cloud. The wind was hushid, Breathed heavenly music! and who flock'd not thither And the sea mirror-like. A single zephyr To celebrate her Nuptials with the Sea ?

Play'd with her tresses, and drew more and more To wear the mask, and mingle in the crowd Her veil across her bosom. With Greek, Armenian, Persian-night and day

Long I lay (There, and there only, did the hour stand still) Contemplating that face so beautiful, Pursuing through her thousand labyrinths

That rosy mouth, that cheek dimpled with smiles, The Enchantress Pleasure; realizing dreams That neck but half-concealed, whiter than snow. The earliest, happiest—for a tale to catch

'T was the sweet slumber of her early age. Credulous ears, and hold young hearts in chains, I look'd and look’d, and felt a flush of joy Had only to begin, “ There lived in Venice "- I would express, but cannot.

on I wish'd “Who were the Six we supp'd with yesternight?”(44) Gently—by stealth—to drop asleep myself, Kings, one and all! Thou couldst not but remark And to incline yet lower that sleep might come; The style and manner of the Six that served them.” Oft closed my eyes as in forgetfulness.

"T was all in vain. Love would not let me rest “Who answer'd me just now?(45) Who, when I said, • 'T is nine,' turn'd round and said so solemnly, But how delightful when at length she waked ! Signor, he died at nine!'”_“ 'T was the Armenian; When, her light hair adjusting, and her veil The mask that follows thee, go where thou wilt." So rudely scatter'd, she resumed her place

Beside me; and, as gaily as before, “But who stands there, alone among them all ?"(46) Sitting unconsciously nearer and nearer, “ The Cypriot. Ministers from foreign courts Pour'd out her innocent mind! Beset his doors, long ere his hour of rising ;

So, nor long since, His the Great Secret! Not the golden house Sung a Venetian: and his lay of love, (48) Of Nero, or those fabled in the East,

Dangerous and sweet, charm'd Venice. As for me As wrought by magic, half so rich as his !

(Less fortunate, if Love be Happiness)
Two dogs, coal-black, in collars of pure gold, No curtain drawn, no pulse beating alarm,
Walk in his footsteps—Who but his familiars? I went alone under the silent moon;
He casts no shadow, nor is seen to smile!” | Thy place, St. Mark, thy churches, palaces,

Glittering, and frost-like, and as day drew on,
Such their discourse. Assembling in St. Mark's, Melting away, an emblem of themselves.
All Nations met as on enchanted ground !

Those porches (49) pass'd through which the water-
What though a strange, mysterious Power was there, breeze
Moving throughout, subtle, invisible,

Plays, though no longer on the noble forms And universai as the air they breathed;

That moved there, sable-vested—and the Quay, A Power that never slumber'd, never pardon'd, Silent, grass-grown-adventurer-like I launch'd All eye, all ear, nowhere and everywhere, (47) Into the deep, ere-long discovering Entering the closet and the sanctuary,

Isles such as cluster in the Southern seas, No place of refuge for the Doge himself ;

All verdure. Everywhere, from bush and brake, Most present when least thought of—nothing dropt The musky odor of the serpents came; In secret, when the heart was on the lips, Their slimy track across the woodman's path Nothing in feverish sleep, but instantly

Bright in the moonshine: and, as round I went, Observed and judged—a Power, that if hut glanced at Dreaming of Greece, whither the waves were gliding, In casual converse, be it where it might,

I listen'd to the venerable pines The speaker lower'd at once his eyes, his voice, Then in close converse; (50) and, if right I guess'd, And pointed upward, as to God in Heaven- Delivering many a message to the Winds What though that Power was there, he who lived thus, In secret, for their kindred on Mount Ida. Pursuing Pleasure, lived as if it were not, But let him in the midnight-air indulge

Nor when again in Venice, when again A word, a thought against the laws of Venice, In that strange place, so stirring and so still, And in that hour he vanish'd from the earth! Where nothing comes to drown the human voice

But music, or the dashing of the tide,

Ceased I to wander. Now a Jessica
XIV.

Sung to her lute, her signal as she sate

At her half-open window. Then, methought,
THE GONDOLA.

A serenade broke silence, breathing hope

Through walls of stone, and torturing the proud heart Boy, call the Gondola ; the sun is set. Of some Priuli. Once, we could not err, It came, and we embark'd ; but instantly,

(It was before an old Palladian house,
Though she had stept on board so light of foot, As between night and day we floated by),
So light of heart, laughing she knew not why, A Gondolier lay singing; and he sung,
Sleep overcame her; on my arm she slept.

As in the time when Venice was herself, (51)
From time to time I waked her ; but the boat Or Tancred and Erminia. On our oars
Rock'd her to sleep again.
The moon was up,