A Vision of Venice.
BBEHOLD! a waking vision crowns my soulWith beatific radiance, and the lightOf shining hope;—a golden-memoried dreamThat clings unto my youth, as clung the strangeLeonine phantom to that mystic man,Lean Paracelsus. It has grown with meLike destiny, or that which seems to beMy destiny, ambition: and its glowInflames my fancy, as if some clear starHad burst in silvery light within my brain.From the smooth hyaline of that far seaThe pictured Adriatic rises, fairAs dream, a kingly-built and tower’d town;Column and arch and architrave instinctWith delicatest beauty; overwroughtWith tracery of interlacèd leavesFor ever blooming on white marble, hush’dIn everlasting summer, windless, cold:The city of the Doges!From the calmTransparent waters float some thrilling soundsOf Amphionic music, and the wordsAre Tasso’s, where he passions for his love,That lady Florentine so lily-smooth,Clothed on with haughtiness!At the black stairOf palace rising shadowy from the wave,Two singing gondolieri wait a freightOf loveliness. A tremulous woman, robedIn dazzling satin, and whose dimpled arms,And milky heaving breasts of living snowShine through their veil diaphanous, floats downFrom the wide portal; and the ivory prowOf the soft-cushion’d gondola (as sheSteps lightly from the marble to her place)Dips, rises, dips again; then through the blueSwift glides into the sunset.Oh, the glowOf that rich sunset dims whate’er I seeIn this my own dear valley! O’er the hills—Those craggy Euganean hills, whose peaksWedge the clear crystalline—a blazonryOf clouds pavilion’d, folded, interwoundInextricably, load the breezeless westWith awe and glory. The effulgence gleamsUpon a vision’d Belmont, home of herWho loved as Shakespeare’s women do; and gleamsUpon those walls wherein Othello’s spearStabb’d clinging innocence; where that poor wife,The love-Cassandra Belvidera, gaveHer soul in martyrdom to love and woe.And shall I never that far town behold,Crested with sparkling columns, fiery towers,Praxitelean masonry?—beholdVenice, the mart of nations, ere I die?By Heaven! her common merchants princes wereUnto the continents; her traffickersThe honourable of the earth! She stoodA crownèd city, and the fawning seaLicked her white feet; and the eternal sunKissed with departing beam her brow of snow!
BBEHOLD! a waking vision crowns my soulWith beatific radiance, and the lightOf shining hope;—a golden-memoried dreamThat clings unto my youth, as clung the strangeLeonine phantom to that mystic man,Lean Paracelsus. It has grown with meLike destiny, or that which seems to beMy destiny, ambition: and its glowInflames my fancy, as if some clear starHad burst in silvery light within my brain.From the smooth hyaline of that far seaThe pictured Adriatic rises, fairAs dream, a kingly-built and tower’d town;Column and arch and architrave instinctWith delicatest beauty; overwroughtWith tracery of interlacèd leavesFor ever blooming on white marble, hush’dIn everlasting summer, windless, cold:The city of the Doges!From the calmTransparent waters float some thrilling soundsOf Amphionic music, and the wordsAre Tasso’s, where he passions for his love,That lady Florentine so lily-smooth,Clothed on with haughtiness!At the black stairOf palace rising shadowy from the wave,Two singing gondolieri wait a freightOf loveliness. A tremulous woman, robedIn dazzling satin, and whose dimpled arms,And milky heaving breasts of living snowShine through their veil diaphanous, floats downFrom the wide portal; and the ivory prowOf the soft-cushion’d gondola (as sheSteps lightly from the marble to her place)Dips, rises, dips again; then through the blueSwift glides into the sunset.Oh, the glowOf that rich sunset dims whate’er I seeIn this my own dear valley! O’er the hills—Those craggy Euganean hills, whose peaksWedge the clear crystalline—a blazonryOf clouds pavilion’d, folded, interwoundInextricably, load the breezeless westWith awe and glory. The effulgence gleamsUpon a vision’d Belmont, home of herWho loved as Shakespeare’s women do; and gleamsUpon those walls wherein Othello’s spearStabb’d clinging innocence; where that poor wife,The love-Cassandra Belvidera, gaveHer soul in martyrdom to love and woe.And shall I never that far town behold,Crested with sparkling columns, fiery towers,Praxitelean masonry?—beholdVenice, the mart of nations, ere I die?By Heaven! her common merchants princes wereUnto the continents; her traffickersThe honourable of the earth! She stoodA crownèd city, and the fawning seaLicked her white feet; and the eternal sunKissed with departing beam her brow of snow!
BBEHOLD! a waking vision crowns my soulWith beatific radiance, and the lightOf shining hope;—a golden-memoried dreamThat clings unto my youth, as clung the strangeLeonine phantom to that mystic man,Lean Paracelsus. It has grown with meLike destiny, or that which seems to beMy destiny, ambition: and its glowInflames my fancy, as if some clear starHad burst in silvery light within my brain.From the smooth hyaline of that far seaThe pictured Adriatic rises, fairAs dream, a kingly-built and tower’d town;Column and arch and architrave instinctWith delicatest beauty; overwroughtWith tracery of interlacèd leavesFor ever blooming on white marble, hush’dIn everlasting summer, windless, cold:The city of the Doges!
B
From the calmTransparent waters float some thrilling soundsOf Amphionic music, and the wordsAre Tasso’s, where he passions for his love,That lady Florentine so lily-smooth,Clothed on with haughtiness!
At the black stairOf palace rising shadowy from the wave,Two singing gondolieri wait a freightOf loveliness. A tremulous woman, robedIn dazzling satin, and whose dimpled arms,And milky heaving breasts of living snowShine through their veil diaphanous, floats downFrom the wide portal; and the ivory prowOf the soft-cushion’d gondola (as sheSteps lightly from the marble to her place)Dips, rises, dips again; then through the blueSwift glides into the sunset.
Oh, the glowOf that rich sunset dims whate’er I seeIn this my own dear valley! O’er the hills—Those craggy Euganean hills, whose peaksWedge the clear crystalline—a blazonryOf clouds pavilion’d, folded, interwoundInextricably, load the breezeless westWith awe and glory. The effulgence gleamsUpon a vision’d Belmont, home of herWho loved as Shakespeare’s women do; and gleamsUpon those walls wherein Othello’s spearStabb’d clinging innocence; where that poor wife,The love-Cassandra Belvidera, gaveHer soul in martyrdom to love and woe.
And shall I never that far town behold,Crested with sparkling columns, fiery towers,Praxitelean masonry?—beholdVenice, the mart of nations, ere I die?By Heaven! her common merchants princes wereUnto the continents; her traffickersThe honourable of the earth! She stoodA crownèd city, and the fawning seaLicked her white feet; and the eternal sunKissed with departing beam her brow of snow!
Woe to this Venice, with her crown of pride!The Lady of the kingdoms, the perfectionOf beauty, and the joy of the whole earth!Through her pavilions shall the crannying windsWhistle, and all her borders in the seaCrumble their Parian wonder. Woe to her,Whose glorious beauty is a fading flower!Her sober-suited nightingales, with notesOf smooth liquidity and softened stops,Solace the brakes; and ’mid her ancient streetsTawny, the gleaming and harmonious seaMakes silvery melody of bygone days.O white Enchantment! Ocean-spouse of old!When thy high battlements and bulging domes,By sunset purpled, trembled in the wave!Now o’er thy towers the Lord hath spread his hand,And as a cottage shalt thou be removed;Like Nineveh, or cloudy Babylon!
Woe to this Venice, with her crown of pride!The Lady of the kingdoms, the perfectionOf beauty, and the joy of the whole earth!Through her pavilions shall the crannying windsWhistle, and all her borders in the seaCrumble their Parian wonder. Woe to her,Whose glorious beauty is a fading flower!Her sober-suited nightingales, with notesOf smooth liquidity and softened stops,Solace the brakes; and ’mid her ancient streetsTawny, the gleaming and harmonious seaMakes silvery melody of bygone days.O white Enchantment! Ocean-spouse of old!When thy high battlements and bulging domes,By sunset purpled, trembled in the wave!Now o’er thy towers the Lord hath spread his hand,And as a cottage shalt thou be removed;Like Nineveh, or cloudy Babylon!
Woe to this Venice, with her crown of pride!The Lady of the kingdoms, the perfectionOf beauty, and the joy of the whole earth!Through her pavilions shall the crannying windsWhistle, and all her borders in the seaCrumble their Parian wonder. Woe to her,Whose glorious beauty is a fading flower!Her sober-suited nightingales, with notesOf smooth liquidity and softened stops,Solace the brakes; and ’mid her ancient streetsTawny, the gleaming and harmonious seaMakes silvery melody of bygone days.O white Enchantment! Ocean-spouse of old!When thy high battlements and bulging domes,By sunset purpled, trembled in the wave!Now o’er thy towers the Lord hath spread his hand,And as a cottage shalt thou be removed;Like Nineveh, or cloudy Babylon!