Notnow, but later, when the roadWe tread together breaks apart,When thou, my dearest, distant art,And tedious days have swelled the loadUpon my heart.Or haply after that, when IAm sealed within an earthy bed,Resting and unrememberèd,This scene will speak and easilyThe whole be said.Some eve, when from his burning chairThe sun below Fusina slips,And all the sable poplar-tipsWave in the warm, vermilion air,The wind, the lipsOf the soft breeze with wayward touchShall tell thee all I longed to own;And thou, on lurid lakes alone,Wilt say: ‘Poor soul, he loved me much;And he is gone.’PERCY PINKERTON.
Notnow, but later, when the roadWe tread together breaks apart,When thou, my dearest, distant art,And tedious days have swelled the loadUpon my heart.Or haply after that, when IAm sealed within an earthy bed,Resting and unrememberèd,This scene will speak and easilyThe whole be said.Some eve, when from his burning chairThe sun below Fusina slips,And all the sable poplar-tipsWave in the warm, vermilion air,The wind, the lipsOf the soft breeze with wayward touchShall tell thee all I longed to own;And thou, on lurid lakes alone,Wilt say: ‘Poor soul, he loved me much;And he is gone.’PERCY PINKERTON.
Notnow, but later, when the road
We tread together breaks apart,
When thou, my dearest, distant art,
And tedious days have swelled the load
Upon my heart.
Or haply after that, when IAm sealed within an earthy bed,Resting and unrememberèd,This scene will speak and easilyThe whole be said.
Or haply after that, when I
Am sealed within an earthy bed,
Resting and unrememberèd,
This scene will speak and easily
The whole be said.
Some eve, when from his burning chairThe sun below Fusina slips,And all the sable poplar-tipsWave in the warm, vermilion air,The wind, the lips
Some eve, when from his burning chair
The sun below Fusina slips,
And all the sable poplar-tips
Wave in the warm, vermilion air,
The wind, the lips
Of the soft breeze with wayward touchShall tell thee all I longed to own;And thou, on lurid lakes alone,Wilt say: ‘Poor soul, he loved me much;And he is gone.’PERCY PINKERTON.
Of the soft breeze with wayward touch
Shall tell thee all I longed to own;
And thou, on lurid lakes alone,
Wilt say: ‘Poor soul, he loved me much;
And he is gone.’
PERCY PINKERTON.
Theafternoons invite us to a further flight upon the water. Both sandolo and gondola await our choice, and we may sail or row, according as the wind and inclination tempt us.
Yonder lies San Luzzaro, with the neat red buildings of the Armenian convent. The last oleanderblossoms shine rosy pink above its walls against the pure blue sky as we glide into the little harbour. Boats piled with coal-black grapes block the landing-place, for the Padri are gathering their vintage from the Lido, and their presses run with new wine. Eustace and I have not come to revive memories of Byron—that curious patron-saint of the Armenian colony—or to inspect the printing-press, which issues books of little value for our studies. It is enough to pace the terrace, and linger half an hour beneath the low broad arches of the alleys pleached with vines, through which the domes and towers of Venice rise more beautiful by distance.
Malamocco lies considerably farther, and needs a full hour of stout rowing to reach it. Alighting there, we cross the narrow strip of land, and find ourselves upon the huge sea-wall—block piled on block—of Istrian stone in tiers and ranks, with cunning breathing-places for the waves to wreak their fury on and foam their force away in fretful waste. The very existence of Venice may be said to depend sometimes on thesemurazzi, which were finished at an immense cost by the Republic in the days of its decadence. The enormous monoliths which compose them had to be brought across the Adriatic in sailing vessels. Of all the Lidi, that of Malamocco is the weakest; and here, if anywhere, the sea might effect an entrance into the lagoon. Our gondoliers told us of some places where themurazziwere broken in a gale, orsciroccale, not very long ago. Lying awake in Venice, when the wind blows hard, one hears the sea thundering upon its sandy barrier, and blesses God for themurazzi. On such a night it happened once to me to dream a dream of Venice overwhelmed by water. Isaw the billows roll across the smooth lagoon, like a gigantic Eager. The Ducal Palace crumbled, and San Marco’s domes went down. The Campanile rocked and shivered like a reed. And all along the Grand Canal the palaces swayed helpless, tottering to their fall, while boats piled high with men and women strove to stem the tide, and save themselves from those impending ruins. It was a mad dream, born of the sea’s roar and Tintoretto’s painting. But this afternoon no such visions are suggested. The sea sleeps, and in the moist autumn air we break tall branches of the seeded yellowing samphire from hollows of the rocks, and bear them homeward in a wayward bouquet mixed with cobs of Indian-corn.
Fusina is another point for these excursions. It lies at the mouth of the Canal di Brenta, where the mainland ends in marsh and meadows, intersected by broad renes. In spring the ditches bloom with fleurs-de-lys; in autumn they take sober colouring from lilac daisies and the delicate sea-lavender. Scores of tiny plants are turning scarlet on the brown moist earth; and when the sun goes down behind the Euganean hills, his crimson canopy of cloud, reflected on these shallows, muddy shoals, and wilderness of matted weeds, converts the common earth into a fairyland of fabulous dyes. Purple, violet, and rose are spread around us. In front stretches the lagoon, tinted with a pale light from the east, and beyond this pallid mirror shines Venice—a long low broken line, touched with the softest roseate flush. Ere we reach the Giudecca on our homeward way, sunset has faded. The western skies have clad themselves in green, barred with dark fire-rimmed clouds. TheEuganean hills stand like stupendous pyramids, Egyptian, solemn, against a lemon space on the horizon. The far reaches of the lagoons, the Alps, and islands assume those tones of glowing lilac which are the supreme beauty of Venetian evening. Then, at last, we see the first lamps glitter on the Zattere. The quiet of the night has come.
Words cannot be formed to express the endless varieties of Venetian sunset. The most magnificent follow after wet stormy days, when the west breaks suddenly into a labyrinth of fire, when chasms of clear turquoise heavens emerge, and horns of flame are flashed to the zenith, and unexpected splendours scale the fretted clouds, step over step, stealing along the purple caverns till the whole dome throbs. Or, again, after a fair day, a change of weather approaches, and high, infinitely high, the skies are woven over with a web of half-transparent cirrus-clouds. These in the afterglow blush crimson, and through their rifts the depth of heaven is of a hard and gemlike blue, and all the water turns to rose beneath them. I remember one such evening on the way back from Torcello. We were well out at sea between Mazzorbo and Murano. The ruddy arches overhead were reflected without interruption in the waveless ruddy lake below. Our black boat was the only dark spot in this sphere of splendour. We seemed to hang suspended; and such as this, I fancied, must be the feeling of an insect caught in the heart of a fiery-petalled rose. Yet not these melodramatic sunsets alone are beautiful. Even more exquisite, perhaps, are the lagoons, painted in monochrome of greys, with just one touch of pink upon a western cloud, scattered in ripples here and thereon the waves below, reminding us that day has passed and evening come. And beautiful again are the calm settings of fair weather, when sea and sky alike are cheerful, and the topmost blades of the lagoon grass, peeping from the shallows, glance like emeralds upon the surface. There is no deep stirring of the spirit in a symphony of light and colour; but purity, peace, and freshness make their way into our hearts.
JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS.
Ofall these afternoon excursions, that to the Lido is most frequent. It has two points for approach. The more distant is the little station of San Nicoletto, at the mouth of the Porto. With an ebb-tide, the water of the lagoon runs past the mulberry gardens of this hamlet like a river. There is here a grove of acacia-trees, shadowy and dreamy, above deep grass, which even an Italian summer does not wither. The Riva is fairly broad, forming a promenade, where one may conjure up the personages of a century ago. For San Nicoletto used to be a fashionable resort before the other points of Lido had been occupied by pleasure-seekers. An artist even now will select its old-world quiet, leafy shade, and prospect through the islands of Vignole and Sant’ Erasmo to snow-touched peaks of Antelao and Tofana, rather than the glare and bustle and extended view of Venice which its rival Sant’ Elisabetta offers.
But when we want a plunge into the Adriatic, or a stroll along smooth sands, or a breath of genuine sea-breeze, or a handful of horned poppies from the dunes, or a lazy half-hour’s contemplation of alimitless horizon flecked with russet sails, then we seek Sant’ Elisabetta. Our boat is left at the landing-place. We saunter across the island and back again. Antonio and Francesco wait and order wine, which we drink with them in the shade of the littleosteria’swall.
A certain afternoon in May I well remember, for this visit to Lido was marked by one of those apparitions which are as rare as they are welcome to the artist’s soul. I have always held that in our modern life the only real equivalent for the antique mythopœic sense—that sense which enabled the Hellenic race to figure for themselves the powers of earth and air, streams and forests, and the presiding genii of places, under the forms of living human beings, is supplied by the appearance at some felicitous moment of a man or woman who impersonates for our imagination the essence of the beauty that environs us. It seems, at such a fortunate moment, as though we had been waiting for this revelation, although perchance the want of it had not been previously felt. Our sensations and perceptions test themselves at the touchstone of this living individuality. The keynote of the whole music dimly sounding in our ears is struck. A melody emerges, clear in form and excellent in rhythm. The landscapes we have painted on our brain no longer lack their central figure. The life proper to the complex conditions we have studied is discovered, and every detail judged by this standard of vitality, falls into its right relations.
I had been musing long that day and earnestly upon the mystery of the lagoons, their opaline transparencies of air and water, their fretful risings andsudden subsidence into calm, the treacherousness of their shoals, the sparkle and the splendour of their sunlight. I had asked myself how would a Greek sculptor have personified the elemental deity of these salt-water lakes, so different in quality from the Ægean or Ionian sea? What would he find distinctive of their spirit? The Tritons of these shallows must be of other form and lineage than the fierce-eyed youth who blows his conch upon the curled crest of a wave, crying aloud to his comrades, as he bears the nymph away to caverns where the billows plunge in tideless instability.
We had picked up shells and looked for sea-horses on the Adriatic shore. Then we returned to give our boatmen wine beneath the vine-cladpergola. Four other men were there, drinking, and eating from a dish of fried fish set upon the coarse white linen cloth. Two of them soon rose and went away. Of the two who stayed, one was a large, middle-aged man; the other was still young. He was tall and sinewy, but slender, for these Venetians are rarely massive in their strength. Each limb is equally developed by the exercise of rowing upright, bending all the muscles to their stroke. Their bodies are elastically supple, with free sway from the hips and a mercurial poise upon the ankle. Stefano showed these qualities almost in exaggeration. The type in him was refined to its artistic perfection. Moreover, he was rarely in repose, but moved with a singular brusque grace. A black broad-brimmed hat was thrown back upon his mattedzazzeraof dark hair tipped with dusky brown. This shock of hair, cut in flakes, and falling wilfully, reminded me of the lagoon grass when it darkens in autumn upon uncovered shoals, and sunset gilds itssombre edges. Fiery grey eyes beneath it gazed intensely, with compulsive effluence of electricity. It was the wild glance of a Triton. Short blonde moustache, dazzling teeth, skin bronzed, but showing white and healthful through open front and sleeves of lilac shirt. The dashing sparkle of this animate splendour, who looked to me as though the sea-waves and the sun had made him in some hour of secret and unquiet rapture, was somehow emphasized by a curious dint dividing his square chin—a cleft that harmonized with smile on lip and steady flame in eyes. I hardly know what effect it would have upon a reader to compare eyes to opals. Yet Stefano’s eyes, as they met mine, had the vitreous intensity of opals, as though the colour of Venetian waters were vitalized in them. This noticeable being had a rough, hoarse voice, which, to develop the parallel with a sea-god, might have screamed in storm or whispered raucous messages from crests of tossing billows.
I felt, as I looked, that here, for me at least, the mythopoem of the lagoons was humanized; the spirit of the salt-water lakes had appeared to me; the final touch of life emergent from nature had been given; I was satisfied; for I had seen a poem.
Then we rose, and wandered through the Jews’ cemetery. It is a quiet place, where the flat gravestones, inscribed in Hebrew and Italian, lie deep in Lido sand, waved over with wild grass and poppies. I would fain believe that no neglect, but rather the fashion of this folk, had left the monuments of generations to be thus resumed by nature. Yet, knowing nothing of the history of this burial-ground, I dare not affirm so much. There is one outlyingpiece of the cemetery which seems to contradict my charitable interpretation. It is not far from San Nicoletto. No enclosure marks it from the unconsecrated dunes. Acacia-trees sprout amid the monuments, and break the tablets with their thorny shoots upthrusting from the soil. Where patriarchs and rabbis sleep for centuries, the fishers of the sea now wander, and defile these habitations of the dead:
‘Corruption most abhorredMingling itself with their renowned ashes.’
‘Corruption most abhorredMingling itself with their renowned ashes.’
‘Corruption most abhorred
Mingling itself with their renowned ashes.’
Some of the gravestones have been used to fence the towing-path; and one I saw, well carved with letters legible of Hebrew on fair Istrian marble.
JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS.
YesterdayI set out early with my tutelary genius for the Lido, the tongue of land which shuts in the lagoons, and divides them from the sea. We landed and walked straight across the isthmus. I heard a loud hollow murmur,—it was the sea! I soon saw it: it crested high against the shore, as it retired,—it was about noon, and time of ebb. I have then seen the sea with my own eyes, and followed it on its beautiful bed, just as it quitted it. I wished the children had been there to gather the shells; childlike, I myself picked up plenty of them.... On the Lido, not far from the sea, is the burial-place of Englishmen, and a little further on, of the Jews: both alike are refused the privilege of resting in consecrated ground. I found here the tomb of Smith, the noble English consul, and that of his first wife.It is to him that I owe my first copy of Palladio; I thanked him for it here in his unconsecrated grave....
The Lido is at best but a sand-bank. But the sea—it is a grand sight! I will try and get a sail upon it some day in a fishing-boat: the gondolas never venture out so far....
A delicious day from morning to night! I have been towards Chioggia, as far as Pelestrina, where are the great structures, calledmurazzi, which the Republic has caused to be raised against the sea. They are hewn of stone, and properly are intended to protect from the fury of the wild element the Lido, which separates the lagoons from the sea.
The lagoons are the work of old nature. First of all, the land and tide, the ebb and flow, working against each other, and then the gradual sinking of the primal waters, were, together, the causes why, at the upper end of the Adriatic, we find a pretty extensive range of marshes, which, covered by the flood-tide, are partly left bare by the ebb. Art took possession of the highest spots, and thus arose Venice, formed out of a group of a hundred isles, and surrounded by hundreds more. Moreover, at an incredible expense of money and labour, deep canals have been dug through the marshes, in order that at the time of high water, ships of war might pass to the chief points. What human industry and wit contrived and executed of old, skill and industry must now keep up....
Yesterday evening I ascended the tower ofSt.Mark’s: as I had lately seen from its top the lagoons in their glory at flood-time, I wished to see them atlow water; for in order to have a correct idea of the place, it is necessary to take in both views. It looks rather strange to see land all around one, where a little before the eye fell upon a mirror of waters. The islands are no longer islands—merely higher and house-crowned spots in one large morass of a grey-greenish colour, and intersected by beautiful canals.
GOETHE.
Mygondola goes sailingOver the ruffled brine,While in the west are palingThe purple and carmine.The light yet burns and blazesWith richest, rosiest hueWhere red San Giorgio raisesIts belfry in the blue.As soft scirocco tossesFoam to my face and sprayAthwart myferrocrosses,Along the water-way,In cage-likebarcaseated,A soldier, pale and bent,One to whom has been metedLong, lonely punishment.I catch the look imploringThat he to me has cast,As, indolently oaring,His sullen guards go past.Not any word is spoken,Only a smile from meGives the poor prisoner tokenOf my heart’s sympathy.Brief, brief has been our meeting,And, as the sea grows grey,Amid the rose light fleetingWe pass upon our way.PERCY PINKERTON.
Mygondola goes sailingOver the ruffled brine,While in the west are palingThe purple and carmine.The light yet burns and blazesWith richest, rosiest hueWhere red San Giorgio raisesIts belfry in the blue.As soft scirocco tossesFoam to my face and sprayAthwart myferrocrosses,Along the water-way,In cage-likebarcaseated,A soldier, pale and bent,One to whom has been metedLong, lonely punishment.I catch the look imploringThat he to me has cast,As, indolently oaring,His sullen guards go past.Not any word is spoken,Only a smile from meGives the poor prisoner tokenOf my heart’s sympathy.Brief, brief has been our meeting,And, as the sea grows grey,Amid the rose light fleetingWe pass upon our way.PERCY PINKERTON.
Mygondola goes sailing
Over the ruffled brine,
While in the west are paling
The purple and carmine.
The light yet burns and blazesWith richest, rosiest hueWhere red San Giorgio raisesIts belfry in the blue.
The light yet burns and blazes
With richest, rosiest hue
Where red San Giorgio raises
Its belfry in the blue.
As soft scirocco tossesFoam to my face and sprayAthwart myferrocrosses,Along the water-way,
As soft scirocco tosses
Foam to my face and spray
Athwart myferrocrosses,
Along the water-way,
In cage-likebarcaseated,A soldier, pale and bent,One to whom has been metedLong, lonely punishment.
In cage-likebarcaseated,
A soldier, pale and bent,
One to whom has been meted
Long, lonely punishment.
I catch the look imploringThat he to me has cast,As, indolently oaring,His sullen guards go past.
I catch the look imploring
That he to me has cast,
As, indolently oaring,
His sullen guards go past.
Not any word is spoken,Only a smile from meGives the poor prisoner tokenOf my heart’s sympathy.
Not any word is spoken,
Only a smile from me
Gives the poor prisoner token
Of my heart’s sympathy.
Brief, brief has been our meeting,And, as the sea grows grey,Amid the rose light fleetingWe pass upon our way.PERCY PINKERTON.
Brief, brief has been our meeting,
And, as the sea grows grey,
Amid the rose light fleeting
We pass upon our way.
PERCY PINKERTON.
ÀSaint-Blaise, à la Zuecca,Vous étiez, vous étiez bien aiseÀ Saint-Blaise.À Saint-Blaise, à la Zuecca,Nous étions bien là.Mais de vous en souvenirPrendrez vous la peine?Mais de vous en souvenirEt d’y revenir,À Saint-Blaise, à la Zuecca,Dans les prés fleuris cueillir la verveine;À Saint-Blaise, à la Zuecca,Vivre et mourir là.ALFRED DE MUSSET.
ÀSaint-Blaise, à la Zuecca,Vous étiez, vous étiez bien aiseÀ Saint-Blaise.À Saint-Blaise, à la Zuecca,Nous étions bien là.Mais de vous en souvenirPrendrez vous la peine?Mais de vous en souvenirEt d’y revenir,À Saint-Blaise, à la Zuecca,Dans les prés fleuris cueillir la verveine;À Saint-Blaise, à la Zuecca,Vivre et mourir là.ALFRED DE MUSSET.
ÀSaint-Blaise, à la Zuecca,
Vous étiez, vous étiez bien aise
À Saint-Blaise.
À Saint-Blaise, à la Zuecca,
Nous étions bien là.
Mais de vous en souvenirPrendrez vous la peine?Mais de vous en souvenirEt d’y revenir,
Mais de vous en souvenir
Prendrez vous la peine?
Mais de vous en souvenir
Et d’y revenir,
À Saint-Blaise, à la Zuecca,Dans les prés fleuris cueillir la verveine;À Saint-Blaise, à la Zuecca,Vivre et mourir là.ALFRED DE MUSSET.
À Saint-Blaise, à la Zuecca,
Dans les prés fleuris cueillir la verveine;
À Saint-Blaise, à la Zuecca,
Vivre et mourir là.
ALFRED DE MUSSET.
In the centre of the lagoon between Venice and the mouths of the Brenta, supported on a few mouldering piles, stands a small shrine dedicated to the Madonna dell’Acqua, which the gondolier never passes without a prayer.
Aroundher shrine no earthly blossoms blow,No footsteps fret the pathway to and fro;No sign nor record of departed prayer,Print of the stone, nor echo of the air;Worn by the lip, nor wearied by theknee,—Only a deeper silence of the sea:For there, in passing, pause the breezes bleak,And the foam fades, and all the waves are weak.The pulse-like oars in softer fall succeed,The black prow falters through the wildseaweed—Where, twilight-borne, the minute thunders reach,Of deep-mouthed surf, that bays by Lido’s beach.With intermittent motion traversed far,And shattered glancing of the western star,Till the faint storm-bird on the heaving flowDrops in white circles, silently like snow.Not here the ponderous gem nor pealing note,Dim to adorn—insentient toadore—But purple-dyed, the mists of evening float,In ceaseless incense from the burning floorOf ocean, and the gathered gold of heavenLaces its sapphire vault, and, early givenThe white rays of the rushing firmamentPierce the blue-quivering night through wreath or rentOf cloud inscrutable andmotionless,—Hectic and wan, and moon-companioned cloud!Oh! lone Madonna, angel of the deep,When the night falls, and deadly winds are loud,Will not thy love be with us while we keepOur watch upon the waters, and the gazeOf thy soft eyes, that slumber not, nor sleep?Deem not then, stranger, that such trust is vain;Faith walks not on these weary waves alone,Though weakness dread or apathy disdainThe spot which God has hallowed for His own.They sin who pass it lightly, ill-diviningThe glory of this place of bitter prayer;And hoping against hope, and self-resigning,And reach of faith, and wrestling with despair,And resurrection of the last distress,Into the sense of Heaven, when earth is bare,And of God’s voice, when man’s is comfortless.JOHN RUSKIN.
Aroundher shrine no earthly blossoms blow,No footsteps fret the pathway to and fro;No sign nor record of departed prayer,Print of the stone, nor echo of the air;Worn by the lip, nor wearied by theknee,—Only a deeper silence of the sea:For there, in passing, pause the breezes bleak,And the foam fades, and all the waves are weak.The pulse-like oars in softer fall succeed,The black prow falters through the wildseaweed—Where, twilight-borne, the minute thunders reach,Of deep-mouthed surf, that bays by Lido’s beach.With intermittent motion traversed far,And shattered glancing of the western star,Till the faint storm-bird on the heaving flowDrops in white circles, silently like snow.Not here the ponderous gem nor pealing note,Dim to adorn—insentient toadore—But purple-dyed, the mists of evening float,In ceaseless incense from the burning floorOf ocean, and the gathered gold of heavenLaces its sapphire vault, and, early givenThe white rays of the rushing firmamentPierce the blue-quivering night through wreath or rentOf cloud inscrutable andmotionless,—Hectic and wan, and moon-companioned cloud!Oh! lone Madonna, angel of the deep,When the night falls, and deadly winds are loud,Will not thy love be with us while we keepOur watch upon the waters, and the gazeOf thy soft eyes, that slumber not, nor sleep?Deem not then, stranger, that such trust is vain;Faith walks not on these weary waves alone,Though weakness dread or apathy disdainThe spot which God has hallowed for His own.They sin who pass it lightly, ill-diviningThe glory of this place of bitter prayer;And hoping against hope, and self-resigning,And reach of faith, and wrestling with despair,And resurrection of the last distress,Into the sense of Heaven, when earth is bare,And of God’s voice, when man’s is comfortless.JOHN RUSKIN.
Aroundher shrine no earthly blossoms blow,
No footsteps fret the pathway to and fro;
No sign nor record of departed prayer,
Print of the stone, nor echo of the air;
Worn by the lip, nor wearied by theknee,—
Only a deeper silence of the sea:
For there, in passing, pause the breezes bleak,
And the foam fades, and all the waves are weak.
The pulse-like oars in softer fall succeed,
The black prow falters through the wildseaweed—
Where, twilight-borne, the minute thunders reach,
Of deep-mouthed surf, that bays by Lido’s beach.
With intermittent motion traversed far,
And shattered glancing of the western star,
Till the faint storm-bird on the heaving flow
Drops in white circles, silently like snow.
Not here the ponderous gem nor pealing note,
Dim to adorn—insentient toadore—
But purple-dyed, the mists of evening float,
In ceaseless incense from the burning floor
Of ocean, and the gathered gold of heaven
Laces its sapphire vault, and, early given
The white rays of the rushing firmament
Pierce the blue-quivering night through wreath or rent
Of cloud inscrutable andmotionless,—
Hectic and wan, and moon-companioned cloud!
Oh! lone Madonna, angel of the deep,
When the night falls, and deadly winds are loud,
Will not thy love be with us while we keep
Our watch upon the waters, and the gaze
Of thy soft eyes, that slumber not, nor sleep?
Deem not then, stranger, that such trust is vain;
Faith walks not on these weary waves alone,
Though weakness dread or apathy disdain
The spot which God has hallowed for His own.
They sin who pass it lightly, ill-divining
The glory of this place of bitter prayer;
And hoping against hope, and self-resigning,
And reach of faith, and wrestling with despair,
And resurrection of the last distress,
Into the sense of Heaven, when earth is bare,
And of God’s voice, when man’s is comfortless.
JOHN RUSKIN.
Lord Byron(writes the poet’s friend) proposed to me to accompany him in his rides on the Lido.... Every day that the weather would permit, Lord Byron called for me in his gondola, and we found the horses waiting for us outside the fort. We rode as far as we could along the sea-shore, and then on a kind of dyke, or embankment, which has been raised where the island was very narrow, as far as another small fort, about half-way between the principal one and the town or village of Malamocco, near the other extremity of the island,—the distance being about three miles.
On the land side of the embankment, near the smaller fort, was a boundary stone, which probably marked some division of property,—all the side of the island, nearest the lagoon, being divided into gardens for the cultivation of vegetables. At the foot of this stone, Lord Byron repeatedly told me that I should cause him to be interred, if he should die in Venice, or its neighbourhood. During my residence here ... nothing could be more delightful than these rides on the Lido. We were from half to three-quarters of an hour crossing the water, during which his conversationwas most amusing and interesting. Sometimes he would bring with him any new book he had received, and read to me the passages which struck him most. Often he would repeat to me whole stanzas of the poems he was writing, as he had composed them on the preceding evening.
THOMAS MOORE.
I wentto greet the full May-moonOn that long narrow shoalWhich lies between the still lagoonAnd the open ocean’s roll.How pleasant was that grassy shore,When one for months had beenShut up in streets,—to feel once moreOne’s footfall on the green!There are thick trees too in that place;But straight from sea to sea,Over a rough uncultured space,The path goes drearily.I pass along with many a boundTo hail the fresh free wave;But, pausing, wonderingly foundI was treading on a grave.Then, at one careless look, I sawThat, for some distance round,Tombstones, without design or law,Were scattered on the ground:Of pirates or of marinersI deemed that these might beThe fitly-chosen sepulchres,Encircled by the sea.But there are words inscribed on all,In the tongue of a far land,And marks of things symbolical,I could not understand.They are the graves of that sad race,Who, from their Syrian home,For ages, without resting-place,Are doomed in woe to roam;Who, in the days of sternest faith,Glutted the sword and flame,As if a taint of moral deathWere in their very name:And even under laws most mild,All shame was deemed their due,And the nurse told the Christian childTo shun the cursèd Jew.Thus all their gold’s insidious graceAvailed not here to gain,For their last sleep, a seemlier placeThan this bleak-featured plain.Apart, severely separate.On the verge of the outer sea,Their home of death is desolateAs their life’s home could be.The common sand-path had defacedAnd prest down many a stone;Others can be but faintly tracedIn the rank grass o’er them grown.I thought of Shylock,—the fierce heartWhose wrongs and injuries oldTemper, in Shakespeare’s world of art,His lusts of blood and gold;Perchance that form of broken prideHere at my feet oncelay,—But lay alone,—for at his sideThere was no Jessica!Fondly I love each island-shore,Embraced by Adrian waves;But none has memory cherished moreThan Lido and its graves.RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.
I wentto greet the full May-moonOn that long narrow shoalWhich lies between the still lagoonAnd the open ocean’s roll.How pleasant was that grassy shore,When one for months had beenShut up in streets,—to feel once moreOne’s footfall on the green!There are thick trees too in that place;But straight from sea to sea,Over a rough uncultured space,The path goes drearily.I pass along with many a boundTo hail the fresh free wave;But, pausing, wonderingly foundI was treading on a grave.Then, at one careless look, I sawThat, for some distance round,Tombstones, without design or law,Were scattered on the ground:Of pirates or of marinersI deemed that these might beThe fitly-chosen sepulchres,Encircled by the sea.But there are words inscribed on all,In the tongue of a far land,And marks of things symbolical,I could not understand.They are the graves of that sad race,Who, from their Syrian home,For ages, without resting-place,Are doomed in woe to roam;Who, in the days of sternest faith,Glutted the sword and flame,As if a taint of moral deathWere in their very name:And even under laws most mild,All shame was deemed their due,And the nurse told the Christian childTo shun the cursèd Jew.Thus all their gold’s insidious graceAvailed not here to gain,For their last sleep, a seemlier placeThan this bleak-featured plain.Apart, severely separate.On the verge of the outer sea,Their home of death is desolateAs their life’s home could be.The common sand-path had defacedAnd prest down many a stone;Others can be but faintly tracedIn the rank grass o’er them grown.I thought of Shylock,—the fierce heartWhose wrongs and injuries oldTemper, in Shakespeare’s world of art,His lusts of blood and gold;Perchance that form of broken prideHere at my feet oncelay,—But lay alone,—for at his sideThere was no Jessica!Fondly I love each island-shore,Embraced by Adrian waves;But none has memory cherished moreThan Lido and its graves.RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.
I wentto greet the full May-moon
On that long narrow shoal
Which lies between the still lagoon
And the open ocean’s roll.
How pleasant was that grassy shore,When one for months had beenShut up in streets,—to feel once moreOne’s footfall on the green!
How pleasant was that grassy shore,
When one for months had been
Shut up in streets,—to feel once more
One’s footfall on the green!
There are thick trees too in that place;But straight from sea to sea,Over a rough uncultured space,The path goes drearily.
There are thick trees too in that place;
But straight from sea to sea,
Over a rough uncultured space,
The path goes drearily.
I pass along with many a boundTo hail the fresh free wave;But, pausing, wonderingly foundI was treading on a grave.
I pass along with many a bound
To hail the fresh free wave;
But, pausing, wonderingly found
I was treading on a grave.
Then, at one careless look, I sawThat, for some distance round,Tombstones, without design or law,Were scattered on the ground:
Then, at one careless look, I saw
That, for some distance round,
Tombstones, without design or law,
Were scattered on the ground:
Of pirates or of marinersI deemed that these might beThe fitly-chosen sepulchres,Encircled by the sea.
Of pirates or of mariners
I deemed that these might be
The fitly-chosen sepulchres,
Encircled by the sea.
But there are words inscribed on all,In the tongue of a far land,And marks of things symbolical,I could not understand.
But there are words inscribed on all,
In the tongue of a far land,
And marks of things symbolical,
I could not understand.
They are the graves of that sad race,Who, from their Syrian home,For ages, without resting-place,Are doomed in woe to roam;
They are the graves of that sad race,
Who, from their Syrian home,
For ages, without resting-place,
Are doomed in woe to roam;
Who, in the days of sternest faith,Glutted the sword and flame,As if a taint of moral deathWere in their very name:
Who, in the days of sternest faith,
Glutted the sword and flame,
As if a taint of moral death
Were in their very name:
And even under laws most mild,All shame was deemed their due,And the nurse told the Christian childTo shun the cursèd Jew.
And even under laws most mild,
All shame was deemed their due,
And the nurse told the Christian child
To shun the cursèd Jew.
Thus all their gold’s insidious graceAvailed not here to gain,For their last sleep, a seemlier placeThan this bleak-featured plain.
Thus all their gold’s insidious grace
Availed not here to gain,
For their last sleep, a seemlier place
Than this bleak-featured plain.
Apart, severely separate.On the verge of the outer sea,Their home of death is desolateAs their life’s home could be.
Apart, severely separate.
On the verge of the outer sea,
Their home of death is desolate
As their life’s home could be.
The common sand-path had defacedAnd prest down many a stone;Others can be but faintly tracedIn the rank grass o’er them grown.
The common sand-path had defaced
And prest down many a stone;
Others can be but faintly traced
In the rank grass o’er them grown.
I thought of Shylock,—the fierce heartWhose wrongs and injuries oldTemper, in Shakespeare’s world of art,His lusts of blood and gold;
I thought of Shylock,—the fierce heart
Whose wrongs and injuries old
Temper, in Shakespeare’s world of art,
His lusts of blood and gold;
Perchance that form of broken prideHere at my feet oncelay,—But lay alone,—for at his sideThere was no Jessica!
Perchance that form of broken pride
Here at my feet oncelay,—
But lay alone,—for at his side
There was no Jessica!
Fondly I love each island-shore,Embraced by Adrian waves;But none has memory cherished moreThan Lido and its graves.RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.
Fondly I love each island-shore,
Embraced by Adrian waves;
But none has memory cherished more
Than Lido and its graves.
RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.
I amjust returned from visiting the isles of Murano, Torcello, and Mazorbo, distant about five miles from Venice. To these amphibious spots the Romans, inhabitants of eastern Lombardy, fled from the rapine of Attila; and, if we may believe Cassiodorus, there was a time when they presented a beautiful appearance. Beyond them, on the coast of the lagoons, rose the once populous city of Altina, with its six stately gates, which Dandolo mentions. Its neighbourhood was scattered with innumerable villas and temples, composing altogether a prospect which Martial compares to Baiæ: ‘Æmula Baiunis Altini littora villis.’
But this agreeable scene, like so many others, is passed entirely away, and has left nothing, except heaps of stones and misshapen fragments, to vouch for its former magnificence. Two of the islands, Costanziaco and Amiano, that are imagined to have contained the bowers and gardens of the Altinatians, have sunk beneath the waters; those which remain are scarcely worthy to rise above their surface.
Though I was persuaded little was left to be seen above ground, I could not deny myself the imaginary pleasure of treading a corner of the earth once so adorned and cultivated; and of walking over the roofs, perhaps, of concealed halls and undiscovered palaces. Hiring, therefore, apeiotte, we took some provisions and music (to us equally necessaries of life), and launched into the canal, betweenSt.Michael and Murano.
The waves coursed each other with violence, and dark clouds hung over the grand sweep of northern mountains, whilst the west smiled with azure and bright sunshine. Thunder rolled awfully at a distance, and those white and greyish birds, the harbingers of storms, flitted frequently before our bark. For some moments we were in doubt whether to proceed; but as we advanced by a little dome in the Isle ofSt.Michael, shaped like an ancient temple, the sky cleared, and the ocean subsiding by degrees, soon presented a tranquil expanse, across which we were smoothly wafted. Our instruments played several delightful airs, that called forth the inhabitants of every island, and held them silent, as if spellbound, on the edge of their quays and terraces, till we were out of hearing.
Leaving Murano far behind, Venice and its worldof turrets began to sink on the horizon, and the low desert isles beyond Mazorbo to lie stretched out before us. Now we beheld vast wastes of purple flowers, and could distinguish the low hum of the insects which hover above them; such was the silence of the place. Coasting these solitary fields, we wound amongst several serpentine canals, bordered by gardens of figs and pomegranates, with neat Indian-looking inclosures of cane and reed: an aromatic plant clothes the margin of the waters, which the people justly dignify with the title of marine incense. It proved very serviceable in subduing a musky odour, which attacked us the moment we landed, and which proceeds from serpents that lurk in the hedges. These animals, say the gondoliers, defend immense treasures which lie buried under the ruins. Woe to those who attempt invading them, or prying too cautiously about!
Not choosing to be devoured, we left many a mount of fragments unnoticed, and made the best of our way to a little green, free from weeds or adders, bounded on one side by a miserable shed, decorated with the name of the Podesta’s residence, and on the other by a circular church. Some remains of tolerable antique sculpture are enchased in the walls; and the dome, supported by pillars of a smooth Grecian marble, though uncouth and ill-proportioned, impresses a sort of veneration, and transports the fancy to the twilight glimmering period when it was raised.
Having surveyed what little was visible, and given as much career to our imaginations as the scene inspired, we walked over a soil composed of crumbling bricks and cement to the cathedral; whose arches, turned on the ancient Roman principle, convincedus that it dates as high as the sixth or seventh century.
Nothing can well be more fantastic than the ornaments of this structure, formed from the ruins of the Pagan temples of Altina, and incrusted with a gilt mosaic, like that which covers our Edward the Confessor’s tomb. The pavement, composed of various precious marbles, is richer and more beautiful than one could have expected, in a place where every other object savours of the grossest barbarism. At the farther end, beyond the altar, appears a semicircular niche, with seats like the gradines of a diminutive amphitheatre; above rise the quaint forms of the apostles, in red, blue, green, and black mosaic, and in the midst of the goodly group a sort of marble chair, cool and penitential enough, whereSt.Lorenzo Giustiniani sat to hold a provincial council, the Lord knows how long ago! The fount for holy water stands by the principal entrance, fronting this curious recess, and seems to have belonged to some place of Gentile worship. The figures of horned imps cling round its sides, more devilish, more Egyptian, than any I ever beheld. The dragons on old china are not more whimsical: I longed to have it filled with bats’ blood, and to have sent it by way of present to the Sabbath; I can assure you it would have done honour to their witcheries. The sculpture is not the most delicate, but I cannot say a great deal about it, as but little light reaches the spot where it is fixed. Indeed, the whole church is far from luminous, its windows being narrow and near the roof, with shutters composed of blocks of marble, which nothing but the last whirlwind, one would think, could move from their hinges.
By the time we had examined every nook andcorner of this singular edifice, and caught, perhaps, some small portion of sanctity by sitting in San Lorenzo’s chair, dinner was prepared in a neighbouring convent, and the nuns, allured by the sound of our flutes and oboes, peeped out of their cells and showed themselves by dozens at the grate. Some few agreeable faces and interesting eyes enlivened the dark sisterhood; all seemed to catch a gleam of pleasure from the music; two or three of them, probably the last immured, let fall a tear, and suffered the recollection of the world and its profane joys to interrupt for a moment their sacred tranquillity.
We stayed till the sun was low, and the breezes blew cold from the ocean, on purpose that they might listen as long as possible to a harmony which seemed to issue, as the old abbess expressed herself, from the gates of paradise ajar. A thousand benedictions consecrated our departure; twilight came on just as we entered the bark and rowed out upon the waves, agitated by a fresh gale, but fearing nothing under the protection ofSt.Margherita, whose good wishes our music had secured.
WILLIAM BECKFORD.