THE ROMANCE OF VENICE
If Cupid have not spent all his quiver in Venice.SHAKESPEARE.
If Cupid have not spent all his quiver in Venice.SHAKESPEARE.
If Cupid have not spent all his quiver in Venice.
SHAKESPEARE.
Sonow she stands by Glory’s great sea-graveAnd has the first fair vision of that shrineWhere it lies sainted with its smile divine,Rubied in sunset, em’ralded in wave;Where the stones whisper of the masques they gaveOf argosy and pageant, line on line;Till we are drunk with splendour as with wineIn that broad street which molten beryls pave.I wonder if she thinks of me at whiles,Or only of the dim Byzantine goldAnd time-stained fronts, and seaweed-covered piles?And if a corner of her heart doth holdSomething besides a dream of the crowned islesThat ruled the sunrise and its waves of old?EUGENE LEE-HAMILTON.
Sonow she stands by Glory’s great sea-graveAnd has the first fair vision of that shrineWhere it lies sainted with its smile divine,Rubied in sunset, em’ralded in wave;Where the stones whisper of the masques they gaveOf argosy and pageant, line on line;Till we are drunk with splendour as with wineIn that broad street which molten beryls pave.I wonder if she thinks of me at whiles,Or only of the dim Byzantine goldAnd time-stained fronts, and seaweed-covered piles?And if a corner of her heart doth holdSomething besides a dream of the crowned islesThat ruled the sunrise and its waves of old?EUGENE LEE-HAMILTON.
Sonow she stands by Glory’s great sea-grave
And has the first fair vision of that shrine
Where it lies sainted with its smile divine,
Rubied in sunset, em’ralded in wave;
Where the stones whisper of the masques they gave
Of argosy and pageant, line on line;
Till we are drunk with splendour as with wine
In that broad street which molten beryls pave.
I wonder if she thinks of me at whiles,Or only of the dim Byzantine goldAnd time-stained fronts, and seaweed-covered piles?And if a corner of her heart doth holdSomething besides a dream of the crowned islesThat ruled the sunrise and its waves of old?EUGENE LEE-HAMILTON.
I wonder if she thinks of me at whiles,
Or only of the dim Byzantine gold
And time-stained fronts, and seaweed-covered piles?
And if a corner of her heart doth hold
Something besides a dream of the crowned isles
That ruled the sunrise and its waves of old?
EUGENE LEE-HAMILTON.
TheGolden Book[5]Is now unwritten in, and stands unmoved,Save when the curious traveller takes downA random volume, from the dusty shelf,To trace the progress of a bruited name;The BucentaurIs shattered, and of its resplendent formThere is no remnant, but some splintered morsel,Which in his cabin, as a talismanMournfully hangs the pious gondolier;The Adrian seaWill never have a Doge to marrymore,—The meagre favours of a foreign lordCan hardly lead some score of humble craftWith vilest merchandise into the portThat whilom held the wealth of half a world.Thy palacesAre bartered to the carefulIsraelite,—Or left to perish, stone by stone, worn downIn desolation, solemn skeletons,Whose nakedness some tufts of pitying grass,Or green boughs trembling o’er the tumbling wall,Adorn but hide not.And are these things true.Miraculous Venice? Is the charm then pastAway from thee? Is all thy work fulfilledOf power and beauty? Art thou gatheredTo the dead cities? Is thy ministryMade up, and folded in the hand of Thought?Ask him who knows the meaning and the truthOf all existence;—ask the poet’s heart:The Book has no dead tome for him,—for himWithinSt.Mark’s emblazoned porticoesThy old nobility are walking still;The lowliest gondola upon thy watersIs worth to him thy decorated galley;He never looks upon the Adrian seaBut as thy lawful tho’ too faithless spouse;And when, in the sad lustre of the moon,Thy palaces seem beautifully wan,He blesses God that there is left on earthSo marvellous, so full an antidote,For all the racks and toils of mortal life,As thy sweet countenance to gaze upon.RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.
TheGolden Book[5]Is now unwritten in, and stands unmoved,Save when the curious traveller takes downA random volume, from the dusty shelf,To trace the progress of a bruited name;The BucentaurIs shattered, and of its resplendent formThere is no remnant, but some splintered morsel,Which in his cabin, as a talismanMournfully hangs the pious gondolier;The Adrian seaWill never have a Doge to marrymore,—The meagre favours of a foreign lordCan hardly lead some score of humble craftWith vilest merchandise into the portThat whilom held the wealth of half a world.Thy palacesAre bartered to the carefulIsraelite,—Or left to perish, stone by stone, worn downIn desolation, solemn skeletons,Whose nakedness some tufts of pitying grass,Or green boughs trembling o’er the tumbling wall,Adorn but hide not.And are these things true.Miraculous Venice? Is the charm then pastAway from thee? Is all thy work fulfilledOf power and beauty? Art thou gatheredTo the dead cities? Is thy ministryMade up, and folded in the hand of Thought?Ask him who knows the meaning and the truthOf all existence;—ask the poet’s heart:The Book has no dead tome for him,—for himWithinSt.Mark’s emblazoned porticoesThy old nobility are walking still;The lowliest gondola upon thy watersIs worth to him thy decorated galley;He never looks upon the Adrian seaBut as thy lawful tho’ too faithless spouse;And when, in the sad lustre of the moon,Thy palaces seem beautifully wan,He blesses God that there is left on earthSo marvellous, so full an antidote,For all the racks and toils of mortal life,As thy sweet countenance to gaze upon.RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.
TheGolden Book[5]
Is now unwritten in, and stands unmoved,
Save when the curious traveller takes down
A random volume, from the dusty shelf,
To trace the progress of a bruited name;
The Bucentaur
Is shattered, and of its resplendent form
There is no remnant, but some splintered morsel,
Which in his cabin, as a talisman
Mournfully hangs the pious gondolier;
The Adrian sea
Will never have a Doge to marrymore,—
The meagre favours of a foreign lord
Can hardly lead some score of humble craft
With vilest merchandise into the port
That whilom held the wealth of half a world.
Thy palaces
Are bartered to the carefulIsraelite,—
Or left to perish, stone by stone, worn down
In desolation, solemn skeletons,
Whose nakedness some tufts of pitying grass,
Or green boughs trembling o’er the tumbling wall,
Adorn but hide not.
And are these things true.
Miraculous Venice? Is the charm then past
Away from thee? Is all thy work fulfilled
Of power and beauty? Art thou gathered
To the dead cities? Is thy ministry
Made up, and folded in the hand of Thought?
Ask him who knows the meaning and the truth
Of all existence;—ask the poet’s heart:
The Book has no dead tome for him,—for him
WithinSt.Mark’s emblazoned porticoes
Thy old nobility are walking still;
The lowliest gondola upon thy waters
Is worth to him thy decorated galley;
He never looks upon the Adrian sea
But as thy lawful tho’ too faithless spouse;
And when, in the sad lustre of the moon,
Thy palaces seem beautifully wan,
He blesses God that there is left on earth
So marvellous, so full an antidote,
For all the racks and toils of mortal life,
As thy sweet countenance to gaze upon.
RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.
[5]Il Libro d’Oro, the Venetian Peerage.
ROSE-COLOURED AT THE BRIM
Daughterof Venice, fairer than the moon!From thy dark casement leaning, half divine,And to the lutes of love that low repineAcross the midnight of the hushed lagoon,Listening with languor in a dreamfulswoon—On such a night as this thou didst entwineThy lily fingers round this glass ofwine,—Didst clasp thy climbing lover—none too soon!Thy lover left, but ere he left thy roomFrom this he drank, his warm lips at the brim;Thou kissed it as he vanished in the gloom,That kiss, because of thy true love forhim—Long, long ago when thou wast in thybloom—Hath left it ever rosy round the rim!LLOYD MIFFLIN.
Daughterof Venice, fairer than the moon!From thy dark casement leaning, half divine,And to the lutes of love that low repineAcross the midnight of the hushed lagoon,Listening with languor in a dreamfulswoon—On such a night as this thou didst entwineThy lily fingers round this glass ofwine,—Didst clasp thy climbing lover—none too soon!Thy lover left, but ere he left thy roomFrom this he drank, his warm lips at the brim;Thou kissed it as he vanished in the gloom,That kiss, because of thy true love forhim—Long, long ago when thou wast in thybloom—Hath left it ever rosy round the rim!LLOYD MIFFLIN.
Daughterof Venice, fairer than the moon!
From thy dark casement leaning, half divine,
And to the lutes of love that low repine
Across the midnight of the hushed lagoon,
Listening with languor in a dreamfulswoon—
On such a night as this thou didst entwine
Thy lily fingers round this glass ofwine,—
Didst clasp thy climbing lover—none too soon!
Thy lover left, but ere he left thy room
From this he drank, his warm lips at the brim;
Thou kissed it as he vanished in the gloom,
That kiss, because of thy true love forhim—
Long, long ago when thou wast in thybloom—
Hath left it ever rosy round the rim!
LLOYD MIFFLIN.
Frombridge to bridge thus, speaking other thingsOf which my Comedy cares not to sing,We came along, and held the summit, whenWe halted to behold another fissureOf Malebolge and other vain laments;And I beheld it marvellously dark.As in the Arsenal of the VenetiansBoils in the winter the tenacious pitchTo smear their unsound vessels o’er again,For sail they cannot; and instead thereofOne makes his vessel new, and one recaulksThe ribs of that which many a voyage has made;One hammers at the prow, one at the stern,This one makes oars, and that one cordage twists,Another mends the mainsail and the mizzen;Thus, not by fire, but by the art divine,Was boiling down below there a dense pitchWhich upon every side the bank belimed.I saw it, but I did not see within itAught but the bubbles that the boiling raised,And all swell up and resubside compressed.The while below there fixedly I gazed,My Leader, crying out: ‘Beware, beware!’Drew me unto himself from where I stood.Then I turned round, as one who is impatientTo see what it behoves him to escape,And whom a sudden terror doth unman,Who, while he looks, delays not his departure;And I beheld behind us a black devil,Running along upon the crag, approach.Ah, how ferocious was he in his aspect!And how he seemed to me in action ruthless,With open wings and light upon his feet!His shoulders, which sharp-pointed were and high,A sinner did encumber with both haunches,And he held clutched the sinews of the feet.‘INFERNO’(LONGFELLOW’S TRANSLATION).
Frombridge to bridge thus, speaking other thingsOf which my Comedy cares not to sing,We came along, and held the summit, whenWe halted to behold another fissureOf Malebolge and other vain laments;And I beheld it marvellously dark.As in the Arsenal of the VenetiansBoils in the winter the tenacious pitchTo smear their unsound vessels o’er again,For sail they cannot; and instead thereofOne makes his vessel new, and one recaulksThe ribs of that which many a voyage has made;One hammers at the prow, one at the stern,This one makes oars, and that one cordage twists,Another mends the mainsail and the mizzen;Thus, not by fire, but by the art divine,Was boiling down below there a dense pitchWhich upon every side the bank belimed.I saw it, but I did not see within itAught but the bubbles that the boiling raised,And all swell up and resubside compressed.The while below there fixedly I gazed,My Leader, crying out: ‘Beware, beware!’Drew me unto himself from where I stood.Then I turned round, as one who is impatientTo see what it behoves him to escape,And whom a sudden terror doth unman,Who, while he looks, delays not his departure;And I beheld behind us a black devil,Running along upon the crag, approach.Ah, how ferocious was he in his aspect!And how he seemed to me in action ruthless,With open wings and light upon his feet!His shoulders, which sharp-pointed were and high,A sinner did encumber with both haunches,And he held clutched the sinews of the feet.‘INFERNO’(LONGFELLOW’S TRANSLATION).
Frombridge to bridge thus, speaking other things
Of which my Comedy cares not to sing,
We came along, and held the summit, when
We halted to behold another fissure
Of Malebolge and other vain laments;
And I beheld it marvellously dark.
As in the Arsenal of the VenetiansBoils in the winter the tenacious pitchTo smear their unsound vessels o’er again,For sail they cannot; and instead thereofOne makes his vessel new, and one recaulksThe ribs of that which many a voyage has made;
As in the Arsenal of the Venetians
Boils in the winter the tenacious pitch
To smear their unsound vessels o’er again,
For sail they cannot; and instead thereof
One makes his vessel new, and one recaulks
The ribs of that which many a voyage has made;
One hammers at the prow, one at the stern,This one makes oars, and that one cordage twists,Another mends the mainsail and the mizzen;Thus, not by fire, but by the art divine,Was boiling down below there a dense pitchWhich upon every side the bank belimed.
One hammers at the prow, one at the stern,
This one makes oars, and that one cordage twists,
Another mends the mainsail and the mizzen;
Thus, not by fire, but by the art divine,
Was boiling down below there a dense pitch
Which upon every side the bank belimed.
I saw it, but I did not see within itAught but the bubbles that the boiling raised,And all swell up and resubside compressed.The while below there fixedly I gazed,My Leader, crying out: ‘Beware, beware!’Drew me unto himself from where I stood.
I saw it, but I did not see within it
Aught but the bubbles that the boiling raised,
And all swell up and resubside compressed.
The while below there fixedly I gazed,
My Leader, crying out: ‘Beware, beware!’
Drew me unto himself from where I stood.
Then I turned round, as one who is impatientTo see what it behoves him to escape,And whom a sudden terror doth unman,Who, while he looks, delays not his departure;And I beheld behind us a black devil,Running along upon the crag, approach.
Then I turned round, as one who is impatient
To see what it behoves him to escape,
And whom a sudden terror doth unman,
Who, while he looks, delays not his departure;
And I beheld behind us a black devil,
Running along upon the crag, approach.
Ah, how ferocious was he in his aspect!And how he seemed to me in action ruthless,With open wings and light upon his feet!His shoulders, which sharp-pointed were and high,A sinner did encumber with both haunches,And he held clutched the sinews of the feet.‘INFERNO’(LONGFELLOW’S TRANSLATION).
Ah, how ferocious was he in his aspect!
And how he seemed to me in action ruthless,
With open wings and light upon his feet!
His shoulders, which sharp-pointed were and high,
A sinner did encumber with both haunches,
And he held clutched the sinews of the feet.
‘INFERNO’(LONGFELLOW’S TRANSLATION).
Venice,October 10, 1830.
Italyat last! and what I have all my life looked forward to as the greatest possible felicity is now begun, and I am basking in it. The day has been so fruitful in enjoyment that I must, now that it is evening, endeavour to collect my thoughts a littleto write to you, my dear parents, and to thank you for having bestowed such happiness on me.... I shall, however, become quite bewildered, if things are to go on as they have done on this first day, when every hour brought with it so much never to be forgotten, that I do not know where to find senses sufficient to comprehend it all properly. I saw the ‘Assumption,’ then a whole gallery of paintings in the Manfrini Palace; then a festival in the church where hangs Titian’s ‘St.Peter’; afterwardsSt.Mark’s, and in the afternoon I had a row on the Adriatic, and visited the public gardens, where the people lie on the grass and eat. I then returned to the Piazza ofSt.Mark, where in the twilight there is always an immense crowd and crush of people; and all this I was obliged to see to-day, because there is so much that is novel and interesting to be seen to-morrow.
But I must now relate methodically how I came hither by water.... In Treviso there was an illumination, paper lanterns suspended in every part of the great square, and a large gaudy transparency in the centre. Some most lovely girls were walking about, in their long white veils and scarlet petticoats. It was quite dark when we arrived at Mestre last night, when we got into a boat, and in a dead calm gently rowed across to Venice. On our passage thither, where nothing but water is to be seen, and distant lights, we saw a small rock which stands in the midst of the sea; on this a lamp was burning; all the sailors took off their hats as we passed, and one of them said, this was the ‘Madonna of Tempests,’ which are often most dangerous and violent here. We then glided quietly into the great city, under innumerable bridges, without sound of post-horns, or rattling of wheels, or tollkeepers;the passage now became more thronged, and numbers of ships lying near; past the theatre, where gondolas in long rows lie waiting for their masters, just as our own carriages do at home, then into the great canal, past the church ofSt.Mark, the Lions, the palace of the Doges, and the Bridge of Sighs. The obscurity of night only enhanced my delight on hearing the familiar names and seeing the dark outlines.
And so I am actually in Venice! Only think: to-day I have gazed upon the finest pictures in the world, and have at last personally made the acquaintance of a very admirable man, whom hitherto I only knew by name—I allude to a certain Signor Giorgione, a splendid fellow—and also to Pardenone, who displays the most noble pictures, and portrays both himself and many of his simple scholars, in such a devout, faithful, and pious spirit, that you seem to converse with and grow fond of him. Who would not have been confused by all this? But if I am to speak of Titian, I must do so in a more reverent mood. Till now, I never knew that he was the felicitous artist I have this day seen him to be. That he thoroughly enjoyed life, in all its beauty and fulness, the picture in Paris proves; but he has fathomed the depths of human sorrow, as well as the joys of Heaven. His glorious ‘Entombment,’ and also the ‘Assumption,’ fully evince this. How Mary floats on the cloud, while an actualairseems to pervade the whole picture; how you see at a glance her very breathing, her awe, her devotion, and in short a thousand feelings,—all words seem poor and commonplace in comparison. The three heads of angels too, on the right of the picture, are of the highest order of beauty,—pure,serene loveliness, so unconscious, so bright and so seraphic. But no more of this! or I must perforce become poetical, if I be not so already, and that is a mood which does not at all suit me. I shall certainly see that picture every day.... What a man that Titian was! Everyone must be edified by his works, as I shall try to be, and I rejoice that I am in Italy. At this moment the gondoliers are shouting to each other, and the lights are reflected in the depths of the waters; one man is playing a guitar, and singing to it. It is a charming night. Farewell! and think of me in every happy hour as I do of you.—Felix.
FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.
WRITTEN TO MARY SHELLEY
Weshall travel hence within a few hours, with the speed of the post.... We have now got a comfortable carriage, and two mules, and, thanks to Paolo, have made a very decent bargain, comprising everything to Padua. I should say we had delightful fruit for breakfast, figs, very fine, and peaches, unfortunately gathered before they were ripe, whose smell was like what one fancies of the wakening of Paradise flowers.... I came from Padua [to Venice] in a gondola, and the gondolier, among other things, without any hint on my part, began talking of Lord Byron. He said he was agiovinotto Inglese, with anome stravagante, who lived very luxuriously, and spent great sums of money. This man, it seems, was one of Lord B.’s gondoliers.... These gondolas are the most beautiful and convenient boats in the world. They are finely carpeted and furnished with black, and painted black.The couches on which you lean are extraordinarily soft, and are so disposed as to be the most comfortable to those who lean or sit. The windows have at will either Venetian plate-glass flowered, or Venetian blinds, or blinds of black cloth to shut out the light.... I called on Lord Byron: he was delighted to see me. He took me in his gondola across the lagoon to a long sandy island, which defends Venice from the Adriatic. When we disembarked, we found his horses waiting for us, and we rode along the sands of the sea, talking. Our conversation consisted in histories of his wounded feelings, and questions as to my affairs, and great professions of friendship and regard for me.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
Whenalong the light ripple the far serenadeHas accosted the ear of each passionate maid,She may open the window that looks on thestream,—She may smile on her pillow and blend it in dream;Half in words, half in music, it pierces the gloom,‘I am coming—Stalì—but you know not for whom,Stalì—not for whom!’Now the tones become clearer,—you hear more and moreHow the waters divided return on theoar,—Does the prow of the gondola strike on the stair?Do the voices and instruments pause and prepare?Oh! they faint on the ear as the lamp on the view,‘I am passing—Premì—but I stay not for you!Premì—not for you!’Then return to your couch, you who stifle atear,—Then awake not, fair sleeper—believe he is here;For the young and the loving no sorrow endures,If to-day be another’s, to-morrow isyours;—May, the next time you listen, your fancy be true,‘I am coming—Sciàr—and for you and to you!Sciàr—and to you!’RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.
Whenalong the light ripple the far serenadeHas accosted the ear of each passionate maid,She may open the window that looks on thestream,—She may smile on her pillow and blend it in dream;Half in words, half in music, it pierces the gloom,‘I am coming—Stalì—but you know not for whom,Stalì—not for whom!’Now the tones become clearer,—you hear more and moreHow the waters divided return on theoar,—Does the prow of the gondola strike on the stair?Do the voices and instruments pause and prepare?Oh! they faint on the ear as the lamp on the view,‘I am passing—Premì—but I stay not for you!Premì—not for you!’Then return to your couch, you who stifle atear,—Then awake not, fair sleeper—believe he is here;For the young and the loving no sorrow endures,If to-day be another’s, to-morrow isyours;—May, the next time you listen, your fancy be true,‘I am coming—Sciàr—and for you and to you!Sciàr—and to you!’RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.
Whenalong the light ripple the far serenade
Has accosted the ear of each passionate maid,
She may open the window that looks on thestream,—
She may smile on her pillow and blend it in dream;
Half in words, half in music, it pierces the gloom,
‘I am coming—Stalì—but you know not for whom,
Stalì—not for whom!’
Now the tones become clearer,—you hear more and moreHow the waters divided return on theoar,—Does the prow of the gondola strike on the stair?Do the voices and instruments pause and prepare?Oh! they faint on the ear as the lamp on the view,‘I am passing—Premì—but I stay not for you!Premì—not for you!’
Now the tones become clearer,—you hear more and more
How the waters divided return on theoar,—
Does the prow of the gondola strike on the stair?
Do the voices and instruments pause and prepare?
Oh! they faint on the ear as the lamp on the view,
‘I am passing—Premì—but I stay not for you!
Premì—not for you!’
Then return to your couch, you who stifle atear,—Then awake not, fair sleeper—believe he is here;For the young and the loving no sorrow endures,If to-day be another’s, to-morrow isyours;—May, the next time you listen, your fancy be true,‘I am coming—Sciàr—and for you and to you!Sciàr—and to you!’RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.
Then return to your couch, you who stifle atear,—
Then awake not, fair sleeper—believe he is here;
For the young and the loving no sorrow endures,
If to-day be another’s, to-morrow isyours;—
May, the next time you listen, your fancy be true,
‘I am coming—Sciàr—and for you and to you!
Sciàr—and to you!’
RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.
IfI had been an unconnected man,I, from this moment, should have formed some planNever to leave sweet Venice: for to meIt was delight to ride by the lone sea:And then the town is silent—one may write,Or read in gondolas by day or night,Having the little brazen lamp alight,Unseen, uninterrupted:—books are there,Pictures, and casts from all those statues fairWhich were twin-born with poetry;—and allWe seek in towns, with little to recallRegret for the green country....But I had friends in London too....—The following morning, urged by my affairs,I left bright Venice.PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
IfI had been an unconnected man,I, from this moment, should have formed some planNever to leave sweet Venice: for to meIt was delight to ride by the lone sea:And then the town is silent—one may write,Or read in gondolas by day or night,Having the little brazen lamp alight,Unseen, uninterrupted:—books are there,Pictures, and casts from all those statues fairWhich were twin-born with poetry;—and allWe seek in towns, with little to recallRegret for the green country....But I had friends in London too....—The following morning, urged by my affairs,I left bright Venice.PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
IfI had been an unconnected man,
I, from this moment, should have formed some plan
Never to leave sweet Venice: for to me
It was delight to ride by the lone sea:
And then the town is silent—one may write,
Or read in gondolas by day or night,
Having the little brazen lamp alight,
Unseen, uninterrupted:—books are there,
Pictures, and casts from all those statues fair
Which were twin-born with poetry;—and all
We seek in towns, with little to recall
Regret for the green country....
But I had friends in London too....
—The following morning, urged by my affairs,
I left bright Venice.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.