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And as tho' nothing had been done or thought of,

The stone-work rose before her till the light

Glimmered and went-there, nightly, at that hour (You smile, and would it were an idle story!

Would we could say so!) at that hour she stands
Shuddering her eyes uplifted, and her hands

Joined as in prayer; then, like a Blessed Soul
Bursting the tomb, springs forward, and away

Flies o'er the woods, the mountains. Issuing forth,

The hunter meets her in his hunting track;

The shepherd on the heath, starting, exclaims

(For still she bears the name she bore of old) ""Tis the White Lady!"

XI.

THERE is a glorious City in the Sea.

The Sea is in the broad, the narrow streets,

Ebbing and flowing; and the salt sea-weed

Clings to the marble of her palaces.

No track of men, no foot-steps to and fro,

Lead to her gates. The path lies o'er the Sea,

Invisible; and from the land we went,

As to a floating City-steering in,

And gliding up her streets as in a dream,
So smoothly, silently-by many a dome
Mosque-like, and many a stately portico,

The statues ranged along an azure sky;

By many a pile in more than Eastern splendour,

Of old the residence of merchant-kings;

The fronts of some, tho' Time had shattered them,

Still glowing with the richest hues of art,

As though the wealth within them had run o'er.

Thither I came, in the great passage-boat, From PADUA, where the stars are, night by night, Watched from the top of an old dungeon-tower, Whence blood ran once, the tower of EzzelinoNot as he watched them, when he read his fate And shuddered. But of him I thought not then, Him or his horoscope; far, far from me

The forms of Guilt and Fear; though some were there,

Sitting among us round the cabin-board,

Some who, like him, had cried, "Spill blood enough!" And could shake long at shadows. They had played

Their parts at PADUA, and were now returning; A vagrant crew, and careless of to-morrow, Careless and full of mirth. Who, in that quaver,

Sings "Caro, Caro!"-"Tis the Prima Donna,

And to her monkey, smiling in his face.

Who, as transported, cries, "Bravo! Ancora!"

'Tis a grave personage, an old macaw,

Perched on her shoulder. But mark him who leaps

Ashore, and with a shout urges along

The lagging mules; then runs and climbs a tree

That with its branches overhangs the stream,

And, like an acorn, drops on deck again.

'Tis he who speaks not, stirs not, but we laugh;

That child of fun and frolic, Arlecchino.

And mark their Poet-with what emphasis

He prompts the young Soubrette, conning her part!

Her tongue plays truant, and he raps his box,

And prompts again; for ever looking round

As if in search of subjects for his wit,

His satire; and as often whispering

Things, tho' unheard, not unimaginable.

Had I thy pencil, CR - BBE (when thou hast done,

Late may it be.. it will, like Prospero's staff,
Be buried fifty fathoms in the earth)

I would portray the Italian-Now I cannot.
Subtle, discerning, eloquent, the slave

Of Love, of Hate, for ever in extremes;

Gentle when unprovoked, easily won,

But quick in quarrel-thro' a thousand shades

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