Europe, repentant of her parricide, Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven, Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven. VENICE. (CHILDE HAROLD, Canto iv. Stanzas 1-4.) I STOOD in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; I saw from out the wave her structures rise O'er the far times, when many a subject land Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles, Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles! She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, her daughters had their dowers Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity increased. In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, States fall, arts fade - but Nature doth not die, Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, But unto us she hath a spell beyond Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond VENICE IN DECAY. (CHILDE HAROLD, Canto iv. Stanzas 11-13.) THE spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord; When Venice was a queen with an unequall'd dower. The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns - From power's high pinnacle, when they have felt Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe. Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass, Their gilded collars glittering in the sun; But is not Doria's menace come to pass? Are they not bridled?· Venice, lost and won, Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done, Sinks, like a sea-weed, into whence she rose! Better be whelm'd beneath the waves, and shun, Even in destruction's depth, her foreign foes, From whom submission wrings an infamous repose. THE SAME. (CHILDE HAROLD, Canto iv. Stanza 18.) I LOVED her from my boyhood — she to me Rising like water-columns from the sea, Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show. AN AUGUST EVENING IN ITALY. (CHILDE HAROLD, Canto iv. Stanzas 27-29.) THE moon is up, and yet it is not night — a sea Of glory streams along the Alpine height Where the Day joins the past Eternity; While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest Floats through the azure air - an island of the blest! A single star is at her side, and reigns With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within it glows, Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, from afar, Comes down upon the waters; all its hues, From the rich sunset to the rising star, Their magical variety diffuse: And now they change; a paler shadow strews Its mantle o'er the mountains; parting day The last still loveliest, till — 't is gone and all is gray. THE AVE MARIA. (DON JUAN, Canto iii. Stanzas 102–109.) AVE Maria! blessed be the hour! The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft Have felt that moment in its fullest power Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, While swung the deep bell in the distant tower, Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, And not a breath crept through the rosy air, And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirr'd with prayer. Ave Maria! 't is the hour of prayer! Ave Maria! 't is the hour of love! Ave Maria! may our spirits dare Look up to thine and to thy Son's above! Ave Maria! oh, that face so fair! Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty doveWhat though 't is but a pictured image? — strike That painting is no idol - 't is too like. Sweet hour of twilight! - in the solitude Of the pine forest, and the silent shore Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood, Rooted where once the Adrian wave flowed o'er, |