A CHAPTEH OF ANNUALS. 



493 



Which a voice from a Gondola gliding along 

 Breath'd, as it floated by. 



" My Isabella, I dream of thee ! 

 My sweet one sang that song to me 

 When, by these sheltering hands carest, 

 Her dear head nestled on my breast: 

 O dove within a vulture's nest!" 



With heavy heart the youth arose, 

 And from the casement pour'd his gaze, 

 Where, stretch' d beneath, the city glows 

 In the sur.'s declining rays ; 

 And a thought of happier days, 

 Soothing his spirit to repose, 

 Like a saint within him prays; 

 And his lips are softly mov'd, 

 As he speaks of his belov'd. 



" Venice, since first thy glory rose, 

 The sport and terror of thy foes ; 

 Since first thy youthful arm began, 

 To scourge the insulting Ottoman ; 

 Encircled in thine azure zone, 

 Like Venus risen from the sea, 

 Thy daughters, Venice, fair as she 

 Where ever beauteous known. 

 Yet, ne'er within those marble halls, 

 Whose richly-variegated walls 

 Display in oriental work 

 Thy trophies wrested from the Turk, 

 When the fierce thundeJs of thine ire 

 Roused the reclining Musselman, 

 And with a bolt of vengeance dire, 

 Flung 'mid the panic-struck divan, 

 Obscured the Crescent's horns of fire; 

 Ne'er in those halls has beauty shone, 

 Which Venice might be proud to own, 

 Nor where her daughters most resort, 

 Or gallants, waiting, pay their court, 

 In gondola soft-gliding, or 

 In the bright-burnish'd Bucentaur, 

 With Isabella can compare, 

 Or e'er beside on earth was seen ; 

 So like an angel's is her air, 

 So heavenly her mien. 



" A fairy creature, young and good, 

 Her pure heart beating at her side, 

 With feelings yet scarce understood, 

 She seems too lovely to be woo'd, 

 Yet soft and gentle as a bride ; 

 Enough of heaven for heaven above, 

 Enough of earth on earth to love. 

 A vase wherein the amaranth grows, 

 The virgin lily, and the rose, 

 Entwined in such implicit ties, 

 They seem from the same stem to rise ; 

 So, in my love appear alone, 

 Virtue and sweetness perfect grown, 

 With white-leav'd innocence, in one. 



" Oh bitter grief! and must it be ? 



The ripe fruit falleth from the tree, 



And the river runs to the sea ; 



But the river bides the tide, 



And summer is not to the fruit denied, 



And the spindle of the Sisters Three 



Is of an hour-glass made ; 



And spin as fast as spin they may, 

 The thread endures to the very day ; 

 Its time is never stay'd." 



Ippolito gnash'd his teeth with rage ; 

 " Well there is neither youth nor age, 

 Which child or grandame ever wore, 

 That human power may not restore ! " 

 And he smil'd, and the pale fire burnt in his 



eye, 

 " What is life but a mockery ? " 



" Paint me a picture happiness 

 Shall be the unexhausted theme, 

 Nor be the shadows more or less, 

 Nor the tints brighter than they seem ; 

 Is it not a sorry dream ? 

 A vision fancy hath endow'd, 

 A day-dream painted on a cloud ? 

 Drew ye these colours from the sky, 

 From fountains of the orient day ? 

 Behold ! the very flood is dry, 

 Not faster, but as soon as they. 

 To-morrow shall those tints renew, 

 Will it retouch these colours too ! 



" Paint me a torrent in its pride, 

 Seething in its tempestuous siress, 

 And call it life ; and paint beside 

 A feather borne upon the tide, 

 And call that feather happiness ! " 



He turn'd away the day was gone 

 Sounds sank to silence one by one - 

 Till the prison 'd toad alone, 

 Plied its piteous moan. 



The footstep of the youth was heard 

 As he to the table drew, 

 And the drop on the honey-dew, 

 Was for a moment stirr'd 

 But straight again the sable drop, 

 Rested on the top. 



Softly the gondola glides along, 



Softly the gondolier his song 



Murmurs at intervals ; 



And the oar's soft splash, as it falls, 



Makes the dying strain 



Like whispering winds in rain. 



Beauteous is the night ; 



The stars are watching, and the moon, 



Pois'd in her transcendent noon, 



An orb of yellow light, 



Sees her face in the Lagoon, 



Like a spirit, still and white. 



But Ippolito is cold, 

 As one who hath given his blood away 

 To nourish the veins of a pilgrim old, 

 And sees him sitting by mountain grey, 

 Weaving his spells in the moonlight ray, 

 A wizard to darkness sold ! 



Gently Ippolito glides along ; 

 But splash of oar, nor n>urmur'd song, 

 Nor the sound of the tinkling guitar, 

 O'er the waters heard afar 

 Silver, fancy might believe, 



