pride's pictures. 226 



See where she drinks — no longer Adria's wine- 

 But from the chalice Lido fills with glee — 



So withered now, and desolate her vine — 



Though waveless still the blue Lagoon may be. 



'Twas there, or thereabouts, that Foscarani strove 



Against his traitor-murderers — who died. 

 The marvel of his honour and true love — 



The victim of her infamy and Pride. 



He loved — and was beloved ! What more would man ? 



The Hundred Isles, were nothing in the scales ; 

 With mind to brave and bear, — with soul to scan, 



Th' inconstant good of virtue's devious gales. 



He wooed a lady — and her name was Love, 



True to his passion, all beside — loved not ; 

 She was an angel — spotless as the dove. 



Yet pride, like darkness, closed upon their lot. 



In vain I write, — if to descant be vain — 



Upon the trodden plumes of nodding pride ; 

 The throbbings of my heart have borne the pain, 



Like yielding mortals, wrestling with the tide. 



The wind is up ! pity for those who roam. 



Upon life's selfish wilderness, so cold ; 

 Pity for him who quits his Father's home. 



In mockery and haste — his Mother, old : 



To wander, thoughtless, o'er a prosperous land, 



Where hope holds out to industry reward ; 

 And idleness supplies the useless hand. 



With nought save infamy's subdued regard. 



Pride prompts the million : e'en the village churl 

 As home he hies him from the play-house throng, 



Envies the great, who in their chariots whirl 



From square to square — nor to that crowd belong. 



Rolls the deep thunder heavily on high ? 



Answer, speak if thou art not coward man .■' 

 Say " yes :" — 1 hail it with salvation's sigh — 



Can truth do more ? so teach me if it can ? 



Falls now the lightning with some quick design ! 



{Boat feel the infliction Nature bade thee ftel ?) 

 Spare, spare the pilgrim gray. Father benign, 



Turn its course towards the magnetic steel. 



