Whose state unyielding to the Roman ban
Hurl'd back the thunders of the vatican!
And he the crowned consort of the deep-
Why does his bride, the Adriatic, weep?
Why vainly thus her azure zone unlace
And heave her bosom to his loved embrace?
Why comes he not, the bridegroom-where is now
The painted banner-and the gilded prow-
Where, Venice, are thy children-what hath come-
Or who, to strike thy voice of music dumb?
Silence is in thy streets, and hushed the sound
Of revel in thy palaces around;
Thy lordly senator hath changed his state,
Almost a beggar at his father's gate,
And forced, yet basely satisfied to live,
To beg the favor that he used to give.
So art thou fallen, oh, Venice! Never more
The song shall animate thy gentle shore,
Beautiful Brenta"-few howe'er shall shed
A tear for thee, thou city of the dead!
The dead have all thy fame: arise and tell,
Erizzo! how of old Venetians fell,
For honour and for Venice! rise and say
How well they fought on Negroponte's day,
And thou with them-though there no altar stone
Arose to tell that country was thy own;
No monument, beneath whose sacred weight
Thy fathers slept-the fathers of the state.
There naught was thine to make that spot to thee
Sacred as Venice to her sons should be;
But that thy country's banner floated o'er
The walls, that trembled at her lion's roar,
Sufficed for thee, and Negropont became
A new Thermopyla to crown thy name.
Thus old Erizzo;-for the stranger land-
But trusted by his country to his hand!
Thus, with his comrades, lived he o'er the hou.
Of Grecian glory and of Roman power.
And could not ye, Venetians, for the fires
That blazed upon the altars of your sires,
Could ye not envy such an hour of strife,
Beyond the infamy of an age of life?
Oh, well, when thou wert doomed to fall, did he
Who bore the ensigns of thy majesty,
Survive not to endure the threat and frown
Of one who wore his delegated crown.
Fell Negropont-and old Erizzo stood
Beside his conqueror, in that field of blood;
Sternly he eyed the Sultan, sternly too
His glance of anger back the Moslem threw;
And they who knew the meaning of that look,
Sad augury for old Erizzo took.
But one was there who could not deem that he,
So gentle, she had heard his voice, could be
To her obdurate; they had met before,
And Candia's isle had heard the lover pour
As ardent vows as virgin e'er betrayed
From lips of lover, 'neath the myrtle shade,
In the soft luxury of Italian skies,
And lighted only by her lover's eyes.
VIII.
And happy then was Mahomet to prove
The gentler raptures of requited love;
Forgot his sceptre, and ambition's crown,
Cast at the feet of sovereign beauty down.
Oh, wore not then the destined conqueror's brow
A prouder wreath than binds his forehead now?
Swelled not his breast with nobler triumph then,
Than e'er shall bid his heart to beat again?
To clasp her form, unlearned the frauds of life,
Who deemed herself as surely then his wife,
In the warm pledge, beneath the starlight given,
As if those little orbs had beamed from heaven,
To witness and record the vow of truth
That bound them in the innocence of youth.
She would have led him to her sire, and poured,
So proud she looked upon her bosom's lord,
Again, and yet again, her passion's vow-
Told how he won her carly love; and how
His dark eye beamed-and how his bosom fired
At deeds of arms; and that she most desired
In one she loved, she would have bade her sire
Behold in him-love, virtue, modest fire,
And towering hopes-and all that woman deems,
In him who ministers her passions' dreams.
A little month, and Candia's fountains bore,
Her groves and valleys, happiness no more
To the dark-eyed Venetian-rock, and tree,
And summer-sky, were there-but where was he?
Gone from her bower-and now must Anna learn,
The fears that harrow, and the hopes that burn;
As the sealed fountains of the heart unclose;
And woman learns the origin of woes!
When first the secrets of her bosom rise,
Like crime untold, before the virgin's eyes;
And all the rapturous visions of delight,
The nameless dreams, that visit her by night
Start up before her-when at last are burst
The chains of blissful ignorance, and first
The blushing maid is summoned to confess,
With all the fervor of its young excess,
Her sex's secret to her heart, and tell
That she can love-and love, alas! too well!
And well no second love may woman know;
What second love can bid her bosom glow
Again with untried rapture-tear away
The chaste affections of her early day;
Find her in innocence, and teach the cost
At which that early innocence is lost;
Rend the heart's floodgates, and, with fierce control,
Pour the warm passion full upon the soul!
Such love was thine, Erizzo's daughter! Why
Should ever love like thine be doomed to sigh?
Why should the best reward of love, sincere
As thine, be pity's unavailing tear?
Oh, could'st thou know to whom thou hast resigned
Thy love-to what, the treasure of thy mind-
But no! enough, in all thy woes, for thee
To prove the force of love, and woman's constancy!
At length arrived at Crete; her sire she told
The simple story of her heart; and old
As was Erizzo's memory of his youth,
Perhaps, perhaps her artlessness of truth,
Reproved the rising wrath. "Whoe'er he be,
Full well I ween no Mantuan prince is he :
And false the tale of love repeated o'er,
To cheat my child."-" Yet tell me, father, more
Tell me, nay, tell me not, I know, at last
That he will come, and vindicate the past.
Father, I looked upon his eye, his brow,
And truth was radiant there-I see it now,
As when, at first, he told me I was fair,
And pressed me to his bosom; there, oh! there,
I felt the beatings of his heart, and pressed,
And knew it not, a lover, to my breast"
Still stands the citadel, and all around
The city's ruins smoke along the ground:
Her aged chief, before the conqueror's throne-
He stands in chains-nor stands he there alone;
Lo, at his side, remembered still, and fair,
His daughter! Wherefore is his daughter there?
If Mahomet have loved-and loves he yet-
Or doth the king the borrowed prince forget?
Forget! Had Mahomet before him seen
A captive stand, with that unaltered mien;
Erect, and prouder in his chains, than he
Beneath his rich triumphant canopy?
But that remembrance whispered to his soul-
But that a tear, uncalled, reproachful stole,
Into that eye's bright softness, which was still
The guide and ruler of his wayward will;
To check the spirit's fierceness: from his seat
Came down the Sultan, where, before his feet,
Trembled the captive-" Make the presence clear!"
Instant the throngs obsequious disappear;
And with the fair is Mahomet alone!
He stretched his hand, but on his forehead shone
The jewelled crescent-" Anna, 'tis the hand
That pressed thee once-this sceptre of command,
The sword, the banner, are they not for thee.
From farthest Ganges to the Western sea?
I would have won earth's diadem, and shed
A heaven of sacred perfume o'er thy head-
Have spread one wide dominion, that thy voice
Might bid at once a universe rejoice;
Or, if thy mood were altered, beat them down
Earth's best or meanest, vassals of thy crown.
My hope hath been my glory, and my pride,
Above the world, to hold thee at my side,
Another nature, to the world to give
New laws, and bid a new creation live.
And all is done-and art thou now so cold-
So brief a space-and hath thy love grown old!
Well, be it in the battle, and the fray,
My heart was, Anna, far with thee away.
I called on him whose mightier name I bear,
My shield in fight, thy image still was there.
I traversed seas and oceans, but thy form
Was with me still, and quieted the storm.
Where'er I turned, those eyes were still my guide,
And absence could not tear me from thy side.
Why lowly beds young Anna-where is he-
Her sire ?-arl Mahomet? Oh! can he see
Those dark yes streaming tears; and that pale brow,
And the hot mple's throb, nor grant her now,
Of all the tasures that should crown his wife,
That only bon, her fearless father's life?
Will he bold those dear hands' passionate prayer,
Hear thenute anguish of her deep despair;
Nor butor memory of that blissful hour
Of ear love, forego his murderous power?
Hotly he clasps his knees! but wild his look,
As fin nervous grasp the maid he shook,
Anwaving high his arm; "Upon them, on!"
under cried: she cast a look-but one-
her fond prayer was o'er-as now with slow,
measured steps, the Turkish warriors go
1l toward the citadel, where floateth still
he cross, unconquered, from that rock-bound hill.
and go they on! while ironed at their head,
The leaguered fortress saw its chieftain led.
Erizzo, for his country!-why, is this?--
His child-has she refused the proffered bliss?
Stern Mahomet-is this at thy command?
In the dim distance, lo, a fettered hand-
Lo! in the Moslem ranks a single sound-
St. Mark! St. Mark! the eternal hills resound
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