Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, VENICE, by THOMAS BUCHANAN READ


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

VENICE, by             Poem Explanation         Poet's Biography
First Line: Night on the adriatic, night!
Subject(s): Travel




I.
NIGHT on the Adriatic, night!
And like a mirage of the plain,
With all her marvellous domes of light,
Pale Venice looms along the main.


No sound from the receding shore,
No sound from all the broad lagoon,
Save where the light and springing oar
Brightens our track beneath the moon:


Or save where yon high campanile
Gives to the listening sea its chime;
Or where those dusky giants wheel
And smite the ringing helm of Time.


'Tis past, and Venice drops to rest;
Alas! hers is a sad repose,
While in her brain and on her breast
Tramples the vision of her foes .


Erewhile from her sad dream of pain
She rose upon her native flood,
And struggled with the Tyrant's chain ,
Till every link was stained with blood .


The Austrian pirate, wounded, spurned,
Fled howling to the sheltering shore,
But, gathering all his crew, returned
And bound the Ocean Queen once more.


'Tis past, -and Venice prostrate lies, -
And, snarling round her couch of woes,
The watch-dogs, with the jealous eyes,
Scowl where the stranger comes or goes.


II.
Lo! here awhile suspend the oar;
Rest in the Mocenigo's shade,
For Genius hath within this door
His charmed, though transient, dwelling made.


Somewhat of " Harold's" spirit yet,
Methinks, still lights these crumbling halls;
For where the flame of song is set
It burns, though all the temple falls.


Oh, tell me not those days were given
To Passion and her pampered brood;
Or that the eagle stoops from heaven
To dye his talons deep in blood.


I hear alone his deathless strain
From sacred inspiration won,
As I would only watch again.
The eagle when he nears the sun.


III.
Oh, would some friend were near me now,
Some friend well tried and cherished long,
To share the scene; -but chiefly thou,
Sole source and object of my song.


By Olivola's dome and tower,
What joy to clasp thy hand in mine,
While through my heart this sacred hour
Thy voice should melt like mellow wine.


What time or place so fit as this
To bid the gondolier withhold,
And dream through one soft age of bliss
The olden story, never old?


The domes suspended in the sky
Swim all above me broad and fair;
And in the wave their shadows lie, -
Twin phantoms of the sea and air.


O'er all the scene a halo plays,
Slow fading, but how lovely yet
For here the brightness of past days
Still lingers, though the sun is set.


Oft in my bright and boyish hours
I lived in dreams what now I live,
And saw these palaces and towers
In all the light romance can give.


They rose along my native stream,
They charmed the lakelet in the glen;
But in this hour the waking dream
More frail and dream-like seems than then.


A matchless scene, a matchless night,
A tide below, a moon above;
An hour for music and delight;
For gliding gondolas and love!


But here, alas! you hark in vain, -
When Venice fell her music died;
And voiceless as a funeral train,
The blackened barges swim the tide.


The harp, which Tasso loved to wake,
Hangs on the willow where it sleeps ,
And while the light strings sigh or break,
Pale Venice by the water weeps.


IV.
'Tis past, and weary droops the wing
That thus hath borne me idly on;
The thoughts I have essayed to sing
Are but as bubbles touched and gone.


But Venice, cold his soul must be,
Who, looking on thy beauty, hears
The story of thy wrongs, if he
Is moved to neither song nor tears.


To glide by temples fair and proud,
Between deserted marble walls,
Or see the hireling foeman crowd
Rough-shod her noblest palace halls;


To know her left to Vandal foes
Until her nest be robbed and gone, -
To see her bleeding breast, which shows
How dies the Adriatic swan; -


To know that all her wings are shorn;
That Fate has written her decree,
That soon the nations here shall mourn
The lone Palmyra of the sea;


Where waved her vassal flags of yore
By valour in the Orient won;
To see the Austrian vulture soar,
A blot against the morning sun;-


To hear a rough and foreign speech
Commanding the old ocean mart, -
Are mournful sights and sounds that reach,
And wake to pity, all the heart.






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