Classic and Contemporary Poetry
VENICE, by THOMAS BUCHANAN READ 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...RICHARD, WHAT'S THAT NOISE? by RICHARD HOWARD LOOKING FOR THE GULF MOTEL by RICHARD BLANCO RIVERS INTO SEAS by LYNDA HULL DESTINATIONS by JOSEPHINE JACOBSEN THE ONE WHO WAS DIFFERENT by RANDALL JARRELL THE CONFESSION OF ST. JIM-RALPH by DENIS JOHNSON SESTINA: TRAVEL NOTES by WELDON KEES WHERE THE TRACK VANISHES by GALWAY KINNELL DRIFTING by THOMAS BUCHANAN READ |
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