(The richest tapestry-unrolled before them;)
First-came the brides; each-in virgin-veil,-
Nor unattended-by her bridal maids,
The two-th't-(step-by step) behind her-bore
The small-but precious caskets-th't contained
The dowery—and the presents. On she moved-
In the sweet seriousness-of virgin-youth;
Her eyes cast down,-and holding in her hand
A fan-(that gently waved) of ostrich-plumes.
Her veil,-(transparent-as the gossamer,)—
Fell-from beneath a starry diadem;
And on her dazzling neck—a jewel shone,
(Ruby, or diamond,-or dark amethyst,)
A jeweled chain,-in many a winding wreath,
Wreathing her gold brocade.
(That venerable structure,—now—no more,)
On the sea-brink,—another train they met,—
No strangers, nor unlooked for-ere they came,—
(Brothers-to some,-still dearer to the rest,)
Each (in his hand) bearing his cap and plume,—
And (as he walked,-with modest dignity,)
Folding his scarlet mantle. At the gate-
They join, and slowly-up the bannered aisle,-
(Led by the choir,)—with due solemnity—
Range round the altar. In his vestments-there-
The Patriarch stands; and (while the anthem flows)-
Who can look unmoved-the dream of years—
Just now-fulfilling. Here a mother weeps,—
Rejoicing-in her daughter. There-a son
Blesses the day-th't is to make her his;
While she-shines forth-through all her ornament,
Her beauty-heightened by her hopes—and fears.
At length-the rite-is ending. All fall down,-
All-of all ranks; and (stretching out his hands-
Apostle-like,) the holy man-proceeds
To give the blessing—(not a stir—or breath;)
When-(hark!) a din of voices-from without,—
And shrieks-and groans-and outcries-as in battle!
And lo! the door is burst, the curtain rent,—
And armed ruffians,—(robbers-from the deep,
Savage-uncouth,-led on-by BARBERIGO-
And his six brothers-in their coats of steel,)—
Are standing-on the threshold! Statue-like-
Awhile they gaze-on the fallen multitude,-
Each with his saber up,-in act to strike;
Then, as at once-recovering from the spell,
Rush forward-to the altar,-and as soon-
Are gone again,-(amid no clash of arms,)
Bearing away the maidens-and the treasures.
Where are they now?-plowing the distant waves,—
Their sails-outspread, and given to the wind,—
They-(on their decks) triumphant. On-they speed,
Steering-for ISTRIA; their accursed barks—
(Well-are they known,-the galliot-and the galley)—
Freighted (alas!) with all—that life endears!
The richest argosies-were poor-to them!
Now-hadst thou seen- -(along that crowded shore)
The matrons-running-wild,-their festal dress
A strange-and moving contrast-to their grief;
And through the city,-(wander where thou would'st,)
The men-half-armed-and arming—every where,—
As roused from slumber-by the stirring trump ;
One-with a shield,—one—with a casque—or spear;
One-with an axe-severing in two-the chain
Of some old pinnace. Not a raft—a plank
But-(on that day) was afloat. But-long before,
(Frantic-with grief, and scorning-all control,)
The youths were gone-in a light brigantine
(Lying at anchor-near the arsenal;
Each having sworn, (and-by the Holy Word,)
To slay or be slain. And-(from the tower)—
The watchman-gives the signal. In the east-
A ship is seen,—and making for the fort;
Her flag-St. Mark's. And now-she turns the point,
Over the waters-like a sea-bird-flying!
Ha! 'tis the same,-'t is theirs! from stern-to prow
Green-with victorious wreaths, she comes-to bring-
All that was lost. Coasting-(with narrow search)
FRIALI, (like a tiger-in his spring,)-
They had surprised—the corsair-where they lay—
Sharing the spoil-in blind security,
And sharing lots,-had slain them, one-and all,--
All to the last,-and flung then-far-and wide-
Into the sea,-their proper element;
-as fist-in rank, whose name—so longHad hushed-the babes of Venice, and who yet,—
Breathing a little,-in his look-retained
The fierceness of his soul. Thus-were the brides—
Lost-and recovered; and what now-remained—
But to give thanks? Twelve-breast-plates and twelve-crowns
By the young victors-to their patron-saint
Vowed-in the field, inestimable gifts,
Flaming with gems—and gold,-were-(in due time)
Seen at his feet. And ever-to preserve
The memory-of a day-so full of change,
(From joy to grief,—from grief—to joy again,)
Through many an age,—as oft—as it came round,
'Twas held-religiously. The Doge—resigned
His crimson-for pure ermine,—visiting—
(At earliest dawn) St. Mary's-silver shrine;
And through the city (in a stately barge
Of gold)—were borne,-(with songs and symphonies,)
Twelve ladies,-young-and noble. Clad they were-
In bridal white,—with bridal ornaments,
Each-in her glittering veil; and on the deck,
(As on a burnished throne,) they glided by;
No window-or balcony-but adorned
With hangings-of rich texture,—not a roof—
But covered with beholders,-and the air-
Vocal-with joy. Onward they went,-their oars-
Moving in concert-with the harmony,—
Through the Rialto—to the Ducal palace,—
And-at a banquet-served with honor there
Sat,-representing-(in the eyes of all,
Eyes-not unwet, I ween, with grateful tears,)—
Their lovely ancestors,-the Brides of Venice!
XL.-DYING GLADIATOR. BYRON.
The seal is set. Now welcome,-thou dread power!
Nameless, yet thus-omnipotent,—which here
Walk'st in the shadow--of the midnight hour-
With a deep awe, yet all—distinct from fear:
Thy haunts-are ever-where the dead walls rear
Their ivy mantles,-and the solemn scene-
Derives from thee-a sense-so deep-and clear
Th't we become a part-of what has been,
And grow-unto the spot,-all-seeing but-unseen.
And here the buzz of eager nations ran
In murmured pity-or-loud-roared applause,
As man-was slaughtered-by his fellow-man!
And wherefore-slaughtered? wherefore, but because
Such-were the bloody circus'-—genial laws,
And-the imperial pleasure. Wherefore—not?
What matters-where we fall-to fill the maws
Of worms,-on battle-plains or listed spot?
Both are but theaters-where the chief actors—rot!
I see-(before me)-the gladiator lie:
He leans-upon his hand; his manly brow
Consents to death,-but-conquers-agony!
And his drooped head-sinks-(gradually)—low!
And through his side-the last drops,—(ebbing slow—
From the red gash,)—fall heavy-one-by one,
Like the first-of a thunder-shower; and now
The arena-swims around him! he is gone
Ere ceased-the inhuman shout-which hailed the wretch-who won.
He-heard it, but-he heeded not; his eyes-
Were with his heart,—and that—was far away:
He recked not-of the life-he lost,-nor prize,
But where his rude hut-by the Danube lay!
There were his young barbarians—all at play!
There was their Dacian mother,-he,-(their sire,)—
Butchered to make a Roman-holiday!
All this-rushed-with his blood. Shall he expire,—
And-unavenged!—Arise! ye Goths! and glut—your ire!
XLI. THE ALPS AT DAY-BREAK. ROGERS.
The sun-beams-streak the azure skies,
And line (with light)—the mountain's brow:
With hounds-and horns-the hunters rise,-
And chase the roebuck-through the snow.
From rock-to rock,—(with giant-bound,)—
High-on their iron poles-they pass;
Mute,-lest the air,-(convulsed by sound,)—
Rend-(from above)—a frozen mass.
The goats-wind-slow-their wonted way,
Up craggy steeps-and ridges rude,
Marked-(by the wild wolf-for his prey,)—
From desert cave-or hanging wood.
And-(while the torrent-thunders loud,-
And as the echoing cliffs—reply,)
The huts-peep o'er the morning cloud,
Perched, (like an eagle's nest), on high.
XLII.-LAMENT OF THE PERI FOR HINDA.
Farewell! farewell to thee,-Araby's daughter!
(Thus-warbled a Peri-beneath th' dark sea,)
No pearl-ever lay-under Oman's green water
More pure-in its shell-than thy spirit—in thee.
Oh! fair-as th' sea-flower-close to thee growing,—
How light-was thy heart-till Love's witchery came,
Like th' wind-of the south-o'er a summer lute-blowing,-
And hush'd—all its music,—and wither'd—its frame !
But long (upon Araby's-green-sunny highlands)
Shall maids-and their lovers-remember th' doom
Of her—who lies sleeping-among the Pearl Islands,
With naught-but th' sea-star t' light up her tomb.
And still-when th' merry date-season-is burning,
And calls t' th' palm-groves-th' young—and th' old-
Th' happiest there,-from their pastime returning
At sunset, will weep-when thy story is told.
The young village-maid,-when (with flowers) she dresses
Her dark flowing hair for some festival-day,
Will think of thy fate-till, (neglecting her tresses,)
She mournfully turns-from the mirror away.
Nor shall Iran,-(beloved of her hero,) forget thee;
Tho' tyrants-watch over her tears-as they start,
Close,-close-by th' side of that hero-she'll set thee,-
Embalm'd-in the innermost shrine-of her heart.
Farewell! be it ours-to embellish thy pillow
With every thing beauteous-that grows in th' deep;
Each flower of the rock-and each gem-of th' billow-
Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine-thy sleep.
Around thee-shall glisten-the loveliest amber—
Th't ever-th' sorrowing sea-bird-has wept;
With many a shell-in whose hollow-wreath'd chamber
We, (Peris of ocean,)—by moonlight have slept.
We'll dive-where the gardens of coral lie darkling,—
And plant-all the rosiest stems-at thy head;
We'll seek-where the sands of the Caspian—are sparkling,—
And gather-their gold-t' strew over thy bed.
Farewell! farewell! until Pity's sweet fountain
Is lost in the hearts-of the fair-and th' brave,
They'll weep-for th' chieftain-who died-on the mountain;
They'll weep-for th' maiden-who sleeps-in this wave.
XLIII.-HOME SCENES IN MY NATIVE VALE. ROGERS.
Dear-is my little native vale,—
The ring-dove-builds-and murmurs there;
Close-by my cot-she tells her tale-
To every passing villager.
The squirrel-leaps-from tree—to tree,
And shells his nuts—at liberty.
In orange-groves-and myrtle-bowers,
(That breathe a gale-of fragrance round,)
I charm-the fairy-footed hours
With my loved lute's-romantic sound,
Or crowns of living laurel weave
For those-th't win the race-at eve.
The shepherd's horn-(at break of day,)
The ballet danced (in twilight glade,)
The canzonet-and roundelay-
Sung-in the silent-green-wood shade;
Those simple joys-(th't never fail)
Shall bind me-to my native vale.
|