05.05.2009, 18:58
VENICE.
Pale queen of the Adriatic, thou dost wear
Thy diadem e'en yet, although it be
Of sad wan stones, and funeral empery,
Like that rude hands from Charlemagne did tear,
With the sacrilege of his sepulchre ; but the air
Breathes hot and sultry, and the languid sea
Creeps through thy vague canals, whose apathy
Summer weighs down, with dull and heavy glare.
Not so 'twas in thy summer, which if now
Making men's hearts like theirs who long have past
To their immortal fashioning, it shone ;
The piecemeal East might in thy mould re-cast
Rise a Colossus of St. Mark ; and thou
Bid him look north, and keep the Pontic throne.
Pale queen of the Adriatic, thou dost wear
Thy diadem e'en yet, although it be
Of sad wan stones, and funeral empery,
Like that rude hands from Charlemagne did tear,
With the sacrilege of his sepulchre ; but the air
Breathes hot and sultry, and the languid sea
Creeps through thy vague canals, whose apathy
Summer weighs down, with dull and heavy glare.
Not so 'twas in thy summer, which if now
Making men's hearts like theirs who long have past
To their immortal fashioning, it shone ;
The piecemeal East might in thy mould re-cast
Rise a Colossus of St. Mark ; and thou
Bid him look north, and keep the Pontic throne.