Voices of a happy hymn
Every moment grow less dim,
Till at last the slim caïque
(Hollowed from a single stem
Of a hill-brow's diadem)
Rests in a deep-dented creek
Myrtle-ambushed,-and above
Songs, the very breath of Love,
Stream from Temples reverend-old,
Porticoes of Doric mould,
Snow-white islands of devotion,
Planted in the rose and gold

Of the evening's æther-ocean;—

O joyant Earth! beloved Grecian sky!

O favoured Wanderer-honoured dreamer I!

Yet not less favoured when awake,-for now, Across my torpid brow

Swept a cool current of the young night's air,
With a sharp kiss, and there

Was I all clear awake,-drawn soft along
There in my own dear Gondola, among
The bright-eyed Venice isles,

Lit

up

in constant smiles.

What had my thoughts and heart to do
With wild Egyptian bark, or frail canoe,

H

Or mythic skiff out of Saturnian days,

When I was there, with that rare scene to praise, That Gondola to rest in and enjoy,

That actual bliss to taste without alloy ?

Cradler of placid pleasures, deep delights,

Bosomer of the Poet's wearied mind,

Tempter from vulgar passions, scorns and spites,
Enfolder of all feelings that be kind!

Before our souls thy quiet motions spread,
In one great calm, one undivided plain,
Immediate joy, blest memories of the dead,
And iris-tinted forms of hope's domain,
Child of the still Lagoons!

Open to every show

Of summer sunsets and autumnal moons,
Such as no other space of world can know,—

Dear Boat, that makest dear

Whatever thou com'st near,—

In thy repose still let me gently roam,
Still on thy couch of beauty find a home;
Still let me share thy comfortable peace
With all I have of dearest upon Earth,

Friend, mistress, sister; and when death's release

Shall call my spirit to another birth,

Would that I might thus lightly lapse away,

Alone, by moonlight,-in a Gondola.

ON THE MAD-HOUSE AT VENICE.

"I looked and saw between us and the sun

A building on an island, such an one

As age to age might add, for uses vile,
A windowless, deformed, and dreary pile ;
And on the top an open tower, where hung

A bell, which in the radiance swayed and swung,-
We could just hear its hoarse and iron tongue;
The broad sun sank behind it, and it tolled
In strong and black relief. What we behold
Shall be the Madhouse and its belfry tower,'
Said Maddalo."

SHELLEY.

HONOUR aright the philosophic thought,
That they who, by the trouble of the brain
Or heart, for usual life are overwrought,
Hither should come to discipline their pain.
A single convent on a shoaly plain
Of waters never changing their dull face
But by the sparkles of thick-falling rain
Or lines of puny waves,—such is the place.
Strong medicine enters by the ear and
eye;
That low unaltering dash against the wall
May lull the angriest dream to vacancy;
And Melancholy, finding nothing strange,
For her poor self to jar upon at all,

Frees her sad-centred thoughts, and gives them pleasant

range.

ΤΟ

WRITTEN AT VENICE.

Not only through the golden haze
Of indistinct surprise,

With which the Ocean-bride displays

Her pomp to stranger eyes ;-
Not with the fancy's flashing play,
The traveller's vulgar theme,
Where following objects chase away
The moment's dazzling dream ;-

Not thus art thou content to see
The City of my love,-

Whose beauty is a thought to me
All mortal thoughts above;
And pass in dull unseemly haste,
Nor sight nor spirit clear,
As if the first bewildering taste
Were all the banquet here!

When the proud Sea, for Venice' sake,

Itself consents to wear

The semblance of a land-locked lake,
Inviolably fair;

And in the dalliance of her Isles,

Has levelled his strong waves,
Adoring her with tenderer wiles,

Than his own pearly caves,—

Surely may we to similar calm

Our noisy lives subdue,

And bare our bosoms to such balm

As God has given to few;

Surely may we delight to pause

On our care-goaded road,

Refuged from Time's most bitter laws

In this august abode.

Thou knowest this,-thou lingerest here,

Rejoicing to remain ;

The plashing oars fall on thy ear

Like a familiar strain;

No wheel prolongs its weary roll,

The Earth itself goes round

Slower than elsewhere, and thy soul

Dreams in the void of sound.