The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 181

Vanisht are all her pomps, 'tis true, But mourn them not--for vanisht too (Thanks to that Power, who soon or late, Hurls to the dust the guilty Great,) Are all the outrage, falsehood, fraud, The chains, the rapine, and the blood, That filled each spot, at home, abroad, Where the Republic's standard stood.

Desolate VENICE! when I track Thy haughty course thro' centuries back; Thy ruthless power, obeyed but curst-- The stern machinery of thy State, Which hatred would, like steam, have burst, Had stronger fear not chilled even hate;-- Thy perfidy, still worse than aught Thy own unblus.h.i.+ng SARPI[2] taught;-- Thy friends.h.i.+p which, o'er all beneath Its shadow, rained down dews of death;[3]-- Thy Oligarchy's Book of Gold, Closed against humble Virtue's name, But opened wide for slaves who sold Their native land to thee and shame;[4]-- Thy all-pervading host of spies Watching o'er every glance and breath, Till men lookt in each others' eyes, To read their chance of life or death;-- Thy laws that made a mart of blood, And legalized the a.s.sa.s.sin's knife;[5]-- Thy sunless cells beneath the flood, And racks and Leads that burnt out life;--

When I review all this and see The doom that now hath fallen on thee; Thy n.o.bles, towering once so proud, Themselves beneath the yoke now bowed,-- A yoke by no one grace redeemed, Such as of old around thee beamed, But mean and base as e'er yet galled Earth's tyrants when themselves enthralled,-- I feel the moral vengeance sweet.

And smiling o'er the wreck repeat:-- "Thus perish every King and State "That tread the steps which VENICE trod, "Strong but in ill and only great, "By outrage against man and G.o.d!"

[1] Under the Doge Michaeli, in 1171.

[2] The celebrated Fra Paolo. The collections of Maxims which this bold monk drew up at the request of the Venetian Government, for the guidance of the Secret Inquisition of State, are so atrocious as to seem rather an over-charged satire upon despotism, than a system of policy, seriously inculcated, and but too readily and constantly pursued.

[3] Conduct of Venice towards her allies and dependencies, particularly to unfortunate Padua.

[4] Among those admitted to the honor of being inscribed in the _Libro d'oro_ were some families of Brescia, Treviso, and other places, whose only claim to that distinction was the zeal with which they prostrated themselves and their country at the feet of the republic.

[5] By the infamous statutes of the State Inquisition, not only was a.s.sa.s.sination recognized as a regular mode of punishment, but this secret power over life was delegated to their minions at a distance, with nearly as much facility as a licence is given under the game laws of England. The only restriction seems to have been the necessity of applying for a new certificate, after every individual exercise of the power.

EXTRACT VII.

Venice.

_Lord Byron's Memoirs, written by himself.--Reflections, when about to read them_.

Let me a moment--ere with fear and hope Of gloomy, glorious things, these leaves I ope-- As one in fairy tale to whom the key Of some enchanter's secret halls is given, Doubts while he enters slowly, tremblingly, If he shall meet with shapes from h.e.l.l or heaven-- Let me a moment think what thousands live O'er the wide earth this instant who would give, Gladly, whole sleepless nights to bend the brow Over these precious leaves, as I do now.

How all who know--and where is he unknown?

To what far region have his songs not flown, Like PSAPHON'S birds[1] speaking their master's name, In every language syllabled by Fame?-- How all who've felt the various spells combined Within the circle of that mastermind,-- Like spells derived from many a star and met Together in some wondrous amulet,-- Would burn to know when first the Light awoke In his young soul,--and if the gleams that broke From that Aurora of his genius, raised Most pain or bliss in those on whom they blazed; Would love to trace the unfolding of that power, Which had grown ampler, grander, every hour; And feel in watching o'er his first advance As did the Egyptian traveller[2] when he stood By the young Nile and fathomed with his lance The first small fountains of that mighty flood.

They too who mid the scornful thoughts that dwell In his rich fancy, tingeing all its streams,-- As if the Star of Bitterness which fell On earth of old,[3] had touched them with its beams,-- Can track a spirit which tho' driven to hate, From Nature's hands came kind, affectionate; And which even now, struck as it is with blight, Comes out at times in love's own native light;-- How gladly all who've watched these struggling rays Of a bright, ruined spirit thro' his lays, Would here inquire, as from his own frank lips, What desolating grief, what wrongs had driven That n.o.ble nature into cold eclipse; Like some fair orb that, once a sun in heaven.

And born not only to surprise but cheer With warmth and l.u.s.tre all within its sphere, Is now so quenched that of its grandeur lasts Naught but the wide, cold shadow which it casts.

Eventful volume! whatsoe'er the change Of scene and clime--the adventures bold and strange-- The griefs--the frailties but too frankly told-- The loves, the feuds thy pages may unfold, If Truth with half so prompt a hand unlocks His virtues as his failings, we shall find The record there of friends.h.i.+ps held like rocks, And enmities like sun-touched snow resigned; Of fealty, cherisht without change or chill, In those who served him, young, and serve him still; Of generous aid given, with that noiseless art Which wakes not pride, to many a wounded heart; Of acts--but, no--_not_ from himself must aught Of the bright features of his life be sought.

While they who court the world, like Milton's cloud, "Turn forth their silver lining" on the crowd, This gifted Being wraps himself in night; And keeping all that softens and adorns And gilds his social nature hid from sight, Turns but its darkness on a world he scorns.

[1] Psaphon, in order to attract the attention of the world, taught mult.i.tudes of birds to speak his name, and then let them fly away in various directions; whence the proverb, "Psaphonis aves."

[2] Bruce.

[3] "And the name of the star is called Wormwood, and the third part of the waters became wormwood."--_Rev_. viii.

EXTRACT VIII.

Venice.

_Female Beauty at Venice.--No longer what it was in the time of t.i.tian.-- His mistress.--Various Forms in which he has painted her.--Venus.--Divine and profane Love.--La Fragilita d'Amore--Paul Veronese.--His Women.-- Marriage of Cana.--Character of Italian Beauty.--Raphael's Fornarina.-- Modesty_.

Thy brave, thy learned have pa.s.sed away: Thy beautiful!--ah, where are they?

The forms, the faces that once shone, Models of grace, in t.i.tian's eye, Where are they now, while flowers live on In ruined places, why, oh! why Must Beauty thus with Glory die?

That maid whose lips would still have moved, Could art have breathed a spirit through them; Whose varying charms her artist loved More fondly every time he drew them, (So oft beneath his touch they past, Each semblance fairer than the last); Wearing each shape that Fancy's range Offers to Love--yet still the one Fair idol seen thro' every change, Like facets of some orient stone,-- In each the same bright image shown.

Sometimes a Venus, unarrayed But in her beauty[1]--sometimes deckt In costly raiment, as a maid That kings might for a throne select.[2]

Now high and proud, like one who thought The world should at her feet be brought; Now with a look reproachful sad,[3]-- Unwonted look from brow so glad,-- And telling of a pain too deep For tongue to speak or eyes to weep.

Sometimes thro' allegory's veil, In double semblance seemed to s.h.i.+ne, Telling a strange and mystic tale Of Love Profane and Love Divine[4]-- Akin in features, but in heart As far as earth and heaven apart.

Or else (by quaint device to prove The frailty of all worldly love) Holding a globe of gla.s.s as thin As air-blown bubbles in her hand, With a young Love confined therein, Whose wings seem waiting to expand-- And telling by her anxious eyes That if that frail orb break he flies.[5]

Thou too with touch magnificent, PAUL of VERONA!--where are they?

The oriental forms[6] that lent Thy canvas such a bright array?

n.o.ble and gorgeous dames whose dress Seems part of their own loveliness; Like the sun's drapery which at eve The floating clouds around him weave Of light they from himself receive!

Where is there now the living face Like those that in thy nuptial throng[7]

By their superb, voluptuous grace, Make us forget the time, the place, The holy guests they smile among,-- Till in that feast of heaven-sent wine We see no miracles but thine.

If e'er, except in Painting's dream, There bloomed such beauty here, 'tis gone,-- Gone like the face that in the stream Of Ocean for an instant shone, When Venus at that mirror gave A last look ere she left the wave.

And tho', among the crowded ways, We oft are startled by the blaze Of eyes that pa.s.s with fitful light.

Like fire-flies on the wing at night[8]

'Tis not that n.o.bler beauty given To show how angels look in heaven.

Even in its shape most pure and fair, 'Tis Beauty with but half her zone, All that can warm the sense is there, But the Soul's deeper charm has flown:-- 'Tis RAPHAEL's Fornarina,--warm, Luxuriant, arch, but unrefined; A flower round which the noontide swarm Of young Desires may buzz and wind, But where true Love no treasure meets Worth h.o.a.rding in his hive of sweets.

Ah no,--for this and for the hue Upon the rounded cheek, which tells How fresh within the heart this dew Of love's unrifled sweetness dwells, We must go back to our own Isles, Where Modesty, which here but gives A rare and transient grace to smiles, In the heart's holy centre lives; And thence as from her throne diffuses O'er thoughts and looks so bland a reign, That not a thought or feeling loses Its freshness in that gentle chain.

[1] In the Tribune at Florence.

[2] In the Palazzo Pitti.

[3] Alludes particularly to the portrait of her in the Sciarra collection at Rome, where the look of mournful reproach in those full, shadowy eyes, as if she had been unjustly accused of something wrong, is exquisite.

[4] The fine picture in the Palazzo Borghese, called (it is not easy to say why) "Sacred and Profane Love," in which the two figures, sitting on the edge of the fountain, are evidently portraits of the same person.

[5] This fanciful allegory is the subject of a picture by t.i.tian in the possession of the Marquis Cambian at Turin, whose collection, though small, contains some beautiful specimens of all the great masters.

[6] As Paul Veronese gave but little into the _beau ideal_, his women may be regarded as pretty close imitations of the living models which Venice afforded in his time.

[7] The Marriage of Cana.

[8] "Certain it is [as Arthur Young truly and feelingly says] one now and then meets with terrible eyes in Italy."