The Gondola

Boy, call the gondola; the sun is set.— It came, and we embarked; but instantly, As at the waving of a magic wand, Though she had stept on board so light of foot, So light of heart, laughing she knew not why, Sleep overcame her; on my arm she slept. From time to time I waked her; but the boat Rocked her to sleep again. The moon was now Rising full-orbed, but broken by a cloud. The wind was hushed, and the sea mirror-like. A single zephyr, as enamoured, played With her loose tresses, and drew more and more Her veil across her bosom. Long I lay Contemplating that face so beautiful.... I went alone beneath the silent moon; Thy square, St. Mark, thy churches, palaces, Glittering and frost-like, and, as day drew on, Melting away, an emblem of themselves. Those porches passed, thro’ which the water-breeze Plays, though no longer on the noble forms That moved there, sable-vested—and the quay, Silent, grass-grown—adventurer-like, I launched Into the deep, ere long discovering Isles such as cluster in the Southern seas, All verdure.... In Venice, when again In that strange place, so stirring and so still, Where nothing comes to drown the human voice But music, or the dashing of the tide, Ceased I to wonder. Now a Jessica Sung to her lute, her signal as she sate At her half-open window. Then, methought, A serenade broke silence, breathing hope Thro’ walls of stone, and torturing the proud heart Of some Priuli. Once, we could not err, (It was before an old Palladian house, As between night and day we floated by), A gondolier lay singing: and he sung, As in the time when Venice was herself, Of Tancred and Erminia. On our oars, We rested; and the verse was verse divine! We could not err—perhaps he was the last— For none took up the strain, none answered him; And, when he ceased, he left upon my ear A something like the dying voice of Venice! The moon went down; and nothing now was seen Save where the lamp of a Madonna shone Faintly—or heard, but when he spoke, who stood Over the lantern at the prow and cried, Turning the corner of some reverend pile, Some school or hospital of old renown, Tho’ haply none were coming, none were near, ‘Hasten or slacken.’ But at length Night fled; And with her fled, scattering, the sons of pleasure. Star after star shot by, or, meteor-like, Crossed me and vanished—lost at once among Those hundred isles that tower majestically, That rise abruptly from the water-mark, Nor with rough crag, but marble, and the work Of noblest architects.