by George Gordon， Lord Byron

    I stood in Venice， on the Bridge of Sighs，

    A palace and a prison on each hand：

    I saw from out the wave her structures rise

    As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand：

    A thousand years their cloudy wings expand

    Around me， and a dying Glory smiles

    O'er the far times， when many a subject land

    Looked to the wingéd Lion's marble piles，

    Where Venice sate¹ in state， throned on her hundred isles²！

    She looks a sea Cybele， fresh from ocean，

    Rising with her tiara of proud towers

    At airy distance， with majestic³ motion，

    A ruler of the waters and their powers：

    And such she was——her daughters had their dowers

    From spoils of nations， and the exhaustless East

    Poured in her lap all gems⁴ in sparkling showers：

    In purple was she robed， and of her feast

    Monarchs⁵ partook， and deemed their dignity increased.

    In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more，

    And silent rows the songless gondolier；

    Her palaces are crumbling⁶ to the shore，

    And music meets not always now the ear：

    Those days are gone——but Beauty still is here；

    States fall， arts fade——but Nature doth not die，

    Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear，

    The pleasant place of all festivity，

    The revel⁷ of the earth， the masque of Italy！

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