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The ransom of a kingdom. By the sword, Drawn by the free and fearless; by the sail, Which sweeps the sea for riches—which are power–- The state of Venice is upheld: she is A Christian Tyre, save that her sea-girt gates Do fear no enemy, and dread no fall.

Morn on the Adriatic, bright and glad! And yet we are not joyful—there is here A stronger influence than sweet nature's joy;— The scene hath its own sorrow, and the heart Ponders the lessons of mortality Too gravely to be warmed by that delight Born of the sun, and air, and morning prime. For we forget the present as we stand So much beneath the shadow of the past: And here the past is mighty. Memory Lies heavy on the atmosphere around— There is the sea—but where now are the ships That bore the will of Venice round the world?–- Where are the sails that brought home victory And wealth from other nations? No glad prows Break up the waters into sparkling foam; I only see some sluggish fishing-boats. There are the palaces—their marble fronts Are grey and worn; and the rich furniture Is stripped from the bare walls; or else the moth Feeds on the velvet hangings. There they hang—