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Heavy and fragrant with their dewy sleep. But here they only call to life and light The far wide waste of waters, and the walls Of a proud city—yet how beautiful! Not the calm beauty of a woodland world, Fraught with sweet idleness and minstrel-dreams; But beauty which awakes the intellect More than the feelings; that of power and mind–- Man's power, man's mind—for never city raised A prouder or a fairer brow than Venice, The daughter and the mistress of the sea. Far spread the ocean, but it spread to bear Her galleys o'er its depths, for war or wealth. And raised upon foundations, which have robbed The waters of its birthright, stand her halls. Now enter in her palaces: a world Has paid its tribute to their luxury: The harvest of the rose, on Syria's plains, Is reaped for Venice; from the Indian vales The sandal-wood is brought to burn in Venice; The ambergris that floats on Eastern seas, And spice, and cinnamon, and pearls that lie Deep in the gulph of Ormus, are for Venice; The Persian loom doth spread her silken floors; And the clear gems from far Golconda's mines Burn on the swanlike necks of her proud daughters— For the fair wife of a Venetian noble Doth often bear upon her ivory arm