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As yet she is not to be own'd as his bride, For feared his kinsmen's pride; But safely their anchor at Venice is cast, And the queen of the ocean is reached at last. Long had wished to see The sunny vineyards of Italy. Little was here of what she had dream'd: Funeral-like the gondolas seem'd; While the dark waters, parting beneath the oar, Were too like those she had seen before; And the Count, with his stern and haughty brow, Seem'd the shadow of one ever present now.