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He took the lute—he gave it words, And breathed his spirit on the chords. The world, save one sweet face, was dim; And that shone o'er his lute and him.

There is a city, that for slaves Has kings, and nations, winds, and waves: St. Mark is conscious of her power, His winged lion marks her tower. But that the bold republic stood, And bought her empire with her blood, The crescent's pale and silver lines Would shine where now the red cross shines.