Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 4.djvu/234

196 And trample on each other to obtain The cup which brings oblivion of a chain Heavy and sore,—in which long yoked they ploughed The sand,—or if there sprung the yellow grain, 'Twas not for them, their necks were too much bowed, And their dead palates chewed the cud of pain:— Yes! the few spirits—who, despite of deeds Which they abhor, confound not with the cause Those momentary starts from Nature's laws, Which, like the pestilence and earthquake, smite But for a term, then pass, and leave the earth With all her seasons to repair the blight With a few summers, and again put forth Cities and generations—fair, when free— For, Tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee!

III.

Glory and Empire! once upon these towers With Freedom—godlike Triad! how you sate! The league of mightiest nations, in those hours When Venice was an envy, might abate, But did not quench, her spirit—in her fate All were enwrapped: the feasted monarchs knew And loved their hostess, nor could learn to hate, Although they humbled—with the kingly few The many felt, for from all days and climes She was the voyager's worship;—even her crimes Were of the softer order, born of Love— She drank no blood, nor fattened on the dead, But gladdened where her harmless conquests spread; For these restored the Cross, that from above Hallowed her sheltering banners, which incessant Flew between earth and the unholy Crescent, Which, if it waned and dwindled, Earth may thank The city it has clothed in chains, which clank Now, creaking in the ears of those who owe