With Byron in Itlay; a selection of the poems and letters of Lord Byron relating to his life in ItalyEdited by Anna Benneson McMahan . om its belt — he rends his captives chains,And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his strains. XVII Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine,Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot,Thy choral memory of the Bard divine,Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knotWhich ties thee to thy tyrants; and thy lotIs shameful to the nations, — most of all,Albion, to thee: the Ocean queen should notAbandon Oceans children; in the fallOf Venice think of thine, des
With Byron in Itlay; a selection of the poems and letters of Lord Byron relating to his life in ItalyEdited by Anna Benneson McMahan . om its belt — he rends his captives chains,And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his strains. XVII Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine,Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot,Thy choral memory of the Bard divine,Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knotWhich ties thee to thy tyrants; and thy lotIs shameful to the nations, — most of all,Albion, to thee: the Ocean queen should notAbandon Oceans children; in the fallOf Venice think of thine, despite thy watery wall. XVIII I loved her from my boyhood; she to meWas as a fairy city of the heart,Rising like water-columns from the sea,Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart:And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakspeares art,1Had stamped her image in me; and even so,Although I found her thus, we did not part,Perchance even dearer in her day of woeThan when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show. 1 Venice Preserved; Mysteries of Udolpho; The Ghost-Seer, or Armen-ian, ; The Merchant of Venice; Othello. (Byrons Note.) [ 64 ]. £ > o 5~ a £ ° - ? I 2 ?^ r **^ I c ^> ^•3 S iC ?- « « g s THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 XIX I can repeople with the past — and ofThe present there is still for eye and thought,And meditations chastened down, enough,And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought;And of the happiest moments which were wroughtWithin the web of my existence, someFrom thee, fair Venice, have their colours caught:There are some feelings Time cannot benumb,Nor Torture shake, or mine would now be cold and dumb. XXV But my soul wanders ; I demand it backTo meditate amongst decay, and standA ruin amidst ruins; there to trackFalln states and buried greatness, oer a landWhich was the mightiest in its old command,And is the loveliest, and must ever beThe master-mould of Natures heavenly hand,Wherein were cast the heroic and the free,The beautiful, the brave — the lords
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