Are they not bridled? - Venice, lost and won, Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done, Sinks, like a sea-weed, into whence she rose! Statues of glass — all shiver'd the long file Of her dead Doges are declin'd to dust; But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust; Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust, Have yielded to the stranger: empty halls, Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must Too oft remind her who and what enthrals, Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely walls. BYRON. THE FACTORY CHILD. EVER a toiling child doth make us sad: 'Tis an unnatural and mournful sight, Because we feel their smiles should be so glad, Because we know their eyes should be so bright. What is it, then, when, task'd beyond their might, They labour all day long for others' gain, Nay, trespass on the still and pleasant night, While uncompleted hours of toil remain? Poor little factory slaves for you these lines complain! and Padua, 1379, the Venetians sent an embassy to sue for peace, but Peter Doria, the commander-in-chief, returned as answer, that the Venetians should have no peace until he had put a rein upon the unbridled horses that were upon the porch of St. Mark. Beyond all sorrow which the wanderer knows Is that these little pent-up wretches feel, Where the air thick and close and stagnant grows, And the low whirring of the incessant wheel Dizzies the head and makes the senses reel: There, shut for ever from the gladdening sky, Vice premature and care's corroding seal Stamp on each sallow cheek their hateful dye, Line the smooth open brow, and sink the sadden'd eye. For them the fervid summer only brings A double share of stifling withering heat; sweet weary feet; no wood-walk, With many a flower the learned slight and pass: Nor meadow, with pale cowslips thickly set Amid the soft leaves of its tufted grass, Lure them a childish stock of treasures to amass. Have we forgotten our own infancy, Dash'd thro' the brook by twilight's fading gleam, Or scorn'd the tottering plank, and leapt the narrow stream. In lieu of this, from short and bitter night, And ever, as he slowly journeys on, His listless tongue unbidden silence keeps ; His fellow-labourers (playmates hath he none) Walk by, as sad as he, nor hail the morning's sun. MRS. NORTON. COLUMBUS. (1.) THE crimson sun was sinking down to rest, Caught, and flash'd back, the varying tints of even; COLUMBUS. (2.) He was a man whom danger could not daunt, 1 Columbus always considered that he was inspired, and chosen for the great service of discovering a new world and conveying to it the light of salvation. So, when by all deserted, still he knew Lovelier than fondest fancy ever trod ; He knew his fame was full, and bless'd his God: And fell upon his face, and kiss'd the virgin sod! SIR AUBREY DE VERE. COLUMBUS. (3.) BEAUTIFUL realm beyond the western main, Thy mountains blaze, loud thundering, 'mid the rave Behold him! crush'd beneath o'ermastering woesHopeless, heart-broken, chain'd1, abandon'd to his foes! SIR AUBREY DE VERE. 1 When the officer appointed to conduct him back to Spain would have taken off his chains, Columbus refused his offer, and said, "I will wear them till the king orders otherwise, and will preserve them as memorials of his gratitude." He hung them up in his cabinet, and desired they should be buried in his grave. B B TO MY MOTHER. THEY tell us of an Indian tree 1 "Tis thus, though woo'd by flattering friends, This heart, my own dear mother, bends, MOORE. ROME. THE Niobe of nations! there she stands, Of their heroic dwellers: dost thou flow, 1 The Banyan tree (Ficus Indica) the branches of which spread to a great extent, and throw out roots which descend to the earth, where they fix themselves, and increase rapidly in size, till they become as large as the parent trunk. In this manner they cover an immense extent of ground, sufficient to shelter a regiment of cavalry, and used by the Indians as a natural canopy under which to hold their great public meetings. |