IF you would see Venice as she is,

Wander by night in silence and alone

Among her towers and sculptured palaces,

And read the story she has writ in stone;

Then, as you read, she will upon you cast

The fascination of her wondrous past.

Muse on, and let the silent gondolier

Wind at his will 'mid tortuous, twisting ways

And broad lagoons, with waters wide and clear,

On whose unruffled breast the moonbeam plays;

And move not, speak not, for the mystery

Of Venice is with you on the sea.

Pass, if you will, beneath the five great domes

Of old Saint Mark's; watch how the glittering height

Soars in quick curves; see how each sunbeam roams

And fills the nave with soft pure amber light;

So leave her sunlight, enter now her cells,

By frowning black-browed ports and massy bars,

Where pestilence in foul dank vapor dwells,

Far, far from sun and day, from moon and stars;

The only sound when whispering waters glide

In on the bosom of a sluggish tide.

Then turn again into her solitudes,—

Things of to-day will faint and fade like smoke,—

Drift through the darkened nooks where silence broods,

Let memory fall upon you like a cloak:

Venice will rise around you as of old,

Decked out in marble, amethyst, and gold.

But that was years ago; to-day the notes

Of wild free song have left her silver streets;

Her blazoned banner now no longer floats

In aureate folds, no more the sunrise greets;

She lives but in a past so strong and brave

It serves alike for monument and grave.