"And where should our bridal couch be spread? "In the midst of the dying and the dead? "Forto-morrow we give to the slaughter and flame "The sons and the shrines of the Christian name:

"None save thou and thine, I've sworn,

540

"Shall be left upon the morn:

"But thee will I bear to a lovely spot,

"Where our hands shall be join'd, and our sorrow

forgot.

"There thou yet shalt be my bride,

"When once again I've quell'd the pride

545

"Of Venice; and her hated race

"Have felt the arm they would debase
"Scourge, with a whip of scorpions, those
"Whom vice and envy made my foes."

Upon his hand she laid her own

550

Light was the touch, but it thrill'd to the bone, And shot a chillness to his heart,

Which fix'd him beyond the power to start.

Though slight was that grasp so mortal cold,
He could not loose him from its hold;

But never did clasp of one so dear

Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear,

555

As those thin fingers, long and white,

Froze through his blood by their touch that night. The feverish glow of his brow was gone,

560

And his heart sank so still that it felt like stone,

As he look'd on the face, and beheld its hue
So deeply changed from what he knew:
Fair but faint-without the ray

565

Of mind, that made each feature play
Like sparkling waves on a sunny day ;
And her motionless lips lay still as death,
And her words came forth without her breath,
And there rose not a heave o'er her bosom's swell,
And there seem'd not a pulse in her veins to dwell.
Though her eye shone out, yet the lids were fix'd,
And the glance that it gave was wild and unmix'd
With aught of change, as the eyes may seem

Of the restless who walk in a troubled dream;

Like the figures on arras, that gloomily glare, 575
Stirr❜d by the breath of the wintry air,

So seen by the dying lamp's fitful light,
Lifeless, but life-like, and awful to sight;

As they seem, through the dimness, about to come

down

579

From the shadowy wall where their images frown;

Fearfully flitting to and fro,

As the gusts on the tapestry come and go.

"If not for love of me be given

"Thus much, then, for the love of heaven,"Again I say that turban tear

"From off thy faithless brow, and swear "Thine injured country's sons to spare, "Or thou art lost; and never shalt see,

"Not earth-that's past-but heaven or me. "It this thou dost accord, albeit

"A heavy doom 'tis thine to meet,

"That doom shall half absolve thy sin,

"And mercy's gate may receive thee within :

and take

"But
one moment more,
pause
"The curse of Him thou didst forsake;

"And look once more to heaven, and see
"Its love for ever shut from thee.
"There is a light cloud by the moon-?
"'Tis passing, and will pass full soon-
"If, by the time its vapoury sail
"Hath ceased her shaded orb to veil,

Thy heart within thee is not changed, "Then God and man are both avenged;

585

590

595

600

"Dark will thy doom be, darker still

“Thine immortality of ill.”

605

Alp look'd to heaven, and saw on high
The sign she spake of in the sky;

But his heart was swollen, and turn'd aside,
By deep interminable pride.

This first false passion of his breast

Roll'd like a torrent o'er the rest.

He sue for mercy! He dismay'd

By wild words of a timid maid!

610

He, wrong'd by Venice, vow to save

Her sons devoted to the grave!

615

No-though that cloud were thunder's worst,

And charged to crush him-let it burst!

He look'd upon it earnestly,

Without an accent of reply;

He watch'd it passing; it is flown:

Full on his eye the clear moon shone,

And thus he spake-" Whate'er my fate,

"I am no changeling-'tis too late:

"The reed in storms may bow and quiver, "Then rise again; the tree must shiver.

620

625

"What Venice made me, I must be,
"Her foe in all, save love to thee:
"But thou art safe: oh, fly with me!"

He turn'd, but she is gone!

Nothing is there but the column stone.

Hath she sunk in the earth, or melted in air?

He saw not, he knew not; but nothing is there.

630

XXII.

The night is past, and shines the sun
As if that morn were a jocund one.
Lightly and brightly breaks away
The Morning from her mantle gray,
And the Noon will look on a sultry day.

Hark to the trump, and the drum,

635

And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn, 639 And the flap of the banners, that flit as they're borne, And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum, And the clash, and the shout, "they come, they come!"

8

The horsetails are pluck'd from the ground, and the sword

From its sheath; and they form, and but wait for the word.