The charm of Venice

by Unknown

TO AN OLD VENETIAN WINEGLASS

ROSE-COLOURED AT THE BRIM

Daughter of Venice, fairer than the moon!

From thy dark casement leaning, half divine,

And to the lutes of love that low repine

Across the midnight of the hushed lagoon,

Listening with languor in a dreamful swoon—

On such a night as this thou didst entwine

Thy lily fingers round this glass of wine,—

Didst clasp thy climbing lover—none too soon!

Thy lover left, but ere he left thy room

From this he drank, his warm lips at the brim;

Thou kissed it as he vanished in the gloom,

That kiss, because of thy true love for him—

Long, long ago when thou wast in thy bloom—

Hath left it ever rosy round the rim!

LLOYD MIFFLIN.

DANTE AT THE ARSENAL AT VENICE

From bridge to bridge thus, speaking other things

Of which my Comedy cares not to sing,

We came along, and held the summit, when

We halted to behold another fissure

Of Malebolge and other vain laments;

And I beheld it marvellously dark.

As in the Arsenal of the Venetians

Boils in the winter the tenacious pitch

To smear their unsound vessels o’er again,

For sail they cannot; and instead thereof

One makes his vessel new, and one recaulks

The ribs of that which many a voyage has made;

One hammers at the prow, one at the stern,

This one makes oars, and that one cordage twists,

Another mends the mainsail and the mizzen;

Thus, not by fire, but by the art divine,

Was boiling down below there a dense pitch

Which upon every side the bank belimed.

I saw it, but I did not see within it

Aught but the bubbles that the boiling raised,

And all swell up and resubside compressed.

The while below there fixedly I gazed,

My Leader, crying out: ‘Beware, beware!’

Drew me unto himself from where I stood.

Then I turned round, as one who is impatient

To see what it behoves him to escape,

And whom a sudden terror doth unman,

Who, while he looks, delays not his departure;

And I beheld behind us a black devil,

Running along upon the crag, approach.

Ah, how ferocious was he in his aspect!

And how he seemed to me in action ruthless,

With open wings and light upon his feet!

His shoulders, which sharp-pointed were and high,

A sinner did encumber with both haunches,

And he held clutched the sinews of the feet.

‘INFERNO’ (LONGFELLOW’S TRANSLATION).

MENDELSSOHN AT VENICE

Venice, October 10, 1830.

Italy at last! and what I have all my life looked forward to as the greatest possible felicity is now begun, and I am basking in it. The day has been so fruitful in enjoyment that I must, now that it is evening, endeavour to collect my thoughts a little to write to you, my dear parents, and to thank you for having bestowed such happiness on me.... I shall, however, become quite bewildered, if things are to go on as they have done on this first day, when every hour brought with it so much never to be forgotten, that I do not know where to find senses sufficient to comprehend it all properly. I saw the ‘Assumption,’ then a whole gallery of paintings in the Manfrini Palace; then a festival in the church where hangs Titian’s ‘St. Peter’; afterwards St. Mark’s, and in the afternoon I had a row on the Adriatic, and visited the public gardens, where the people lie on the grass and eat. I then returned to the Piazza of St. Mark, where in the twilight there is always an immense crowd and crush of people; and all this I was obliged to see to-day, because there is so much that is novel and interesting to be seen to-morrow.

But I must now relate methodically how I came hither by water.... In Treviso there was an illumination, paper lanterns suspended in every part of the great square, and a large gaudy transparency in the centre. Some most lovely girls were walking about, in their long white veils and scarlet petticoats. It was quite dark when we arrived at Mestre last night, when we got into a boat, and in a dead calm gently rowed across to Venice. On our passage thither, where nothing but water is to be seen, and distant lights, we saw a small rock which stands in the midst of the sea; on this a lamp was burning; all the sailors took off their hats as we passed, and one of them said, this was the ‘Madonna of Tempests,’ which are often most dangerous and violent here. We then glided quietly into the great city, under innumerable bridges, without sound of post-horns, or rattling of wheels, or tollkeepers; the passage now became more thronged, and numbers of ships lying near; past the theatre, where gondolas in long rows lie waiting for their masters, just as our own carriages do at home, then into the great canal, past the church of St. Mark, the Lions, the palace of the Doges, and the Bridge of Sighs. The obscurity of night only enhanced my delight on hearing the familiar names and seeing the dark outlines.

And so I am actually in Venice! Only think: to-day I have gazed upon the finest pictures in the world, and have at last personally made the acquaintance of a very admirable man, whom hitherto I only knew by name—I allude to a certain Signor Giorgione, a splendid fellow—and also to Pardenone, who displays the most noble pictures, and portrays both himself and many of his simple scholars, in such a devout, faithful, and pious spirit, that you seem to converse with and grow fond of him. Who would not have been confused by all this? But if I am to speak of Titian, I must do so in a more reverent mood. Till now, I never knew that he was the felicitous artist I have this day seen him to be. That he thoroughly enjoyed life, in all its beauty and fulness, the picture in Paris proves; but he has fathomed the depths of human sorrow, as well as the joys of Heaven. His glorious ‘Entombment,’ and also the ‘Assumption,’ fully evince this. How Mary floats on the cloud, while an actual air seems to pervade the whole picture; how you see at a glance her very breathing, her awe, her devotion, and in short a thousand feelings,—all words seem poor and commonplace in comparison. The three heads of angels too, on the right of the picture, are of the highest order of beauty,—pure, serene loveliness, so unconscious, so bright and so seraphic. But no more of this! or I must perforce become poetical, if I be not so already, and that is a mood which does not at all suit me. I shall certainly see that picture every day.... What a man that Titian was! Everyone must be edified by his works, as I shall try to be, and I rejoice that I am in Italy. At this moment the gondoliers are shouting to each other, and the lights are reflected in the depths of the waters; one man is playing a guitar, and singing to it. It is a charming night. Farewell! and think of me in every happy hour as I do of you.—Felix.

FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.

SHELLEY IN VENICE

WRITTEN TO MARY SHELLEY

We shall travel hence within a few hours, with the speed of the post.... We have now got a comfortable carriage, and two mules, and, thanks to Paolo, have made a very decent bargain, comprising everything to Padua. I should say we had delightful fruit for breakfast, figs, very fine, and peaches, unfortunately gathered before they were ripe, whose smell was like what one fancies of the wakening of Paradise flowers.... I came from Padua [to Venice] in a gondola, and the gondolier, among other things, without any hint on my part, began talking of Lord Byron. He said he was a giovinotto Inglese, with a nome stravagante, who lived very luxuriously, and spent great sums of money. This man, it seems, was one of Lord B.’s gondoliers.... These gondolas are the most beautiful and convenient boats in the world. They are finely carpeted and furnished with black, and painted black. The couches on which you lean are extraordinarily soft, and are so disposed as to be the most comfortable to those who lean or sit. The windows have at will either Venetian plate-glass flowered, or Venetian blinds, or blinds of black cloth to shut out the light.... I called on Lord Byron: he was delighted to see me. He took me in his gondola across the lagoon to a long sandy island, which defends Venice from the Adriatic. When we disembarked, we found his horses waiting for us, and we rode along the sands of the sea, talking. Our conversation consisted in histories of his wounded feelings, and questions as to my affairs, and great professions of friendship and regard for me.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

THE VENETIAN SERENADE

When along the light ripple the far serenade

Has accosted the ear of each passionate maid,

She may open the window that looks on the stream,—

She may smile on her pillow and blend it in dream;

Half in words, half in music, it pierces the gloom,

‘I am coming—Stalì—but you know not for whom,

Stalì—not for whom!’

Now the tones become clearer,—you hear more and more

How the waters divided return on the oar,—

Does the prow of the gondola strike on the stair?

Do the voices and instruments pause and prepare?

Oh! they faint on the ear as the lamp on the view,

‘I am passing—Premì—but I stay not for you!

Premì—not for you!’

Then return to your couch, you who stifle a tear,—

Then awake not, fair sleeper—believe he is here;

For the young and the loving no sorrow endures,

If to-day be another’s, to-morrow is yours;—

May, the next time you listen, your fancy be true,

‘I am coming—Sciàr—and for you and to you!

Sciàr—and to you!’

RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.

FAREWELL TO VENICE

If I had been an unconnected man,

I, from this moment, should have formed some plan

Never to leave sweet Venice: for to me

It was delight to ride by the lone sea:

And then the town is silent—one may write,

Or read in gondolas by day or night,

Having the little brazen lamp alight,

Unseen, uninterrupted:—books are there,

Pictures, and casts from all those statues fair

Which were twin-born with poetry;—and all

We seek in towns, with little to recall

Regret for the green country....

But I had friends in London too....

—The following morning, urged by my affairs,

I left bright Venice.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.