The Brides of Venice.
Before the church, That venerable pile on the sea-brink, Another train they met,—no strangers to them,— Brothers to some, and to the rest still dearer, Each in his hand bearing his cap and plume, And, as he walked, with modest dignity Folding his scarlet mantle, his tabarro. They join, they enter in, and up the aisle Led by the full-voiced choir, in bright procession, Range round the altar. In his vestments there The patriarch stands; and while the anthem flows, Who can look on unmoved? Mothers in secret Rejoicing in the beauty of their daughters; Sons in the thought of making them their own; And they, arrayed in youth and innocence, Their beauty heightened by their hopes and fears. At length the rite is ending. All fall down In earnest prayer, all of all ranks together; And stretching out his hands, the holy man Proceeds to give the general benediction, When hark! a din of voices from without, And shrieks and groans and outcries, as in battle; And lo! the door is burst, the curtain rent, And armed ruffians, robbers from the deep, Savage, uncouth, led on by Barbarigo And his six brothers in their coats of steel, Are standing on the threshold! Statue-like, Awhile they gaze on the fallen multitude, Each with his sabre up, in act to strike; Then, as at once recovering from the spell, Rush forward to the altar, and as soon Are gone again, amid no clash of arms, Bearing away the maidens and the treasures. Where are they now? Ploughing the distant waves, Their sails all set, and they upon the deck Standing triumphant. To the east they go, Steering for Istria, their accursed barks (Well are they known, the galliot and the galley) Freighted with all that gives to life its value The richest argosies were poor to them! Now might you see the matrons running wild Along the beach; the men half armed and arming; One with a shield, one with a casque and spear; One with an axe, hewing the mooring-chain Of some old pinnace. Not a raft, a plank, But on that day was drifting. In an hour Half Venice was afloat. But long before,— Frantic with grief, and scorning all control,— The youths were gone in a light brigantine, Lying at anchor near the arsenal; Each having sworn, and by the holy rood, To slay or to be slain. And from the tower The watchman gives the signal. In the east A ship is seen, and making for the port; Her flag St. Mark’s. And now she turns the point, Over the waters like a sea-bird flying. Ha! ’tis the same, ’tis theirs! From stern to prow Hung with green boughs, she comes, she comes, restoring All that was lost! Coasting, with narrow search. Friuli, like a tiger in his spring, They had surprised the corsairs where they lay, Sharing the spoil in blind security, And casting lots; had slain them one and all,— All to the last,—and flung them far and wide Into the sea, their proper element. Him first, as first in rank, whose name so long Had hushed the babes of Venice, and who yet Breathing a little, in his look retained The fierceness of his soul.
Thus were the brides Lost and recovered. And what now remained But to give thanks? Twelve breastplates and twelve crowns, Flaming with gems and gold, the votive offerings Of the young victors to their patron saint, Vowed on the field of battle, were erelong Laid at his feet; and to preserve forever The memory of a day so full of change, From joy to grief, from grief to joy again, Through many an age, as oft as it came round, ’Twas held religiously with all observance. The Doge resigned his crimson for pure ermine; And through the city in a stately barge Of gold were borne, with songs and symphonies, Twelve ladies young and noble. Clad they were In bridal white with bridal ornaments, Each in her glittering veil; and on the deck As on a burnished throne, they glided by. No window or balcony but adorned With hangings of rich texture; not a roof But covered with beholders, and the air Vocal with joy. Onward they went, their oars Moving in concert with the harmony, Through the Rialto to the ducal palace; And at a banquet there, served with due honor, Sat, representing in the eyes of all— Eyes not unwet, I ween, with grateful tears— Their lovely ancestors, the “Brides of Venice.”
