As between night and day we floated by),
A gondolier lay singing: and he sung,
As in the time when Venice was herself,
Of Tancred and Erminia. On our oars,
We rested; and the verse was verse divine!
We could not err—perhaps he was the last—
For none took up the strain, none answered him;
And, when he ceased, he left upon my ear
A something like the dying voice of Venice!
The moon went down; and nothing now was seen