On such a night as this impassionedly
The old Venetian sung those verses rare,
‘That Venice must of needs eternal be,
For heaven had looked through the pellucid air,
And cast its reflex in the crystal sea,
And Venice was the image pictured there;’
I hear them now, and tremble, for I seem
As treading on an unsubstantial dream.
Who talks of vanished glory, of dead power,
Of things that were, and are not? Is he here?